4 ^ ^ . t ^^<^ iliDi "vO*'"^'^^ ^-m^; ./V °: ^o V -o^ O o y ^'T^r.^- G^' "o. 'o',T- A <. ^'T'.T* .G^ V ^^c^i t'J v-^^' ^o o > ^oV ^^^ "X:r>' ^ ENLARGKD AND IMPROVED. SCHOOLDAY DIALOG-UES: A COLLECTION OF ORIGINAL DIALOGUES, COLLOQUIES, TABLEAUX, ETC., DESIGNED FOR SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS, LYCEUMS, LITERAKY SOCIETIES, SUiXDAY SCHOOLS, TEMPERANCE MEETINGS, PARLOR ENTERTAINMEiNTS, ETC., ETC. COMPILED BY ALEXANDER CLARK, AUTHOa OF " THE OLD LOG SCHOOL HOUSE," " THe' GOSPEL IN THE TEEfiS,'* " WORKDAY CHRISTIANITY," ETC., ETC. PHILADELPHIA: \ft^ hard as it is to part. I feel that I would be doing you injustice, as well as disgracing myself. It is our lot to part, and we must submit to it without murmuring. C. — But ere we part, accept this trifle \_producing a ring and placing it on her finger'], as a token of my love, with the request that it will remind you of the absent one. B. — And allow me this privilege also [taking from her own hand a 7'ing and placing it on his], with the re- quest that you will wear it for my sake. C. — Your request shall be granted ; its sight shall ever call to mind the happy hours spent here ; I will part with it but with life, and on the field of battle its sight shall nerve me to greater courage : or, perhaps, when lying on the field of death, its sight shall bring to me thoughts of the loved one at home. B. — But we will hope to meet again ; yet should we not, we will hope to meet above. C — And now good-by, I must go \ihey embrace each other]. God bless you ! B. — And you also, and return 3'ou safe. \_She accom- panies him to the door, where they part, and returning, she covers her face with her handkerchief, and sinks into a chair. Curtain falls]. Scene 3. — A tent, with a musket standing at the door. Charlet> lies within, dying of a ivound received in one of the last battles of the war. Henry, a comrade^ bending over him. Henry. — Charles, is there anj^ thing I can do for you ? CHA.RLES. — Water, give me a drink of water [he gives him a drink from his canteen], and now, if you have time, listen to me. You know my condition ; take this Bible, and should you live to go home, as I hope SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 47 you "will, give it to my mother, and tell her that I have studied its precepts, and endeavored to obey its com- mands ; tell her that I have done my duty as a soldier, and kept m}^ honor unstained, and I will meet her in a better land. Take this ring, and give it to Blanche ; tell her that I have worn it, and as I told her, I part with it but with life : tell her that he who sent it never forgot her, even in his dying hour : tell her, too, not to regret the sacrifice she has made for her country, but rather to feel proud that she gave her lover in defence of her country's cause. But my strength is failing. Good-by. ^Pressing his hand. Curtain falls.'] Scene 4. — Curtain rises. Mother and Blanche are seated together. 9 Mother. — I wonder why Charles does not write, we have not heard from him for several weeks. Blanche. — As it is nearly time for the mail to arrive, I will go to the office ; perhaps we shall get a letter from him [^rising. Enter a soldier]. Soldier [bowing']. — Mrs. Gray, I believe ? Mother. — The same, sir. S. [presenting the Bible]. — I bring you M. [springing forward and catching the booh]. — My son ! my son ! you bring me news of him, oh, tell me — tell me all ! S. [with emotion]. — He bade me give it to you, and tell you that he had done his duty as a soldier, and died as a soldier should. M. — Oh my son! [pressing the Bible to her heart, and looking up]. God's will be done. S. — This, he directed me to give to you [presenting the ring to Blanche], and tell you that he never forgot you, even in his dying hour. [She takes it, and covering her face ivtth her handkerchief leaves the room.] Peace [advancing]. — Oh war, how dread are thy afflictions ! Oh, Columbia, how great the sacrifice which these thy daughters have made for thee ! Comfort thee, oh mother ; thy son rests among those blessed spirits, who nobly cemented our Nation with their blood. Thy iS SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. sacrifice was great, and thy reward of a nation's grati- tude, will also be great. Comfort thee ! Thy son per- ished as a martyr in a glorious cause, and his memory will ever be cherished by a grateful* people. Sleep on ! brave ones who nobly fell Upon the gory battle-field ; Your shroud, naught but a soldier's cloak, Your bier, your country's glorious shield: Sleep on ! your memory e'er is blest By those you nobly died to save ; And many a tributary tear Shall fall upon the soldier's grave. [ Curtain falls.} SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 49 THE TWO INTERPRETERS OF DREAMS CHARACTERS. Grandma, arrayed in ancient costume, with spectacles, snuff- box, and knitting. Girls. — Olive, Sarah, Mary, and Maggie. Young ladies. — Alma and Cousin Emma. Grandma sits quietly knitting, when the girls rush in, asking together : Grandma, grandma, do you believe in dreams ? Grandma. — B'leve in dreams, child ! why of curse I dew. I b'leve the^^'re most as trew as Scripter. La, me [snuffing vigorously^ ! I've studied my dream-book most every mornin' for sixty yers! B'leve in dreams ? I've had so many come round all true, that I'll never doubt them. Why ! the night before my poor husband died \_sohhi7ig'], I dreamed that I saw him, so cold and lifeless, and in the m-ornin' sure enough he was in a ragin' fever. We sent right off for Dr. Slimpton ; he lived in the village of Middleburg. [StO'ps crying and knits.'] He and Jeremiah used to be great friends ; they never had a hard word but once, and that was when Jeremiah thought Simeon Slimpton was paying 'tention to me. Ah ! it makes me feel most young to think of those days ! [In her excitement grandma drops a stitch, tries in vain to pick it up, then goes on talking, dropping work.'] What lots of beaux I used to hev ! Wal, I wern't bad-lookin' ; my cheeks were red as yourn, Olive. My ej-es were bright; I could see better then. Here Olive, deary, help your grandmother [handing her knitting]. And my hair [touching the powdered locks]. Ah ! Jeremiah used to say these raven locks w^ere en- ehantin'. Sarah. — Well ! well ! Grandma, you were talking awhile ago of sending for Dr. Slimpton. Did grandpa get well ? Grandma [reprovingly]. — Get well ! child ? how ig- norant you a^e to think he could get well after I dreamed 4 50 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, that! No ! I knew he couldn't. ISobbing.^ And after they sent for the doctor, I went right up stairs to see if my black bombazine would do to wear to the funeral. There it had lain in the chest for twenty yers, and was as good as new, and shone like silk. I got Nancy Maria Slimpton to fix it over for me ; she charged fifty cents. I think it was .shameful on such an occasion. Oh I poor Nancy Maria, she had lots of trouble after .1 left there ; her nephew's youngest son abused her shamefull3^ and well nigh killed her Mary. — Well, grandma, nevermind Nancy Maria, now"; tell us about our dreams. I dreamed of fire ; and oh, how the flames swelled and surged around me ! I could not get away, fpr the doors were all fastened, and the crowd around me was so great. Grandma [sighing']. — Oh, poor Mary I 3^ou will meet with opposition in whatever you undertake, and Olive. — Oh, grandma ! I had an awful dream. I wandered in the woods, and savages wei'e pursuing me, and, in tr3dng to escape, I fell into a den of lions. Oh I they growled and opened their mouths, and then I awoke screaming, and have hardly got over the fright yet ! Grandma. — Oh, poor girl I that you have so many enemies, for such means your dream, and all too soon will you be caught in the traps they have set for j^ou. [Snuffing and sneezing.] Well, Maggie, child, did you dream ? Maggie. — Yes I such an awful dream of my dear sol- dier brother Robert, that he was at home, and lay so still Grandma. — Oh ! my poor, poor child ; so young to bear such a sorrow I Oh, dear! [Crying and applying handkerchief.] I dreamed the same when your grandpa died. Oh ! how I mourned. May be, now, Maggie, your brother lies in a hospital Maggie [wiping her eyes]. — Don't ; don't talk so, grandma; you make me feel so bad ! Grandma.— Well, well, child, it's all true ; dreams are solemn things. Sarah.— I dreamed last night of Uncle John, that he came home. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 61 Grandma \_seeming startled, and rises, dropping her hall and snuff-box']. — Oh ! did 3^ou ? Sarah. — Yes ; and we were so glad to see him. Grandma. — Oh ! how strange ! for I dreamed the same thing, too. And it's a sure sign we'll never see him again. [Sobs, and buries her face in her handker^ chief.] Oh, my poor, poor boy ! I little thought this -when you bade me good-by, and started for California. Now may be you are dying on a western prairie. Oh I my poor boy I Girls, your old grandmother's heart is broken. Sarah.— But, grandma, may be he'll come home. Grandma [sternly]. — Hush ! hush, child ! Both of us dreamed the same. Dreams never fail. Oh, dear I Oh, dear I [Departs weeping.] Sarah. — There comes Alma. Alma, what makes you look so glad ? Alma. — Oh ! I had a dream. Sarah. — A dream ! a dream ! Do you believe in dreams ? Alma. — Yes ; I believe Olive. — Oh, girls! Alma believes in dreams. Why, Alma, I thought you alwa3^s laughed about them ! [All together.] Oh ! goody, goody ! I'm glad ; now you'll interpret our dreams. Maggie. — We don't like what grandma says, it make» us feel so bad. Mary. — I dreamed of fire Alma. — Hush ! hush girls ! you talk so fast. I com- menced to say, when you interrupted me, that I believed we dream — [Girls look disappointed, and, exclaim, Oh I is that all ? /'m sorry .']— and that we dream many strange things, and the reason is, we were thinking such thoughts, and they continued even after our eyes closed in slumber. Mary, was it strange jou. dreamed of fire, when you were reading last night of the great conflagra- tion in the city of Santiago, Chili? The great waste of life there, and the brutality of many, enlisted your sym- pathies and thoughts. Mary. — But grandma says I will meet with opposition. Alma. — Perhaps you will ! but not any more likely because of your dream. If Mary meets with opposition, 52 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. I hope she will be strong and true, and meet it with a brave heart, remembering that that is what overcomes obstacles. Olive. — I fell into a den of lions ; and grandma said that meant I had man}'' enemies. Alma. — Of course you would dream of lions, after reading Dr. Livingstone's travels in Africa, and his ad- ventures with the king of beasts. And as for ene- mies, if you are loving, kind and true, and do to others as you would have them do to you, enemies will not harm you. Maggie. — Oh, Alma ! do you believe that my brother is in the liospital ? I dreamed he was sick. Alma. — No, no, child ! You were writing to him before retiring, and thinking perhaps danger would befall him. Sarah. — Grandma and I both dreamed of Uncle John, and she went off just now in a fit of hysterics, because she says it is a sure sign he is dead. Alma. — Nonsense ! Grandma is whimsical. She has thought and fancied so much about dreams, and that there was reality in them, that she makes both herself and others miserable. I hope you never will be so carried away by them, and borrow trouble about the future. Dreams are very pleasant, if we view them in a sensible light. I heard cousin Emma read something about them yesterday. Girls. — Oh, I would like to hear it 1 Wont she read it to us ? Alma. — I'll go after her. [Goes and returns soon with cousin Emma.'] Emma. — Well, girls, you see Alma has really "pressed nie into the service," so I'll not retreat, but do the best I can. [Reads.'] DREAMS. *' Come, Winnie, and sail on the River of Sleep, Where the fair Dream Islands be." Sleep may be likened to a broad, calm, beautiful river on which we sail at eventide, when twilight's dim, leaden mantle has changed to a darker hue. In our light barks we float calmly along, without a ripple or wave to dis- turb us, whoA the toi's of the day are over. This river SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 53 is studded with fair and beautiful Dream Islands. Oh I the beauty with which they are adorned I We view their grand and delightful scenes, flashing rivers, cryst/il lakes, flowers with rare and sweet perfume, and birds with gay plumage and sweetest songs. And while our bark stops there, and we revel in the beauty and grandeur, we forget all worldl}'^ cares and annoyances. All with pure and holy thoughts may enjo3^ the beauty without money and without price. And very thankful am I for that. For the poor forget their pinching poverty. The longing eyes, which so delight in nature's grand and beautiful scenes, but are debarred from them, may now feast heart and soul. Those w^ho are separated from friends may again meet and commune with them. But even to some who sail on the river are beauties denied. To those whose lives are spent in selfish idleness, base crime, or those who daily drink of the maddening bowl — to these, dire serpents sluggishl}^ move the waters, and ferocious beasts start from the green thickets with glaring eyes and opened mouth. And madl}^ ti'jing to dispel the scene, the almost delirious victims of sin curse the River of Sleep, and even the fair Dream Islands. But to the good they prove a blessing. Ever flow thou on, peaceful river, set with emerald gems ! Sarah. — Alma, you said you had a dream. Tell it to us, and what makes you seem so happy. Alma. — Well, Sarah, I will answer you by repeating a poem which I love dearly, and then we must go to our lessons. \_She repeats ;] * Pleasant were my dreams last night, Till tlie dawn of morning liglit ; All the lonely niidniglu hours Huarned 1 Dream-laud's fairy bowers. ' And the friends of Long Ago, Those I loved and cherished so, Looked on me with loving eyes, Clasped my hand in glad surprise, ' Tender words, like holy balm, Filled my soul with heavenly calm ; Sweeter than the song of birds, Seemed to me those loving words. " But the joy within my heart, Does not with the niirhc depart ; Tender words my spirit thrill, Loving eyes look on me still. " I've been humming all day long, Snatches ot an old time song ; Know you why my heart is light? Pleasant were my dreams last night " Surely blessed are those hours, W'len, like dew vpon the flowers, Ftdl they on tJie weary, sleepivg ; Saddest eyes forget their weeping ." 64 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. THE FOUR SEASONS.* [The curtain rises, and a little girl appears dressed in white, with scarf and sash of pink, a crown of small flowers on her head, and bouquets in her hand. She speaks : — ] I AM Spring. The}^ call me beautiful Spring. My step is light and my voice is glad. I love all that is , young ; I cheer all that is old. I call sweet flowers to^ light among the gi'a,y old rocks, and make the green leaves to tremble in their loveliness, among ancient ruins. 1 bring not only soft, light, fresh winds, green leaves, and fair flowers with me, but young birds in their nests, and young lambs to play in the meadow^s. Little fishes dart about in the brooks, too, and frogs sing in the marshes. I come like Hope to the people. They hear my voice, and lay the seed in the ground, and trust it to the dew and the sunshine, the rain and the smile of God. I am a miracle worker on earth, and a tj^pe of the fadeless land toward which mortals journey. The prisoner in a gloomy dungeon far aw^a}^, feels my breath on his brow, and thinks of the rolling floods, and the glad joy in that mountain home in v/hose defence his comrades fell, for whose sake he can smile at impris- onment and death. In my smile he hopes. Now he says, " It is Spring time, and my brothers and friends will gird on their armor and come and liber- ate me." The Father above, who guides the 3'oung birds back to their last year's haunts, careth too for me, and it is Spring. Lights and shadow^s fell on the way of the red breast as he journeyed northward, but he hoped and trusted ; he was true as Spring, and Spring is as ti'ue as God. I am crowned with flowers; I am laden with them ; I am jo^^ous and fair ; I am a being of light, and melod}'-, and fragrance. I am the beautifier of Nature, the beloved of man, a visible promise of Paradise. In Heaven only n)ay [ tarry. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 55 Here I come, but to depart. I must away, away to make room for -la^? lavely sister, the Summer; but forget me not. I am Spring, beautiful Spring. [Scattering the flowers, she departs.] I Enter Summer — A large girl in a pink dress and scarf, and sash of green, and a broad-brimmed straw hat wreathed with roses. On her left arm a small sheaf of wheat, in her right hand a sickle. She says : — ] . I am Summer, gay, and bright, and gleesome. " Laughing Summer" I am called. I have the brightest sunshine, the thickest canopy of leaves, the stillest, warmest air about me, and the bluest sky above. I come to the lands of the Xorth like a dream of tropical beauty. I call the dwellers of the city out into the forest haunts. I fill their souls with my glory. Young maidens are ever garlanded with flowers in my rei^n : and I hear the children's laus^hter rin^inor out on the air that is so sweet, wandering over orchards bright with clover blossoms, and meadows sweet with new mown hay. Happy Summer I am called. I fill the children's hands with strawberries. I load the trees with cherries for shouting boys to shake down into the aprons of bright-eyed little girls. In my smile the apples grow rosy and mellow, and the farmer's face is glad as he gathers the golden pears. It is when my step is abroad in the land that the poet weaves his brightest vision, and the patriot's devotion is truest. It is then he looks abroad and says: "My nati\e land ! my own, my native land I'' and '' Where's the coward that would not strike for such a land ?'■ I am the friend of the patriot soldier. The youth, on the lonely rounds of his picket duty, blesses God for me. Looking up to my starry sky. he thinks how, in his far- olf home, the eyes of dear ones rest on those same bright sentinels of heaven, the while they pray for him. Yes. I am Summer, the radiant and happy, even though there is war in the laud ; for Peace will come over the land at last like Summer and the Sun of Peace 56 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. shall shine as my sun at noonda3^ The eagle shall spread his wing on the mountain unfearing ; the earth shall be glad and rejoice ; the reapers shall be man}", and the harvest plenteous. This is the voice of the passing Summer. [Autumn — A young ^irl in dress of buff or corn color, with bhie sash and scarf, and crowned with wheat or Autumn leaves and grasses ; in her hand a horn of plenty.] I am Autumn. Spring promised, and Summer brought, but I finish. They call me mellow Autumn, and jolly Autumn, and I, too, am loved. When barns and cellars are full, all hearts are happy. The blossoms of Spring were fair, and the roses of Summer bright ; but m}^ wild flowers are of gold and purple, and scarlet, royal, and radiant. I have strewn the wood paths with dry leaves, I have warned the dear birds that it was time to be gone southward ; but the chatter of squirrels over their hoarded treasures is heard in the woods, and the voices that go up from the streams are pleasant, the grasshopper's song is ended, and the bee hums near its hive. The girls have gathered the grapes, and the boj's the nuts ; the plough is tracing the furrows over the brown fields, and the farmer's table is graced by bread from his land, and honey from his hives. And my winds are wild and stirring in their tones : " They have been across red fields of war, Where shivered helmets lie, They have brought me tlience the thrilling note, Of a clarion in the sky ; A rustling of proud banner-folds, A peal of stormy drums — All these are in their music met. As when a leader comes." Oh! what is like rich, ripe, mellow Autumn, in a land that God has blessed among the nations— a. land whose starry banner shall float over it, when iti people shall indeed be free ? This, oh land of beauty, is the prophecy of A» tumni SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 67 [Winter — A boy representing an old man arrayed in an ample black cloak, trimmed with white fur — with gray liair streaming from beneath a heavy fur cap — a pair of skates swurig from his shoulder.] VV ^ 1 am Winter. I brouo^ht the snow, and the boys shouted hurrah ; the girls clapped their hands rosy with / the cold, and said : " Ha ! ha !" I traced the pictures of wondrous beauty on the window panes, and bridged rivers, and hung pearls on the pine trees. I set my winds to shouting, and quickened every body's steps. My snow flakes whirl, my snow birds flutter by, and my clouds hurry. It is I that have the Christmas tree to decorate my halls, and the New Year's fire to blaze on my hearth ; and then the little cricket chirrups there, while the turkey roasts, and the apples and nuts are heaped in the basket. Oh! the boys get their skates now, and hurrah for the sport ! And the girls may come along too, and listen to the sleigh bells ! what fun ! hurrah ! To be upset in the snow-drifts, ah, that is merry ! Yes, I am Winter, and most welcome to all, no thanks to fair young Spring, bright Summer, and mild Autumn to be cheerful ; but for W^inter, an old man to come with such grace and pleasantry, that all are glad to see him — that is fine! W^inter, Winter, happy is the country that rejoices in thee ! The merriest games are played in my long even- ings, the sweetest songs are sung then, and the best stories told. Beautiful are the shadows that the fire-light casts on the wall, and " pleasant and mournful to the soul the memory of joys that are past !" I bade you rejoice, but I bid you also to mourn — ■ , to mourn for those whose deaths have made hearths safe and holy — those peasant men who became warriors at their country's call. Let the records of their bravery be eternal! While ever your homes are dear, praise ye the men who perished to preserve them, and let Winter beseech you to care for the widow and orphan. 58 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Under the cold light of my stars, their homes seem doubly desolate, and my winds to them take the sound of bitter wailing. I am Winter, and 'tis my A'oice that asks jou to care for the poor, who have offered up their beloved on the altar of sacrifice, and while you pray " God be merciful!" be ye merciful, give, give — it is laying up treasures in heaven. Winter is the friend of Freedom. Amid the snowy Alps, the undaunted Tell, with his friends, defied the tyrant ; and at Valley Forge the patriotism and the heroism of Washington and his army were sublime and God-like. Shall the descendants of such fathers hold Liberty less dear ? [Spring, Summer, and Autumn appear again, and clasping hands with winter, form a circle. Winter proceeds : — " It is your banner in the skies, Through each dark cloud that breaks, And mantles with triumphant dyes, Your thousand hills and lakes." This is the voice of the whole year. [The curtain falls.] SCHOOL AFFAIRS IN RIYERHEAD DISTRICT. CHARACTERS. Squire Wiseman, "^ Job Turner, and > School Committee. Hans Schweitzer, ) Joseph Harris, an accomplished gentleman and Teacher.—, Sam Price the preference of the Board. Pupils. Scene 1. — Harris and his Scholars. Har, — My dear pupils ! I desire to say a few wo'*de to you, before I dismiss the school to-night. You have all done well to-day, and I love to encourage you. Do you not all feel better after doing a good day's work? SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 59 Pupils. — Yes, indeed. Har. — I know 3'ou do. I knew just what you were going to say. Work does us a great deal of good. It makes the blood course freely in our veins. It makes our cheeks glow. It is better than medicine, because it prevents many ills. It does us good to think about good deeds. And I know you all feel better, to-night, because you have a good day's work to think about. Don't you all love to study and learn hard lessons ? If any boy or girl, in my school, does not like to spend his time well, does not feel better when he has worked hard, and has done something, let him raise his hand. \_One hand is raised.'] Har. — Well, Charlie, speak out. Do you not feel oetter when at work ? Charlie. — Not a bit of that. I feel best when I am wabblin about. Har. — Come here, Charlie. I like to see you honest. I love honest boys. Always speak the truth. I like to see 3^ou all active. Charlie doesn't understand me. He thinks I am commending boys who are always still. I do not mean that. Industry requires activity. Indus- trious students, however, are industrious thinkers. And thought is silent. [^Another hand is raised.] What do you want to say, James ? James. — Do thoughts always keep still ? Har. — Not always. They often seek expression. But much talking indicates little thought. We ought to express our thoughts ; but look out for proper occa- sions. You may recollect the proverb which says : " Still waters run deep." To turn upon another subject : I am sorry to think, scholars, that we are so perplexed about classing and teaching you properly. Our books have become so various, that I find it very difficult to teach as I would like. I do not find as much time for each class, as I could if our system of books, studies, etc., were improved. But let us be patient. I intend to see Squire Wiseman, the most prominent and influen- tial man of the school board, and see what can be done to better our condition. In the meantime, let us work hard to get our lessons well. We will close school by repeating a few of James Montgomery's questions am} 60 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. answers. [^School divides — one class on the right and one on the left of the stage.^ 1st class. Nature, "whence sprang thy glorious frame ? 2d class, ^ly ^faker called me and I came. Vst class. Oh, Sun ! what makes thy beams so bright ! 2d f/ass. The word that said. " Let there be light." l.s^ class. Planets, what guides you in your course ? 2d class. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. Isi class. Flowers, Avherefore do you bloom? 2d class. AVe strew thy pathway to the tomb. l.s^ class. Dews of the morning, wherefore are ye given? 2d class. To shine on earth, then rise to heaven. 1st class. Time, whither dost thou flee ? 2d class. I travel to eternity. Ist class. Oh, Life ! what is thy breath ? 2d class. A vapor lost in death. 1st class. Oh, death ! how ends thy strife ? 2d class. In everlasting life. Har. — School is dismissed. [AU j^ass out.2 Sqene 2. — 3Ij\ Harris, Squire Wiseman and Job Turner. Har. — How are 3-011, my good friend ? I have been desirous of meeting you for some time. I have much which concerns the common interests of our school and district to couA-erse about. 1 fear we shall not have time for all. Sq. W. — Perhaps not. But it doesn't matter. I am not very well versed in these scliool atfairs, you know. And a conversation would not be of mnch ser- vice to you, it may be. However, I shall be happy to meet yon, at the office, some evening. Har. — That w^ill not do. I have little time for any thing merely promotive of m}' own pleasure. I must improve a moment, at present, I think, hoping that you will pardon the impropriety there ma}' be in urging it. I have been thinking of trying to remove a difficulty under which we labor respecting books. Sq. W. — What difficulties do the books make ! I thought the}- were made to remove difficulties. Har. — So they were. Yet some do their work but poorly enough — making more than they remove. Sq. W. — How is that? How is that? Are j'ou get- S-CHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 61 ting SO wise as to know more about books than the book-makers ? Har. — I can tell, I think, when a book serves a good purpose as a text, and when not. Sq. W. — Well ! well I How are you going to mend things ? The law will not allow you to interfere with our books, Har. — 'Tis true ; and most properly is such inter- ference, on my part, prohibited. But I wish to influence 3'^ou, and those associated with you, as a school com- mittee, to the fulfillment of your duty respecting this matter. I would like to see the very wise provisions of our law enforced, respecting a uniformity at least. Sq. W. — I never could see much force in the statute' to which you refer. Har. — Indeed ! Perhaps you have not reflected upon its importance. To me it is one of the most essential and important features of the code. .Sq. W. — I generally look at the importance of things, sir. I should not be qualified to act as umpire for others, were it not the case. Har. — Let me then call your attention to the great want of classification, existing in our school, when I first took charge of it — a want, too, which still exists, and which is occasioned, solely, on account of the variety of text-books used by pupils of the same age and advancement. Sq. W. — Well, I can't see how it matters about the book, if pupils be well and correctly taught. Har. — True ! but how can they be well taught in such a case as mine ? Sq. W. — Hem ! Well, if people have books, they will hardly trouble themselves to get more. Har. — But they should. And, by the law, they are bound to, if prescribed by the right authority. The convenience of one should be sacrificed to the necessi- ties of the many. Sq. W. — Oh, well ! I fear you can't introduce these new-fangled notions among us. We are a steady, straight-forward people. Don't go in for change. Har. — Except pocket change 1 I do not desire to in- troduce such notions as those, of which you speak. 62 SCHOOIJ)AV DIALOGUES. The law has anticipated me in the premises, looking, as it did, to the pressing demands of the youth of our schools. I would like to see its wise provisions executed. I, therefore, appeal to you as the authorized agents of the law-making power to attend to our wants. I should Le glad to give any advice that would assist you in the adjustment of our difficulties. [Enter Job Turner, another member of the school committee.^ TuR. — What advice is that ar you propose to give to us ? I heard you had gone over to stir up a fuss, and I thought I'd come over and see tew it. We don't want men around here who can't attend to their own business. Har. — I am surprised, Mr. Turner. All that I have done, I have done with honest intentions. I am not aware that I have overstepped the bounds of my duty. TuR. — Is it your business to run down our school- house ? Har. — It is my duty to call attention to what I be- lieve to be for the good of the school. Sq. W. — Why, Mr. Harris, what is the matter with our house ? We all got our education in it. Har. — It may be. But it is now grossly dilapidated. TuR. — Now I am a new hand in tliis business. But I know such things as these will make trouble. Har. — I must go. I hope we shall all do our best in our respective capacities to meet all the wants of those under our care. [Exit Harris.^ Sq. W. — Now, Job, this is insulting. We can't stand this. I am not penurious — but — but let us quietly get rid of this man. I can, perhaps, induce him to resign. TuR. — Go it, squire. I am in. I'll be bound if we wont show him that he can't rule all Riverliead. After we git him out, we'll have an examination and employ accordin' to our own notions. Scene 3. — Squire Wiseman, J. Turner, H. Shweitzerf and Samuel Price. Examination day. Sq. W. — I suppose you heard of the resignation of Mr. Harris as teacher in our school. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 63 TuR. — I did that. It takes you, squire, for them things. I heard to-day there was an examination, and I thought I'd come up in time to get posted. Sq. W.— Well, I don't like to talk about myself. But somehow or other, I always thought I could manage all these delicate affairs with some success. Eh ? TuR. — Exactly, squire. And I must say I felt kinder proud to be elected school committee with you. You see, I knew that affairs would go on swimmingly, as long as you manage them. [Squire struts about with importance.'] Sq. W.— Yes— Yes. Wall, I hope they will. TuR. — Oh ! I know they will. Don't talk to me, when the squire is in for any thing. It's all right. I need to learn. Sq. W. — All right, neighbor. We ought to move carefully in these matters. TuR. — Yes, I reckon we had. Look what everlastin' musses are kicked up sometimes, because things aint arranged as they orto be. Sq. W. — So, so. The time for the examination has nearly arrived. Let me tell you one thing, Job. Let us all work together. Our friend, Schweitzer, who is one of the committee, as you are aware, is very strong in his opinions, sometimes. And, under such circum- stances, it will be better to sacrifice our own notions, you know, in order to preserve harmony. TuR. — Well, I reckon so, too. But there are some pints about teachin' that I allow to know a heap about, and I'd like to have my say, you know. Sq. W. — Oh, certainly! We all have that privilege. \_Enter Schweitzer.'] ScHW. — Goot afternoon. Yot for ye talkin' so much ? Ish it not time for de examination ? TuR. — Don't get into a flurry now. We're goin' to sarve the public now. We must look — — ScHW. — Yot for you look so long ? You never do de vork in dis vay. I must go home in one hour to sow my turnips. So hurry on. Sq. W. — As soon as our friends, the teachers, come, we will proceed. ScHW. — Yell, den. Here comes a poor tivil of a 64 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. schoolmaster, I know. Ax him a few quibbles, and if he can't answer noting, praps he can teach the young uns to spell. [Enter Sam Price, applicant for a school^ Sq. W. — Take a seat, sir. [ Teacher gawks about, and finally sits down with his hat on."] TuR. — Well, squire, do you know this man ? I reckon he is arter a school. Sq. W. — I suppose so. Friend, did you see our notice ? Price. — Yas, I did. I thought I'd come up. ScHW. — Yot for you come up ? Can you teach school ? TuR. — Hold on, now. We are goin' into a regular ex- amination in a minnit. All these things '11 come out then. I am goin' in for first-rate disqualifications. ScHW. — Veil, den, go to vork. I no go in for so much zamination, or vot you call him. TuR. — Come, Squire, this is your business. [Squire looks wise and proceeds.'] Sq. W. — What is your name ? Price. — Samuel Price, sir. ScHW — Who cares for de name ? 'Tis de teacher we want. Sq. W. — What is the place of your nativity ? Price. — What is it, sir ? TuR. — Where did you live when you was born ? he says. Price. — I don't remember. I guess 'twan't far off. Sq. W. — Where were you educated ? Price. — I don't jest understand you. ScHW. — Yare did you larn noting ? he says. Price. — I larnt some at school — but more sence I got out on't. TuR. — Have you got any more sense than you used to have ? Price. — I saved a little change in teachin' down country. Sq, ^^^, — Then you have had some experience ? Price. — Oh, yas I Sq. W.^ — Did you please the people ? Price. — I don't know. Spect I did. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 65 Sq. W. — Will you read some for us ? Here is a book. [Beads awkwardly but very loud. Job Turner gets per- fectly astonished at the fine elocution.'] TuR. — Good gracious, mister ! Where did you larn to read like that ? It beats every thing I ever dreamed of. I reckon you can teach some, can't ye ? You see, we all go in for the very best kind o' larnin' about here — cipherin', spellin', and the like. That sounds more like real edication than any thing I've listened to in a long time. Excuse me, squire ; really I didn't mean to disturb you. Sq. W. — What's grammar ? Price. — Grammar is the way things is done — perticu- lerly in the matter of speakin', talkin', riten', etc. Sq. W. — How is it divided ? Price. — Among the scholars accordin' to their ages. Sq. W. — What is a noun ? Price. — Any thing you can hear, feel or taste. ScHW. — Yes, and schmell, too, I b'leve. Sq. W. — What is a verb ? Price. — A verb is what bees, doos, suffers, ax, and passes. Sq. W. — What verbs are transitive ? Price. — Some verbs is transitive, and some isn't. Sq. W. — Will you do some geometr}^ for us ? — any thing you please. Price. — Oh, yas. The four sides of an icicle triangle is about equal to three right angles ; and a round circle aint got no end. Sq. W. — Well, that will do, unless the other gentle- men have questions to ask. ScHW. — Oh, no, it ish goot — betters as I have heard in a long time. TuR. — We have heard enough to satisfy us, I reckon. Sq. W. — Will you please to retire I [Price passes out.'] Sq. W. — Well, what do you think ? I don't exactly like the appearance of the man. ScHW. — He looks well enough. 'Tis te teacher w^e want. Sq. W. — But the address of a man has a great influ- ence upon pupils. 5 QQ SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. TuR. — He^s smart, though; aint he, squire? Sq. W. — Yes, rather apt, though his answers were not all correct. Still — we — have been psLjing rather too high. If this man will teach for a reasonable salary 1 am willing to employ him — say ten dollars a month. ScHW. — I go for ten dollars a mont, too. 'Tis pig brice 1 know. But the poor tivil must live. TuR. — I am willin' to agree to what's fair in his case. Ten dollars is above my mark, some two dollars. But I see he is a goin' to do up the business right, and I ani willin' to agree to the price. Sq. W. — Inform him, Mr Turner, of his appointment, and if he accepts, he can commence immediately. ScHW. — Squire, you see dat dis deacher puts in de whole time. We no wants to lose money on dis pargain, nohow. \_Exit all.^ Scene 4. — Sam Price in school. Pupils talking loud and noisy. Prece. — Silence ! 1 1 D'ye hear that ? Set down ! ! Take off your hats I ! Ef ye don't be still now, I'll use that hickory to your hearts' content, ye young Class in jogerphy, come up. \_Pupils come shuffling and crowding. ~\ Where do you live ? Class. — At home. Tea. — Right ; but in what town ? I meant. Cl. — Don't know. Tea. — Riverhead. Cl. — Riverhead. Riverhead. Riverhead. Tea. — What's the shape of the earth ? Cl. — Of a punkin shape. Tea. — What motion has it ? Cl. — It goes on an axle-tree, and has a motion biggei yet. Tea. — What town in the Great Desert ? Cl. — Egypt. Tea.— What State in New York? Cl. — Yarmount. Tea. — Class dismissed. Pupils. — Maj^I go out ? Please, may I go out ? Master, let me go out ? Tom's pinchin'. Master, may I tell you on Jim ? lie's ben doin' somethin', etc. SCHOOLDAY DIALO(^UES. 67 Tea. — Yes, yes. All go out. \^AU run — two or three fall down. Teacher rings a bell repeatedly, but no scholars come in. Soliloquizes.'] Plague on the var- mints. I'll lick 'em. I wonder if I was born to teacli school, any how? That's what they all say. But I don't believe it, jest. Here I am, and nobody to listen to m}^ valuable instructions. I'll go and resign — . No I wont either. Dad and mam '11 laugh too much to see me comin' hum now. I give fust, best kind o' satis- faction among the people. They all sa}^ I beat the other teacher— Harris — all to nothin'. They had to turn him out. He kicked up the greatest fuss about this old house, books, and other foolish things, ever I heerd tell on. I'm thinking ef he warnt about right, tew. We have got the scurviest old house in creation, I rex^kon. But a feller can get on in these ere parts, ef he only has the larnin'. That's what puts me through. I know how it goes by experience. But if I could only make these varmints toe the scratch, I'd go it slick as ile. Only keep dark about matters furrin to real teachin', and a feller can become popular in these diggins — just as easy — That's so [_Bings.2 Confound the ung uns. I wish the old Harry had 'em, and I was in Hardscrabble agin 'long with the old folks. Wouldn't I get drunk on apples and cider, and go to see Sally, eh ? Wouldn't I be up to that ? Oh, yes ! Thar's them boys goin' into that orchard. [ Takes his hat and runs back and forth.'] I'll haze 'em. ^Euns back for his whip.] I'll lick 'em. Dogs and all mustard ! I'll bring 'em up and see if they'll go away agin. Ef I don't lam 'em I - [Lfiavp.s.] NOYEL READING. CHARACTERS. Lena Grey. Her brother. Frank Grey. Edgar Ramon. Edgar. — Will you please tell me what book you are reading, Lena ? I have been regarding your countenance for sometime, and by its ever varying expression I judge you are much interested. 68 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Lena. — I am interested ; it is the most fascinating story I ever read. Edgar. — Will you please tell me the character of the book ? I can not consider it one that requires much profound stud}^ ; you turn the leaves too rapidly. Frank. — Her glances are quick and comprehensive; a very few convey to her mind all the information she desires. Lena. — The book is a novel, I suppose ; for it contains the usual amount of love, jealousy, sentiment, and crime ; but do you think it is wrong to spend a little time oc- casionally in reading merely for amusement ? Edgar. — That depends upon the kind of amusement the book affords. We would not pelt ourselves with stones for the sake of obtaining exercise ; nor should we permit the mind to indulge in recreation equally injurious. Lena. — Most surely you would not imply that be- cause I indulge in novel reading, I shall render myself less capable of performing the trivial duties of daily life. With the greatest economy of time I can obtain only a few hours each day for mental culture ; and should I spend even the greater part of that in novel reading, what evil could result from it ? Edgar. — In the words of the learned Daniel Wise, let me reply, " Obscured, feeble intellect, a weakened memory, an extravagant and fanciful imagination, be- numbed sensibilities, a demoralized conscience, and a corrupted heart." Lena. — Could I believe that all that troop of evils would follow so harmless a pastime, I would never again unfold the covers of a novel. Frank. — Were success even possible, I would try to convince you of the truth ; but you are so persistent in the maintenance of an agreeable tenet, that I fear you would employ your inclination rather than reason in forming a conclusion. Lena. — If I have ever given you occasion to form such an opinion of me, I certainly regret it ; but why should novel reading obscure the intellect ? We are brought in contact with some of the most lovely and pure beings that the imagination can conceive; we trace SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 69 their conduct through an ever eventful life ; we observe the motives that controlled their acts ; and are we not benefited ? We are also led to contemplate viler shades of character. We behold ignorance, miser}^ vice, and crime; we trace their origin; they excite our loathing; and we discern more clearly the excellence of virtue. Frank. — I should certainly rejoice could I believe that you had been so benefited. Edgar. — Novels address themselves to the passions ; and there is great danger that we shall sympathize not only with the pure and lovely characters portrayed by the novelist, but also with those that are less worthy. Thieves, profligates, and murderers, are represented as shrewd, ingenious, and talented ; and the fact that they possess qualities that are admirable, renders them ob- jects of greater interest to us. We regard such charac- ters as necessary to form an agreeable contrast with the more angelic beings ; and the more deepl^^ they are cast in blood and crime, the more pleasing is the effect. Lena. — How can the study of such contrasts disaffect the mind ? May we not admire the talent that enables a man to accomplish a bad purpose, and yet despise the doer? Edgar. — Novels are not read merely for the purpose of observing the contrasts of character presented there, nor for criticism ; but, as you have said, ''for amuse- ment." They fill the mind with lively pictures of what might be true ; and yet the utter improbability that a person would ever be placed in similar circumstances renders it useless that we should burden our memory with a record of the lives portrayed there. Lena. — There is one excellency, at least, that I trust you will accord to novels ; they certainly tend to make the imagination more vivid. Frank. — My dear sister, I deeply regret your appar- ent ignorance in regard to the adaptation of words. Assuredly, you would not have used the adjective "lofty," instead of "distorted," had you considered how illy it expressed your meaning. Edgar. — There are many most excellent works of the imagination ; the productions of the most gifted minds ; Such might well repay our perusal. But novel reading 70 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. intoxicates our minds rather than elevates our concep- tions ; for, even as the inebriate, jovial with wine, fancies he has attained the height of happiness, so the novel reader, lost in the mazes of fiction, believes that all the longings of her mind are satisfied. Then, too, reading should be pursued for benefit, and ladies are seldom deficient in imagination. Frank. — That is certainly true. If all Lena's plans could have been carried into effect, our earth would have been an Eden, our home a paradise, long ago. Lena. — Do you condemn all works of fiction ? Edgar. — No ; there are some fictitious writings most excellent in their character. I would object only to those which leave the mind in an excited, unsatisfied state, which " rob us of a higher pleasure than they afford, since the same attention to solid reading would procure us loftier, purer pleasures." Lena. — Your argument is specious ; but I certainly do not like to believe it. I will not decide immediately on so important a question. Frank. — You will rather wander awhile in the ditch in order to see if you will be defiled. Lena. — No ; I will stand on the bank and consider. THE DEMONS OF THE GLASS. CHAEAOTERS. J^"r.|p— ""^"'l drinking friends. ToTiE, a fairy. Poverty. Crime. Disease. Edith. Little Child and Servant. Scene L — Enter Pennington and Spencer. Pennington. — Now, Jerry, sit down and have some- thing before you go down street. This is a raw day out, you know. Spencer. — I can stay but a few minutes, PenningtoiL SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 71 You are aware that I must meet my father at the depot in — let me see — \takes out his watch'] — ^jnst fifteen min- utes. \_They both sit down at a table.'] Penn. — This would be a cold world, indeed, Jerry, if we couldn't have a little something warm to take occa- sionally, you know. [Bings the bell] Good whisky, Jerry, is the best thing in the world to develop the latent caloric in the human system, physiologicallj'' speaking. \_Enter servant.] Servant. — Did you ring, sir ? Penn. — Yes, I rang. Bring us some of that best, whisky, Tom. Mind, the best. Of course I rang. .Didn't 3^ou know what to bring, without coming to see? Servant. — I might have known. \_Aside.] He doesn't want much else but whisky any more. Penn. — Quit your muttering there, and bring the whisk}^ Servant. — Yes, sir. \_Exit.] Spencer. — It's well to have a good friend, Penning- ton, and I've often thought that we ought to look to each other's interests a little more. James Pennington, I believe we are both indulging in the glass too much. For my part, I have determined to quit short off. When I drink this time with you — [enter servant with two glasses, filled, on a waiter, and exit] — it shall be the last. Penn. — What ! why, Jerry, whisky's a great institu- tion. It's the life and soul of a man almost. [ Takes up glass and hands it to Spencer ; takes the other him- self; both rise.] Here's health, Jerry, and may you never think less of me for saying, Here's to your reso- lution I Spencer. — May you never live to realize the tortures of the " Demons of the Glass !" [Pennington drinks. Spencer, unnoticed, cautiously throws the contents of his glass upon the floor.] So now, Pennington, good-by. I must go. Penn. — Good-night, Jerry. Stop and see me often. [Exit Spencer.] " Demons of the Glass!" What does he mean ? I feel ver}^ strange to-night. I don't think I'm drunk. I've been drunk before, and I didn't feel this way. Pshaw ! doctors often recommend whisky — 72 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Bay it's good for consumption. Well, so it is ; good for Tiiy consumption, for I do consume it sometimes, that's certain. Ha ! Ha I that's a g-o-a-k \_8pelled only'\ as friend A. Ward has it. [Rings beW]. Whisky is good. " I like it," as an old hotel-keeper out West used to say. Good to raise the spirits. [Three or four distinct raps near the table. Starts in his chair, astonished.^ Hallo I what's that ! Spirits raised sure enough. [Enter ser- vayit with glass on waiter.'] You're a good fellow, Tom. When I shuffle off this mortal coil — die, I mean — I'll leave you all my old clothes. [Drinks.'] . Servant [aside]. — He won't have much else to leave any body, if he keeps going on at this rate. Penn. — You're a good fellow, Tom ; bring me another glass of this soul-reviving elixir of life. Servant [aside]. — He likes "er" that's true I [Aloud.] Another, sir ? Penn. — I — said — hie — another — didn't I ? An — hie — 'nother 1 Of course another. [Exit servant.] Another . — hem 1 why not ? Whisky is a fundamental princ- — hie — ciple. What's a fellow to do if there's no spirit in him. Another ? I can afford — hie — to drink as much as I please. I'm a — hie — able. I'm rich. I'm going to marry the handsomest, the richest, the most intelligent lady in the city. I'm going to — to — be the happiest man alive — [enter servant with glass — Penningtoji takes it] — if Edith Graham and this can make me. You didn't put just a little too much water in this, did you, Tom? Servant. — No, I hope not. \^Exit.] Penn. [sets the glass on the table and looks at it], — Jerry said something about " Demons of the Glass." I don't see any. Jerry's a good fellow, and when he said that, he must have meant something. I feel very strange, sleepy, and drowsy. [Thoughtfully and low.] "Demons in the glass." [Falls asleep with his head on his arm resting on the table.] [ Three or four girls sing a stanza or two of some temperance song — very softly — from some con- cealed place on the f 6 82 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. ject matter of the discourse, and nothing, whatever, as a personal self-application of the truth. But I must be patient, and do my duty. [^Starts toward home, when 'Gimblet, a silly, spong- ing fellow, follows him.'] Gimblet. — Say, Mister Blunt, I guess I'll go and take dinner with you to-day — 'tisn't much out of my way. lUxeunL] THE SEASONS. Scene 2. To be represented by fifteen girls, and one boy to represent March. Each season with its months passes along, with appropriate fruits, flowers, grain, etc. WINTER. I COME from the distant frozen zones, Where the ice ever binds, and the wind ever moans. Cold, chilling winds follow fast in my track ; All frown at my coming, and wish me back. The meadows I'll cover with a mantle of snow, Which I scatter abroad wherever I go. With ice I will silence the murmuring streams ; With clouds I will hide the sun's powerless beams. All nature must sleep in my chilling. embrace Till the arrival of Spring, when I must give place. M3' children are with me, my designs to fulfill. They may speak for themselves ; they all do my will. DECEMBER. I am the first-born of winter, yet of months am the last ; All rejoice at my coming, yet joy when I'm past; For my dark, gloomy days, and long, cheerless nights Are illumined by naught save the gay Christmas sights. I am the favorite of the girls and the boys. For with me come visions of Santa Claus' toys. *' Christmas is coming," and then you will hear Tlie last dying knell of the fast passing year. Pause, now, and think what account it will bear. But my mission is ended, ni}^ farewell's soon said, And 1 haster. to join the years that are fled. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 83 JANUARY. I am proud Jamiar}^, the first of the year ; All rejoice at m_y coming, and joy when I'm here. Gladness and mirth follow close in my train, "A happy New Year" is heard again and again. M}^ visions are bright, no forebodings I know ; My hopes tinge all objects with fancy's bright glow. Fondly I linger, still longer I'd dwell. But I, too, must hasten to bid you farewell. FEBRUARY. As I am the third, and my da3^s being few. With not many words I will now trouble you. I am short, cold, and crusty, I ver}^ well know, But once in four 3"ears I kindl}^ bestow "A Leap Year," that ladies their husbands may choose: Yet I give the poor gents a chance to refuse. But I, too, must hasten aw^ay from your sight, So to all I will bid " good night ! good night !" CHORUS. We are passing away, but ere we are gone You will hear the shrill notes of our winter sons:. SPRING. I COME, the timid and gentle Spring, Sweet treasures of beauty and blossoms to bring. The streams I'll unlock from their fetters strong. And soon you will hear them murmuring along. The cold, chilling winds will vanish away, For the}^ know of my coming and will not stay. All nature rejoices, for soon will be seen The earth enrobed in its vesture of green ; And beautiful flowers springing every where, Teaching a lesson of God's provident care. From its distant home I call to the bird. And soon will its joyous song be heard. To the poor and the needy sweet comfort I bring, And all rejoice to welcome the Spring. But my children are waiting their gifts to bestow, And we'll sing you a song as away we go. 84 SCPIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. MARCH. 1 am bold March, the noisy, and proud ; Blowing- ray trumpet so long and so loud. Fitful and stormy, a pest and a joy, For all pronounce me " a troublesome boy ;" I care for nobody, no, not I, So I'll take my leave without a " good-by." APRIL. Timidly I come as my rude brother leaves ; His boisterous manner my spirit oft grieves ; He chills my fond heart, and fills it with pain, That my heart's dearest treasures I can not retain. So I weep sad tears o'er the springing flowers. And thus sadly vanish poor April's hours. MAY. Charming and gay comes the laughing May, Singing and skipping the glad hours away. Blooming so sweet are my beautiful flowers, Decking with gladness earth's loveliest bowers. The forests are ringing with music most sweet, Happiest voices our ears ever greet. How charming and gay around is each scene, Clad in its garb of beautiful green ! With smiles and with joy I now pass away, Leaving bright visions of blooming May. CHORUS. Brother and sisters, we pass along, And sing, as we go, our welcome song. SUMMER. I COME from a far distant Southern clime, Where the orange-flowers bloom and myrtles twine ; Where the skies ever smile over glittering seas. And richest perfumes are borne on each breeze. To the North I come with my heated breath, Bringing, too often, disease and death; Yet in my steps comes the rich golden grain, Luscious fruits I give you, they come in my train. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 85 The year's bright noon-time, how pleasant it seems, E'en under the sun's hot, scorching beams M}^ children, hasten and bring your store, Gladdening the hearts of men once more. JUNE. I am June, and gladly I bring to you Mild, balmy air, and skies of blue ; Days of soft and hallowed light, Followed by a fairy, gentle night. Long, long days of sunniest noon, Mark the hours of radiant June. JULY. I am July, and close in my train Come the rich harvests of golden grain ; Berries and fruits I will bring to you Ere I pass away and say, " Adieu." AUGUST. August comes with its sultry days, Bringing rich crops of the golden maize ; Yet causing all to sigh for the breeze. Which only is found by the murmuring seas. The city's deserted, all flee to green fields. To taste of the joys which the country now yields. But m}^ long tedious days at length will be done, And I, like my sisters, must be passing along. CHORUS. Warm-hearted sisters for ever we be, So sing, as we go, a farewell glee. AUTUMN. I COME, grave Autumn, proud boasters to show That their haughtiest works will soon be laid low. I breathe o'er the forests, how changed they appear I The grass withers away as if in sadness and fear. I scatter the leaves from the loftiest trees. And gather them up with the eddying breeze. 86 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. The songsters that warble so happj and gay, All hasten to flee, at my coming, away ; Yet there's joy in my presence, for gladly I give Of my richest abundance that mankind may live. My children are weary with the burdens they bear Of the rich, luscious fruits of the fast passing year. SEPTEMBER, Quiet comes the mild September, Bringing joys that all remember ; Gladdening hearts with plenteous store, That for all there's plenty more Fruit and food ; so none need fear Want will trouble us this year. OCTOBER. Oool October greets you here, With frosty breath, so pure and clear. ' With its days, so calm and pleasant. Will return the jay and pheasant. Dropping nuts fall thick apace, Gladdening many an urchin's face. But my sunshine must give way Before my sister's gloomy day. NOVEMBER. They call me " dull," and full well do I know I can boast but of little save of rain and snow. November's my name, which none will admire, But shrink at my coming and call for a fire. So quickly I'll leave, for I will not remain Where my presence brings naught but sadness and pain CHORUS. Sisters are we of the fading year, Please give us a song, our journey to cheer. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. S7 *' LITTLE ANGELS." CHAEACTERS. Mr. and Mrs. Brown, who reside in the country. Mrs. Dosem. Peter Jehosaphat Hezekiah Dosem. Prtscilla Aquilla Rebecca Dosem. Adam Salathiel Dosem. Rachel Abigail Dosem. Ruth Sarah Dosem. James St. John Simon Dosem. SisERA Dosem. Scene 1. — Mrs. Brown, peeping from the window at the stage turning into the lane leading to her house. Mrs. Brown. — Good gracious me ! What have I done to deserve such a judgment? If there hain't the Dosems a coming. I should know that green silk bun- nit among a thousand, with them pink bows of ribbon onto it. Oh, deliver us ! they've got that snapping poodle dog of theirn, and he'll scare the cat out of her seven senses. And only goodness knows how many children there is. I can count four heads stuck out of the winder. Dear, dear ! what shall I do for dinner ? I do wish folks would sta}^ to home till they're invited. \_Stage stops. Mrs. Dosem alights, bearing three band-boxes, a carpet-bag, an umbrella, and a huge bouquet, and closely followed by seven children—^ three boys and four girls. She throws down her burdens, and running up to Mrs. Brown, flings her arms around her neck.'] Mrs. Dosem [with empressmenf]. — Oh ! Mrs. Brown I my dear, dearest Mrs. Brown ! I declare it's been an age sense I last sot eyes on you I I told Mr. Dosem, day before yesterday morning, while he was eating breakfast — says I, "Mr. Dosem, I must leave every thing and go out to Lynnham, and see dear Mrs. Brown!" And Mr. Dosem, he said — " Most assuredly, Lucy." And he's gone out to board, and we've come — ail of us ! The children were wild to see their dear Aunty Brown 88 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. once more — and they're such quiet little darlings I ven- tured to bring them I I knew 3^ou would be delighted to have them. Mrs. B. [faintly^- — Of course. Mrs. D. — That's jest what I told Mr. Dosem, and he said, " mOst assuredly." Let me name them to 3^ou. It has been so long since j^ou saw the darlings that you may, perhaps, have forgotten their names. Peter Je- hosaphat Ilezekiah, you are the oldest, come here and kiss dear Mrs. Brown. Peter ^pulling the dog^s taW]. — Don't see the pint I Mrs. p.— The Httle angel ! He's so witty. Dr. Pill- work said, Avhen he was an infant, that he'd never live to grow up. He had too much intelligence of the brains to live. But I feel in hopes a merciful Providence will spare him to me. Adam Salathiel, you'll kiss Mrs. Brow^n, wont you, lammie ? Adam. — Shan't do it I Don't believe in kissing no- body but the "gals," and especially not folks with false teeth ! Mrs. D. — Did you ever ? Children will be children. Come, Priscilla Aquilla Rebecca — you see we took our children's names from the Bible. I do so dislike these novel-writer's names. Peter. — Do dry up, marm, and let's go into the house ; I'm hungr}^ — 1 am; I want some sweet cake. Mrs. B. — Yes, come in \leading the way']. Mrs. D. — I do hope your chambers are large and airy. It nearly kills me to sleep in a close, hot room. It affects ni}^ respitorj^ apperatus so. Dr. Pillwork says I should have plenty of fresh air alwaj^s. Miss Priscilla [an affected miss of fifteen']. — Are there any botanical specimens about here, Mrs. Brown ? Mrs. B. [with apuzzled air]. — AVell, I can't say. There may be, but there's never any of them been to this house, I guess. I hain't seed any. Miss Priscilla [aside']. — Heavens I what ignorance I I shall i)crish among such savages. Mrs. B. — Take oti' your things and set down, do. Peter [seats himself itpon a table, which upsets, and he goes down with it]. — Golly, that's a turntable. Take SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 89 your hoops out of the way, Si], and give me a lift [^seats himself beside Priscilla on the sofa]. Priscilla [in dismay']. — Get up, instantly ; you'll ruin my dress ! Oh, dear me I what an infliction boys are — half-grown, uncivilized beings. Oh ! ma, do make him behave. He's given my nerves such a shock. If I could only have a cup of tea at once. Mrs. D. — Mercy me ! I hope you hain't going to have another of those nervous spells. Dear Mrs. Brown, I have an awful trial ; Priscilla's nerves are so out of kilter, I have to be as particular with her as I would with an infant. Get the camfire, and a little cologne, and a fan. And do make a cup of tea just as quick aa you can. I feel as if I should like a drop myself. \_Exit Mrs. Brown.] Mrs. D. — Mean, stingy old hunks ! I never would have come nigh her, but she's got such a nice place out here, and she used to be a good cook. Children, you must stuff yourselves up well at dinner. Country air gives folks an appetite. We'll stay a month, if she only feeds us well. It will save us forty dollars a week. Mrs. B. [entering^, loaded down with bottles]. — Here's some camfire and arnica, and some essence of pepper- mint, but I hain't got no cologne. Priscilla [throwing up her hands hysterically]. — Good heavens ! no cologne ! How do people manage to exist ? [Peter whistles Yankee Doodle, the two younger boys are playing horse, with the curtain-cord for reins, and the smaller girls p>ull hair behind the big rocking-chair.] Mrs. D. [perceiving them]. — My dearest Rachel Abi- gail, and my darling Buth Sarah, what are you doing ? Ruth [^vindictively]. — She pulled my nose and made up a face at me. I'll cave her head in, I will. Abigail. — And she spit on my dress and scratched ra3^ face. Mrs. D. — Dear little lambs I they must have their in- nocent plays. James St. John Simon, take your feet out of Mrs. Brown's work-basket, my bird. Sisera, do be careful how you flourish that stick around that look- ing-glass. There ! youVe done it ! Well, mind and not ^et any of the glass into your precious little feet, I'm 90 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. real sorry it's broke, Mrs. Brown ; it's such a bad sign. But, thank the Lord, it's only bad for the one that the glass belongs to, Priscilla [grousing up"]. — Do send those dreadful children out to play. They'll kill me dead if they stay here ! Mrs. D. — Yes, dears. Run right out and have a good time. I suppose there's plenty of room about here ? Mrs. B. — Do, please, children, be careful about tramp- ling on the beans and cabbage plants. Mr. Brown is dreadful particular about his garden. There'd be an awful time if any thing should get pulled up. Mrs. D. [^indignantly^. — They wouldn't hurt a fly I Now, I guess Priscilla and I will take a little nap while you get dinner ready. [ The children go scampering and screaming from the house, and Mrs. Brown shows Mrs. Dosem and Priscilla upstairs.'} Scene 2. — The dining-room. The Dosems seated at the table. Mrs. Brown, flushed and disconcerted, standing in waiting. Mrs. Dosem. — I see you have no coffee. I always take a cup of coffee with my dinner. The food relishes so much better. You needn't make it ver^^ strong. And have plenty of cream. Priscilla. — Pass me the bread, mother dear, if you please. Mrs. D. — My love, you must not eat any of that warm bread. It will injure your digestive organs. Mrs. Brown, have you any cold bread ? Mrs. B. — No ; I do not happen to have any. Mrs. D. — Indeed! I'm sorry. Good housekeepers are not often without cold bread. Well, just put this into cold water a minnit ; only a minnit, remember. Priscilla is so delicate. • Ruth [vociferously, brandishing knife and fork}. — Give me some more sugar — enough of it. I want some with my bread and butter. Abiq.iil. — And I, too! and some syrup! And give SCHOOL DAY DIALOGUES. 91 me a piece of s^veet cake I And I want a three-pronged fork. James. — Ma, Peter is eating up all the preserves ; I shan't get a mite. Make him stop. Priscilla [languidly']. — Ma, I wish jou would close that blind ; the sun hurts my eyes. And do make Sisera stop drinking tea from her saucer. When will these children learn refinement ? Mrs. D. [_iiuddenly~\. — Where's Bounce? Here's just such a piece of steak as he likes. Where is he ? Peter. — In his skin. Mrs. D. — Don't be disrespectable, dear. What have you done with your sweet pet ? James and Adam [together']. — He's in the well. Pv-ETH. — He bit me for pulling his tail, and I hove him in. Mrs. D. — Good gracious I my darling in the well ! [Enter Mr. Broiun, in a at ate of angry excitement.'] Mr Brown. — What the deuce has been afoul of my garden ? I'd like to know if there has been a drove of pigs along. Mrs. Brown [soothingly]. — My dear Solomon Mr. B. — Don't " dear" me, Susan. I asked you what had been into the garden ? Mrs. B. — My dear Solomon, don't yoa see there's company ? Mr. B. — See ! Yes, and hear, too. Will you answer my question ? Mrs. B. — What has happened ? Mr. B. [furiously]. — You'd better ask what ain't happened. Somebody or other has tore all my beans up by the roots, and trod my potatoes into the ground, and tied my best rooster to the well pole. Peter [grinning]. — Golly ! how he cackled ! Mr. B. [seizing the youngster by the collar]. — Did you do it ? Speak, or I'll shake the breath out of ye. Peter. — Lemme alone. Jim and I did it to see him squirm. Ruth and Xab pulled up the beans. Marra, make him let me alone. I can't git my breath. He's drunk, and smells of onions. Priscilla [falling hack in her chair]. — Oh, heavens ! I shall swoon. 92 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mrs. B. ^excitedly']. — Oh, Solomon, dear 1 don't. IK,) let him alone. Don't, I beg, Solomon. Mr. B. — You needn't beg, none of ye. I'm mad enough to shake you all to pieces. All my summer's work destroyed by a pack of young savages. If they belonged to me, I'd trounce every one of 'em till they couldn't tell 'tother from which. Mrs. D. — Oh, my poor boy 1 There — he's tore Peter Hezekiah's collar. Good gracious ! I wish we'd stayed to home. Mr. B. — I wish to zounds you had. Mrs. D. — I'll leave this instant. I hain't to be abused in this style. M3^ angel children shan't be the victims of such a dreadful man. Where's my things ? Mr. B. — Here they are. Mrs. B. — Solomon, I beg of you Mr. B. — It's no use, Susan ; the^^ shall leave. This woman did not know me last summer, when I called at her house just at dinner time, and now I don't know her. My horse is harnessed, Mrs. Dosem, and I shall be happy to take you to the hotel. Mrs. D. [indignantly']. — I wont ride a step. Mr. B. — Walk, then. I'm willing. Mrs. D. \tur7iingto Mrs. Brown, with dignity']. — Good- by, Mrs. Brown. I pity 3'our condition with such a husband. I thank God that my angel children have not such a parient. Come, darlings, we will go. I will send for our baggage. \_Exit the Doaems, en maiise. Mr. Brown whidles the Bogue''s March.] THE YOUNG STATESMAN. Child. — Mamma, don't you think I would make a good statesman ? Mamma. — ^What makes you think so, nay child? C. — Why, phrenologists think I am gifted in the art of governn\ent, and that I am bound to make a good lawyer. SCHOOLDAY PTALOGtJES. 98 M. — Does it generally follow that good lawyers mako good statesmen ? C. — Yes, as a general rule they do. M. — But what are jowr own views of a good stales- man ? C. — Well, mamma, I suppose a good statesman is one who understands the constitution of our country, is well versed in the history of our own and foreign nations, so that he can judge what is best suited to the wants of the people he represents. M. — Are these all the qualifications that are necessary to make a good statesman ? C. — Well, he ought to be a good orator that he might be able to plead his cause in such a way as to excite the feeliugs. and awaken love, pity, or hatred, as best suited his subject. M. — But are there no other qualifications of a higher order necessary ? C — Oh, 3'es ! he ought to have a good classical edu- cation. M. — My boy, I do not depreciate the merits of a classical education, yet I do not think it absolutely ne- cessary. C. — Now, now, mamma, you are caught. Recollect how often you have told me that Moses was the greatest statesman the world ever saw, and you know " he was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and was might}" in words and in deeds.'' M. — Very true, my boy ; but was it his learning that made him such a great man ? C. — Well, mamma, I can only say with the inspired penman, that he was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and I suppose he wished us to understand that he was qualified for his office, and that it was learning that made him so. M. — My beloved boy, the same inspired penman tells us he was not an orator. Aaron, his brother, had to be his spokesman ; so you see his learning did not fully qualify him for his office. C. — Then, mamma, it must have been his wisdom. M — But where did he get that wisdom ? 94 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. C. — Why, mamma, you know he was educated in the conrt 01 King Pharoah. M. — Ah, my boy! your last answer forces a sigh from the heart, and a tear from the eye of your beloved mother. C. — Not for all the world would I bring a cloud over the sunshine of your happy face. You are all the world to me. What in my answer makes you look so grave ? M. — Oh, my beloved boy I I know you would not willingly grieve your mother, but — has her boy yet to learn that "the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God ?" C. — Then, mamma, you think the Egyptians were not wise. M. — How could they be wise, when they knew not God ; for the wisdom of this world without the knowl- edge of God makes a man so high-minded and so full of self, that he would break a world to pieces to make a stool to sit on. C. — Mamma, where did he get his wisdom ? M. — Certainly not from his classical education, for the inspired penman tells us, that every good gift comes from above, " and that the fear of the Lord is the begin- ning of wisdom." C. — Thank you, my own dear mamma; you have brought me to see that if a man is to be truly great, he must be truly good. M. — Yes, my darling child, you have answered well at last. C. — But where, mamma, in all the whole world will you find a man like Moses, who will stand up before a congress or parliament, and spread out his hands toward heaven, and speak and pray and plead with the Lord, as he did? — why the members of the house would say he was mad. M. — Yes, my boy, they might even go as far. as the Israelites did with Moses, when they were " commanded to stone him with stones." C. — Oh, surely, mamma, they would not do so 1 M. — I do not mean that in the nineteenth century any learned body of men would do so, but you know, my be- SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 95 loved boy, that hard words and cold looks fall as heavy upon a good man's heart as stones upon his flesh. C. — Well, mamma, I see what you wish ; is it not that every statesman should do like Moses ? spread every knotty question before the Lord, and never, never to trust his own wisdom in order that he may be just and wise : and then, like Joseph, his words will have power, and his way will prosper. M. — Yes, my boy, you are now beginning to under- stand your mother's views of a '' good statesman." TWO WAYS OF LIFE. Scene, a forest. An aged peasant is discovered, binding up a bundle of faggots. Enter a stranger, in a splendid military dress. Me looks around as if bewildered, ob- serves the woodsman, and speaks. Stranger. — Good-evening, venerable father I will you direct me, of your courtesy, the nearest way to the cas- tle of Konigstein ? Peasant \^who does not perceive the stranger^. — I must be going ; little Eva will be on her way to meet me. [_He rises."] Stranger. — I say! Good father I Are you deaf? Peasant. — I beg your pardon, my lord. Good-even- ing, my noble gentleman. Stranger. — Good-evening. Will you guide a belated traveler toward the castle of Konigstein ? Peasant. — The road lies beside the door of my cot- tage, and I am this moment going thither. Come with me, my lord, and if you will do us the pleasure to enter ouv humble dwelling, my Marie will be proud to offer you apples from our orchard, and the best of cheese and butter from her dairy. Stranger. — Thanks I And I, in return, will bestow this broad piece of gold upon your little Eva, as a keep- sake. 96 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Peasant [^aside']. — He knows Eva's name. A gold eagle of the grand duke. [_AIoud.'] You must be very rich, my noble lord ? Stranger. — Yes, my good frien^; my cool bead, and my good sword, have brought me wealth and honor. And yet, / played beside a peasant's hut in my days of childhood, like your little Eva. Peasant. — And now, my honorable gentleman ! Stranger. — And now. — The histor}- of your country, for the last ten years, is but the record of my deeds — I am the emperor ! Peasant. — And what may that be, my gracious lord ? It is, perhaps, one of the officers of the grand duke ? Stranger. — Is it possible ! And this is the fame I've fought and struggled for ? No, old man ! I am the mas- ter of the grand duke ! Have you not heard that he has been driven from his dominions, and forced to take refuge in America ? Peasant. — No, my lord ; I had not heard of that. So the poor old duke is gone ! He must he about my age I've heard my mother sa}^ the joy-bells were ringing for his birth the morning I was christened. It must be a sad tiling, to be driven from one's home and country in one's old age, my lord emperor ! Stranger. — Yes. But we will not speak of that. What have you been doing these ten 3'ears past, not to have heard of these great eveirts which have been going on around you ? Peasant. — I? I have ploughed and sown the few acres my father left me ; reaped and gathered in my scanty harvests. I have seen my fair daughter Lena grow up, in innocence and goodness, beside our humble hearth, and leave it, wearing the roses of a bride, to make the happiness of another not less humble. And since, I have seen her laid beneath the blossoms of our village graveyard, in the hope of the happy resurrection of the just. And now, her child — our little Eva — fills her place in our poor hut, and my good Marie guides her feet in the ways of obedience and truth. Stranger. — And have you been hajjpy in this quiet life, old man ? I*easant. — Why not, my lord emperor? I have a SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 97 cottage, dear as a lifetime's home can be. I have the society of my faithful ^vife, my patient, noble Marie ; and we share between us the whole heart of our Eva — our winsome, prattling grandchild. I have a heart at peace with all mankind, and sure and precious hopes for the .'its which is to come. Straxgze. — And such are the simple, homefelt joys my mad ambition has trampled npon ! Josephine ! now do I feel the justice of thy reproaches. [^Takes off his hat.] My good friend, it seems you, too, have been a sort of conqueror ? Peasant. — Why, yes, my lord. I have conquered some rocks and thorns in my rugged fields and gardens ; and many a rocky fault and thorny grief in my own heart beside. But I thank my God. this hand has never been stained in the blood of a fellow-man I Steaxgze. — I wish I could say as much I [ Takes the hand of the icoodsman.^ Old man, the conqueror of Europe exyies your felicity ! TOO GOOD TO ATTEXD COMMOX SCHOOL. CHAEACTEES. Tom SiiiTH. a spechnen of " Young America." William Steady, "I o i. i Lhaeles Casdid, f '^*^""""*»'^^^- Tom.— Halloo, BifQI which way so fast? William. — That is not mj name, sir. My name is Williara. Tom. — It seems to me that jou are mighty particular. Well, William, then — Master Williara, if that suits you any better — ^which way are you walking so fast this morning ? William. — Why. to school, to be sure, and I have but little tinie now to talk with you, for I fear I shall be late. Tom. — Pshaw I whafs the use in alwavs being so 98 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. punctual, I'd like to know ? They don't pay you for it, do they ? William. — I do not receive money from any one, if that is what you mean ; but I do get well paid for being in season, by gaining the approbation of my teachers, and also by not losing any of my recitations. Tom. — Perhaps you can, but I can not see that a fellow gains so much by worrying himself about being in school, alwa3^s just to the minute. Why, one loses a good deal of fun in the street by that. Sometimes, just as the bell rings for school, the fire hell rings also, and then I like to run and see where the fire is, and how the machines work. You know, too, it might be our house, and then how bad I should feel not to be there. I think a boy might be excused for being a little late, at such a time. William. — I don't know about that, but I do know that running after engines is bad business for boys. They are apt to get into bad companj', and hear bad language, and learn bad manners in such places. Then, too, they are apt to get in the way, and get hurt. Tom. — Oh ! that's all nonsense. The bad talk and bad manners don't hurt me ; and as to getting in the way, I have helped to put out a good many fires. I can help draw a machine, and work it, too. Why, some of us boys '' stole a march" on the engine company the other night, got out the machine, and worked it all by ourselves. William. — I grant you are rather smart — Swift by name, and swift by nature ; but you will not convince me that the influence of such places and company is not already working in your mind for ^ ill. lean see it in your talk now. This running about the street, when you should be at school, every good and wise person will tell you is bad business. But come, you had bettei go to school now. I must go. \_Starts.'] Tom. — Oh ! hold on a bit — don't be in such a hur. There is time enough yet. I am a good runner, and i». I start when I hear the clock begin to strike, I can get to my school in time. William. — You see I am not so aicift as you are. I can not stay any longer. There comes my friend Charles SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 99 Candid — he has a vacation to-day. I must leave 3'ou to finish this argument with him. \_Exit William and enter Charles.'] Charles. — Good morning, Tom. Tom. — Good morning, Charlie. Charles. — I noticed you and William were having an earnest talk. What was the subject ? Tom. — Oh, his hobby — school and punctuality.' Charles. — I hope you did not disagree with him on that. Tom. — Yes, I did. I go for the largest liberty, 3'et I am an advocate for attending school when it suits my convenience. He thinks I am a little reprobate, just because I like to be free, and run with the fire engine sometimes, instead of being at school just to the minute every day. I expect he takes his seat just at nine o'clock, and looks as demure as a little priest, and thinks he is very good. Charles. — Well, sir, do you expect to get to school this morning ? If you do, I will not detain you. Tom. — Oh, I'm in no hurry. I am going down to the depot, before I go to school, to see the trains come in. Don't we boys have good times jumping on the cars, riding a little, and then jumping off again ? Charles. — As to that I can not say. I never tried it. I expect you will get your head or limbs broken yet. Tom. — Pshaw ! I am not afraid of that. I can jumj) like a streak of lightning. But I see by your eye jon are not pleased with my talk. You look like a very clever chap. Where do you go to school ? Charles. — To the Union school. Tom. — Why, that's a free school, is it not? Charles. — Yes; what of that? Tom. — Mother says she would not let me go to a free school "for all the world.''' Charles. — Wh}' ? ToM.-^There are bad bo3'S who go there. She is too careful of my morals for that. Charles. — Well, well! I think she must have an eye to them, indeed, from the fruits which I see. J 100 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. guess you need not be afraid of any you would be liable to meet there. There is, now and then, by the way, a bad boy who chances to get into a private school. Tom. — So father says ; and he groans not a little about being taxed so much for these free schools, and once in a while, when he gets out of patience about taxes, he says, "■ Hang it ! I have a good mind to send Tom to a free school and gain something myself." But mother' says, " Why, Tom go to a free school! never! 'twould ruin the precious darling for ever!" So father yields — puts a new quid into his mouth and walks off to the store. Charles [laughing']. — Well, Tom, you are a pretty smooth talker, but to be a little more serious, I want to go back again to our starting point. Tom. — I must say I am tired of this — but let us have your creed and end it. Charles. — Well, I fully believe that a tardy boy is in great danger of becoming a truant, and in the end likely to grow up a loafer, with a fair chance of promo- tion at an early age, from the street school to the |.eni- tentiary high school, and from that, perhaps, to one of the state colleges, vulgarly called "State's Prison." It will make little difference whether he start in a free or select school. Tom [excited']. — You impudent fellow! I have a great mind to thrash you. Charles [putting his hand on Tom^s shoulder], — Hold on — keep quiet. This ma}^ seem severe, but 1 speak as a friend. You may yet thank me for it. Promise me you will think seriously of this, and mend your ways, before it is too late. Tom [hesitatingly]. — Well, I do not know what to say — perhaps I will, but here comes the ten o'clock train — I'm off — good-by. Charles [alone]. — Poor boy 1 I fear he is on the pure road to ruin. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 101 FIRESIDE COLLOQUY. Lucy. — How beautiful the world is ! The green earth covered with flowers — the trees laden with rich blossoms — the blue sky — the bright water, and the golden sunshine. The world is, indeed, beautiful ! and He who made it must be beautiful. William, — It is a happy world. Hark ! how the merr}?- birds sing, and the young lambs skip — see, how they gambol on the hillside. Even the trees wave, and the brooks ripple in gladness. The eagle, too, oh, how joyously he soars up to the glorious heavens I the bird of libert}'', the bird of America. Lucy. — Yes : — " His throne is on the mountain top ; His fields the boundless air ; And hoary peaks, that proudly prop The skies, his dwellings are." William. — It is a happy world ; I see it and hear it all about me ; nay, I feel it, here, in the glow, the elo- quent glow of my own heart. He who made this great world must also be happy. Lucy. — It is a great world. Look off to the mighty ocean, when the storm is upon it ; to the huge mountain, when the thunder and the lightnings play over it ; to the vast forest, the interminable waste, the sun, the moon, and the myriads of fair stars, countless as the sands upon the seashore. It is a great, a magnificent world, and He who made it — oh, He is the perfection of all loveliness, all goodness, all greatness, all glori- ousness 1 Frank. — What is the shape of the world, or of the earth ? William. — It is round, or nearly so ; it is what is called an oblate spheroid, having about twenty-three miles greater diameter from East to West, than from North to South. Lucy. — Yes •, you know, Frank, our little geography says : — 102 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. " The world is round and like a ball, Seems swinging in the air ; A sky extends around it all, And stars are shining there." Frank.— The world round like a ball ! do you believe that, mother? Mother. — Yes ; men called navigators, have sailed around the world in ships, and come to the same place they started from — like a fl}^ walking around an apple. William. — That is called circumnavio-atinor. Lucy. — That is a very long word ; I suppose it was made so, because it is such a great distance around the world. William. — Luc}^ can you spell the word, and prop- erly divide the syllables and pronounce them as you go along ? Lucy. — Yes ; I think I can. William. — Well, go on. Lucy. — Cir-cum-nav-i-gate. Circumnavigate. William. — You are correct, Lucy. John. — How far is it around the world ? it must be a great distance, I think, mother. Mother. — It is said to be about twenty-five thousand miles : I believe, I am right, William, am I not ? William. — Yes ; and its diameter is about one third this distance, or about eight thousand miles. John. — What is that which you call diameter, Wil- liam ? William. — The distance straight through, from one side to the other ; just as I run this knitting-needle through this apple — thus. Frank. — William, how does any person know how far it is through the earth?. no one has ever went through to measure it, I guess. William. — True, Frank ; no person has ever actually measured it; but there is a mathematical rule that will find the diameter of any thing circular in form, when you have the circumference. Lucy.— What is that, William ? William. — If the circumference of the earth is twen- ty-five thousand [25,000] miles, by dividing this distance by the tabular number 3.1416, will give the diameter ; and SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 103 if ilf" diameter of any circle or sphere be multiplied by this number, it will give you the circumfei^ence. Lucy. — Oh, jqs, ! and they know the distance around the outside; and to divide this distance b}^ three, or that other number you mentioned, will give the diameter. William. — Yes. Frank. — Why, William, can thej^ measure distance on the great ocean ? William. — Yes. Lucy. — How far is it to England, or across the ^Ltlantic ocean ? William. — About three thousand [30G0] miles. Lucy. — And the Pacific ocean, how wide is it ? William. — It is called ten thousand [10,000] miles. Frank. — How many oceans are there on the earth? William. — There is said to be five oceans ; but more properly speaking there is but one, having dififerent names applied to different portions : as Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, Arctic, and Antarctic. Frank. — Why, I suppose there must be nearly as much water as land — how is it, William ? William. — A great deal more water than land ; three fourths of the globe is said to be water, and one fourth land. Frank. — You astonish me I William. — To think, too, of the tides of the ocean — how the water rises and falls, twice every twenty- four hours — the incomprehensibility of its inhabitants — the great leviathan, how he sports therein, and other interesting things connected with the ocean, the heavens, and the earth — often constrains me to think of David when he sings in the one hundred and third psalm — " Bless the Lord, oh, my soul : and all that is within me, bless his holy name." The ninety-sixth psalm likewise is very beautiful. Lucy. — " God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform ; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm !" William. — Wh}', Lucy, 3'ou seem quite poetic this evening ; by the way, it is said the verse or couplet you 104 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. just now repeated, contains all the parts of speech, grammatically speaking, in the English language ; bat for my part I think there is one of the eight parts wanting. Lucy.— What is that ? William. — The interjection. Frank. — I wonder h(j.» many people there are in the world ? William. — It is said there are one billion [1,000,000,- 000] persons in the world ; all of which are comprised In only five distinct races, called the Caucasian or white race ; the yellow or Mongolian ; the black or African race ; the brown or Malay, and the red or American race, called also aborigines. Frank. — Why, are not we of the American race ? We live in America, and were horn here, too. William. — No; our ancestors came from Europe; we are sometimes called Anglo-Saxon, too. Our fore- fathers landed at Plymouth, in Massachusetts ; a settle- ment was also made at Jamestown, in Virginia ; but those settlements were made long after Christopher Columbus discovered America. Yoa will observe, Frank, that the negroes born here in America are still called Africans, although they first saw the light and have been reared here in this country ; and it would be the same were the Indians to go to Europe ; they would still be called Indians, or "red men." Frank. — Were the Indians and negroes here in America when Columbus discovered it ? William. — The Indian was, but not the negro ; he was brought here b}^ the English when they settled at Jamestown, and made a slave of by them ; he was brought here from Africa. Lucy. — I have often thought that the discovery of America, by Columbus, was in its etfect, one of the great- est events that ever occurred in the world's histor}'. William. — Most unquestionably one of the greatest events that has occurred, since the advent of our Saviour Jesus Christ into our world, has been the discoveiy of the AVestern Continent — great in a variety of ways; promi- nent among which is the great goodness of God in open- ing a way or outlet, for the pG0i)le of the over-populated countries of the Eastern Hemisphere ; a land, too, where monarchy and despotism in the affairs of government find SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 105 no favor. To think, too, what would have been the con- dition of millions of people, now happ}' , prosperous and contented, and in this glorious land of freedom — "the land of the free and the home of the brave" — if the great dis« covery of this continent had not then or since taken place. But thanks to God for the realization of this sublime fact Another great fact, scarcel}^ less grand and stupen* dous, connected with the discovery of America, was the demonstration (of theory only heretofore) that the world or earth was round, or of globular shape. This proof has been of inestimable value to science and art ; truly, astronom}" and geography without this knowledge would be but a myth, and the celestial as well as the terrestrial world, an unknown and undiscoverable mysterj'. Oh I when I think, were it possible to obliterate all the attending circumstances, grandeur, goodness, greatness, and glory connected with this great event, "I am lost in wonder, love, and praise!" Frank, — When did Columbus discover America? Lucy. — In the year one thousand four hundred and ninety-two. Three hundred and sevent\^-four 3'ears ago. William. — Yes, and now we number thirty-seven States, and a population of over thirty-one millions in the United States alone ; then there is South America, Mexico, British America, West India Islands, etc., not included in this account. Frank. — Oh, Lucy, don't you remember that beautiful poem that 3'ou recited on last examination day, called " Three Days in the Life of Columbus ?" William. — I suppose he refers to that beautiful translation from Dela^igne, Lucy. Won't 3'ou repeat a passage from it, and that will conclude our pleasant chit-chat for this evening ? Lucy. — But hush ! he is dreaming ! — a vail on the main, At the distant horizon, is parted in twain. And now, on his dreaming eye. — rapturous sight ! Fresh bursts the New World from the darkness of night. 0, vision of glory ! how dazzling it seems ! How glistens the verdure! how sparkle the streams ! How blue the far mountains ! how glad the green isles ! And the earth and the ocean, how dimpled with smiles . "Joy ! joy 1" cries Columbus, " this region is mine !" — Ah ! not e'en its name, wondrous dreamer, is thine. 106 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. But lo ! his dream changes ; — a vision less bright, Comes to darken and banish that scene of delight, The gold seeking Spaniards, a merciless band, Assail tVie meek natives, and ravage the land. He sees the fair palace, the temple on fire, And the peaceful Cazique 'mid their ashes expire; He sees too, — 0, saddest, 0, mournfullest sight I — The crucifix gleam in the thick of the fight. More terrible far than the merciless steel, Is the uplifted cross in the red hand of Zeal. Again the dream changes, Columbus looks forth, And a bright constellation, beholds in the North. 'Tis the herald of empire ! a people appear. Impatient of wrong and unconscious of fear ! They level the forest, — they ransack the seas, — Each zone finds their canvas unfurled to the breeze. " Hold !" tyranny cries ; but their resolute breath Sends back the reply, " Independence or death !" The ploughshare they turn to a weapon of might. And, defying all odds, they go forth to fight. They have conquered ! the people, with grateful acclaim, Look to Washington's guidance, from Washington's Behold Cincinnatus and Cato combined, [fame; — In his patriot heart and republican mind. 0, type of true manhood ! What scepter or crown. But fades in the light of thy simy le renown? And lo ! by the side of the Hero, the Sage, In freedom's behalf sets his mark on the age; Whom science adoringly hails, while he wrings The lightning from Heaven, the scepter from kings ! At length, o'er Columbus slow consciousness breaks, — " Land ! land !" cry the sailors, " land ! land," — he awakes. He runs, — yes ! behold it ! — it blesseth his sight, — The land ! 0, dear spectacle ! transport ! delight I POCAHONTAS. SoENE.— ^ group of half a dozen Indians, and Pow- hatan in the foreground, with a large club in his hand. Captain Smith bound, hands and feet, lying with his head upon two stones. Powhatan [raising his club']. — Ugh ! when the wolf strays in the snare, The hunter has his prej' ; No more the wolf shall seek his lair, Or prowl the hunter's way. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. lOT [ With a scream, Pocahontas rushes before her father^ weeping, and throws her arms about him. PoW" hatan drops his club, and regards her savagely. 1 Pocahontas. — Oh, father, set the white man free, Hold back the lifted blow ! Let not the lightning scathe the tree The winds have pinioned low. Powhatan [^sternly']. — Begone ! and get you to your mates, As birds flee from the storm ; A squaw's weak hands are useless weights To check the warrior's arm 1 Pocahontas \_clinging to his right arm']. — These hands have plumed thy eagle crest, And wrought thy tufted crown I The dove shall flutter at thy breast Until thou strike it down. My father, spare the white brave's life, — I cling thine arm to speak ; My veins are with the same blood rife As that which paints thy cheek ; — Oh, hear her plea ! Thy daughter prays. And when the sachems smoke Around the council fire's bright blaze. Thine own decree revoke I This guiltless blood will taint the breeze That climbs its skyward path ; How shall Powhatan then appease Our great Manitou's wrath ? Powhatan. — The braves inclose the council fire, Its secrets are their own, You know not of Manitou's ire. What signs to squaws are shown ? Pocahontas [^vehemently']. — The signs that streak the cloud's black fold With livid, zig-zag fire, That make the Indian maiden bold To stand before her sire 1 108 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. The signs that walk across the sky And through the sunset'^ gold, — They say the pale-face shall not die, That I thine arm shall hold. Powhatan hears the young squaw plead, Will he not grant her prayer ? Oh, sachem, give thy daughter heed, And spare the captive there ! Powhatan. — Powhatan's word is like the life Powhatan's body holds, And I have sworn to sheathe my knife Among his scalp-skin's folds I \_Pointing to Smith."] Pocahontas ^pointing upward']. — The eyrie bird swoops down to prey Upon the tame hawk's head ; The white dove soars across his way — He tears her breast instead. [^She kneels by Smith'' s side, and lays her head on Ms.] As unto him thou would'st have dealt, Deal unto me the like. M}^ scalp shall dangle at thy belt. And now, my father, strike I Powhatan \_moved~\. — The Eagle will not wet his beak In his own nestling's blood ; Powhatan hears his daughter speak, And w^hat she says is good. [^Regarding her proudly."] The Eagle's spirit lives in thee. Thou hast his dauntless eye ! [ To his attendants,, haughtily.] Unbind and set the captive free. The pale-face shall not die I [^ He folds his arms while they unbind Captain Smithy who kneels to kiss the princesses hand.] [ Curtain falls.] S^HOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 109 BE VUTY OF FACE AND BEAUTY OF SOUL ; OR, WHAT I WOULD BE. CHARACTEES. JuLMNA, a gay yoang girl. -^£^-:^i---'^~'--t Chr BTOPHER, Juliana's brother, who would be a wit. Mart, would be a genius. - liizziE, a sedate young lady who strives to be, and to do good. [All seated together on a veranda, the girls examining a print of Cleopatra, while the young man is engaged in reading.] Juliana [^still gazing on the picture^. — Queen of won- drous beauty ! it's no marvel that kings and princes, priests and generals, bowed at her shrine, and were made captives to her fascinations. I would give all the world to be as beautiful. Chris, [^without raising his eyes from his hook']. — '* Handsome is that handsome does," my fair sis. Juliana. — No one asked you to speak. Boys are always interfering ; and then you need not say any thing, for you know you had much rather be seen in the street with handsome girls than homely ones. Chris. — And for a ver}^ good reason, pretty one. Being a truly affectionate brother, I, of course, shotild prefer the society of such as would remind me of " The girl I left behind me," at home. Besides plain looking girls are more generally sensible. [ Winking to Lizzie.] And sensible girls would not be seen walking with me. Juliana [in an offended tone]. — Talk as much as you please about sense, I know, and you know, too, that beauty is more thought of than any thing else. The high and low, learned and illiterate, young and old, rich and poor, all bow to the sceptre of Beautj^ Even King Solomon, the wisest man that ever ruled a king- dom, wrote a great deal on the subject. Chris. — Ahem! so he did, little one. " Favor is de- ceitful, and beauty is vain ; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall he praised," so said King — S-o-l-o-m-o-n. 110 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Juliana [with spirit]. — I wish father would make you go out to work with Patrick ; the house is no place for boys. Chris, [laughing']. — Just so, I thought, petite Nan- nie, so I came out here to sit and take the air. Besides, mother tells me, that "the society of iutelligent and refined young ladies, improves a verdant lad more than any thing else," so I am trying its efl[*ect, and think I can perceive an improvement. But girls [addressing Mary and Lizzie], why don't you speak ? The veranda is open for discussion. Juliana. — I suppose the3^'re afraid of having 3^ou. for an opponent. Of course, 3'ou would be. The phrenolo- gist said: "j^ou were always on the contrarj^ side," and he spoke the truth then Chris, [interrupting]. — If he didn't when he said your bump of vanity was plus seven. Juliana. — You don't give the girls an 3^ chance to speak. Come, Mar3% please tell us what 3'OU would rather be ; and Lizzie, too. I'll keep still, and as for Chris, he^s improved so much, there'll be no danger of 3'our being interrupted b3^ him. Mary [laughing]. — We all know Lizzie delights in doing good more than anything else, (wish I could say the same of m3'self,) butlthoughtit was generall3^ known that genius was my hobby. I almost worship genius wherever found, and would give the best half of the world to be a genius of some kind — either a poet, artist, or a celebrated vocalist. Wh3', I've almost a holy rever- ence for every word Lord Brvon has uttered (despite his faults and follies). Then there's Charlotte Bronte, Kate Ha3'es, and our own Hatt3^ Hosmer. [A pause.] Lizzie. — Yes, dear Mary, we need not go to the Old World for fine specimens of genius, while our glorious Whittier lives (Freedom's noblest poet), and hewilllive for evermore ; for the good and true never die. Their influence is as lasting as time, their "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn" are immortal. Mary. — That is true, Lizzie ; Whittier's genius is a noble one. Then there is our own " Anna Dickinson," of whose talent, virtues, and genius we may be justly SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Ill proud, and in point of physical beauty I think she will not suffer in comparison with Egypt's vaunted queen. Juliana. — That's just what I say. Geniuses are always beautiful. Chris, [^shutting his book and jumping up']. — If I may be allowed to speak Mary and Lizzie [speaking at once and laughing'].-^ Certainly, ''the veranda is open to discussion." Chris. — I presume you all accord to Dr. Watts great genius ? Girls [in one breatK]. — Yes, we do. Chris. — And have heard the story about his physical deformity ? Juliana. — No! Lizzie. — What is it ? Mary. — Please tell us. Chris. — He was a small, plain-faced, illy-formed man, and, at one time, was in company, among whom were some strangers, and he was pointed out to one of them as " the author, Dr. Watts." When the stranger ex- claimed, in astonishment, " What ! that the great Dr. Watts! That little, insignificant man I" Whereat, the doctor drew himself up, and with upraised arms, re- peated slowly and distinctly, these impromptu lines : " Were I so tall as to reach the pole, And clasp the heavens with a span, I must be measured by my soul, The mind is the standard of the man." And that's what I call genuine wit. Lizzie. — Coupled with true greatness, Christopher. Juliana. — Yes ; Chris, is always harping upon wit. Artemus Ward is his hero. [Laughiiig.] Chris. — I never shall have for my heroine an in/am" ous woman. Though she be as beautiful as an angel, I should know 'twas a " fallen one." [With emphasis.] Mary. — We must give to every one his just due. Cleopatra was talented and highly accomplished, as well as beautiful in person — and 'tis for that I admire her — . her rare gifts of intellect. What say you, Lizzie, to that? Lizzie. — I am reminded at this moment, of words Uttered by a little boy. He had heard read *' Byron's 112 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Address to the Ocean," when he turned to his mother, and said, "It is grand, it is beautiful, mother, but there's no God in it." And I would that all lovers of literature were as discerning in regard to the excellencies and defects of the authors the}^ read, as was that little boy. There should be an evident aim to benefit, as well as to please the imagination of the reader ; as a friend remarked the other evening upon the writings of T. S. Arthur, that, " though there was a sameness in his stories, still she liked them, for he seemed to have an aim, and that was what she wanted to see in a writer." And I think it may be said of that excellent writer, as was said of one in former years, that "he never wrote one line which, when dj'ing, he would wish to blot out." We should live to do good. Chris. — You express my sentiments exactly, if I am a harum-scarum youth ; but it's my opinion the more wit one possesseth, the more good he can accomplish. Mary. — I indorse Lizzie's sentiments, too, and I don't know who can "do good," if a real genius can't. But they're not always good. Juliana. — Well, I'm not going to give up beat, with- out one word more. What's the first question asked when a stranger's name is introduced ? Isn't it " how does he look?" "is she, or he, handsome?" etc. Chris. — With all due respect for the opinion of my sister, I must say no ; who would ever think of asking if N. P. Willis and Professor Longfellow were pretty men [in a depreciating tone'] ? We all know they have beautiful souls, and Whittier says, the " Good are always beautiful." [I believe it is Whittier.] Mary must correct me if I'm wrong. [3Iary nods assent.'] I had much rather see a plain house well furnished, than to see a splendid structure unfurnished, or but poorly furnished. Who would want to stand out of doors all the time to look at the outside of a house ? I should want to enter into the inner sanctuary, and find some- thing on which to feast my soul. You see I'm getting sentimental [humorously]. Well, it's all the effects of the company I've been in, but [looking at his watch'] the hour for my recitation is near, and I must leave, Ihouah v'ith reluctance, for Lm convinced mother is SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 113 about right in regard to her opinion of society. [And wishing the girls a very pleasant afternoon, bows, and retires.'] Lizzie. — I think, Julie, you are not altogether in fault. We are too apt to inquire how a person looks. But I think it's more a habit we have fallen into, than a fixed principle, though we all like to see a fine face and form. But if there is not a corresponding beauty of mind and soul, we are sadly disappointed. There occurs to memory one, of whom I never heard the question asked, "how did she look?" 'Tis the sainted Mar}^ Lj'on ; we each know of her self-sacrifice, devotion to her calling, and the great good she accomplished. And I am sure that either of you would rather have the same said of you, when you've passed away from earth, than that you were merely a great genius, or a celebrated beauty ? Mary. — Yes, Lizzie, I would. Juliana. — I suppose so, if there could be but one thing said of me. Lizzie. — "For the eye .Tftd cheek will fade, Mary [rpp6a/.s].— Beauty owns immortal grace ; Lizzie. — Throned she sits w thin the soul, Mary. — That is beauty^s dwelling-place.^^ Lizzie. — Yes ; the form so admired to-day for its comeliness, will in a few years decay and moulder in the dust; "but the soul, immortal as its sire " Mary and Lizzie [in concert']. — ''Shall never die.''^ Lizzie. — Then, since all of earth must perish, may we each strive to possess what never fades — the beauty of the soul. [^Scene closes.] ITNCLE ZEKE'S OPlNlOi^I CHAEACTERS. Professor. Tp:achkr. Patriot. Poet. Uncle Zeke (an old fashioned farmer quite aged). Seth Spriggins, a Green Mountaineer. Uncle 'Zeke. [sitting apparently in deep reflection, commencr^ talking]. — Well, I havn't got much longer S 114 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. to live, and I don't care. There's nothin' much worth livin' for in this world now, the wa}^ things is goin'. This country my father fought and bled and died for, on Bunker's Hill, is no longer the happ}^, harmonious republic they then established ; but a great, over-grown, sickl}' thing, havin' within itself the elements of its own destruction. Ever since I heard the Charter Oak had fell, I have knowed its doom was sealed. Alas ! it is droopin', witherin', dyin'. It is torn limb from limb by internal factions ; its best friends is its greatest enemies. Patriot. — What is the matter, Uncle Zeke, that you should be letting off your superabundant steam in that fashion ? You, one of our best men, the son of that brave little band that shed their blood so freeh^ and gave our nation the deathless name it then acquired ; you, sir, to turn recreant to the principles they there defended ; you, who stood by her in her adversity, to forsake her in her prosperity, when she stands the pride of the continent, the chief luminar}^ of the world. Nobly did her sons establish her name ! nobly have their sons protected and improved their patrimony ! Teacher. — Yes, nobly ! and in what way more nobly than in designing and perfecting the admirable S3'stem of common schools we possess — the secret of our pros- perity, the talisman of our success. Uncle Zeke. — There you have it ! Common schools. Common humbugs! Instead of havin' schools to larn the boys readin', ritin' and siferin' and such like, that '11 be some good to 'em, they larn 'em nateral flosity and watermology and sintacks, and I don't know what kind o' nonsense, what is no manner o' use to 'em, 'cause nobody understands it but them college-bred milk-sops that come among honest people and pertend to teach, and then run awa}^ with the old folkses' moue}'', and the bo3^s' brains, and the gals' hearts, and then chuckle and ' shake their bony sides over their victories. Professor. — How absurdl}^ you talk, uncle ! Every one admires our superior system of education; it is one of our great national institutions which have won for us a deathless reputation among the nations of tne earth. Take awa}'' our common schools, and j^ou deprive us of one of the richest blessings we enjoy; SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. ~ 115 the very life-blood of our prosperity ; the principles for which our forefathers fought, and the sweet, rosy- cheeked maidens of seventy-six taxed their energies to secure. Seth Sprtggins. — My Arcles ! Maidens of seventy- six ! Well, if ever I heard wimmen as old as that called maidens afore ! I wonder when yeou'd call 'em wimmen. When 'Squire Dorgwood, from Orange county married oM Sall}^ Stubbs daown to Bennington, nobody called her a gal ; every body called her an old woman, and she was only seventy-tew, that was [^counting his Jingt.rs'] four year 3'ounger than your maidens, tew. Her face was as wrinkled as a dried apple, and abeout as rosy. Patriot. — Astonishing I Astonishing ! ! that one of our free and enlightened Americans, in '62 should not revere the very figures that express "16, saying nothing of the idea of failing to recognize the plain mention of an era rife with so man}^ associations so dear, so thrilling, so exalting to every member of our gloiious Union. Poet. — Let her banners flutter proudly On every flagstaff, spire, and tower ; Let her statesmen discant loudly On her greatness, honor, power ; Let true hearts with ardor burning Strive her virtues to increase ; And while others war are learning Teach her children love and peace. Uncle Zeke. — Sickenin'love pieces are plenty enough now, I calkelate. You can't take up a paper, nor book, nor nothin' without it's full of love pieces ; and afore children is big enough to have nateral love feelins, they get their heads so full of this love-nonsense, they never have none of the nateral love feelins at all. The love them books tells about is no more like love than the hooped flyaways we see now-a-days is like the neat, pretty, slim, red-faced gals that I used to court when I was a young chap. Teacher. — Oh, Uncle 1 you are getting crazy. Think- ing about your old courting daj^s has bewildered you. We are not speaking of love pieces, but of love and 116 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. peace. Peace, freedom from war, rest; not piece m part. Uncle Zeke. — Oh, dear, ens ! That's all, is it ? Teacher. — Thafs alL We know there is moch trash published ; but we ean^t stop that withontT suppressing profitable literature, also; and all we can do is to eouDteract its iufluence hy diffusing morality, religion, and science. Phofeeboel — Morality and religion arc the effectiise agents. Science, the root from which thej derive their support. Science has dethroned heathenism in many cases. It is driving superstition before it, and will eventually prostmte it to rise no more. The lightning which our ancestors looked upon in dismay as it flashed from cloud to cloud, has been brought from its sublime throne, by the hand of science, and is now one of man's must useful and obedient ser%'ants. The Tapor which arises from heated water, which, in olden times was looked upon only as a curiosity as it dashed the lid from the caldron in which it was boiling, is now the motive power that impels us across the ocean in splendid palaces, or hurls us over the country with electric Bi>eed. The planetary system, which was regarded with wonder and dread by the ancients, who worshiped its various members as deities, is now only a vast concourse of worlds rolling through the immensity of space. Science has done all this, and yet you despise iL it is the centre of gravity around wMch our country revolves ; the very essence of its existence. Uncle Zeke. — 1 guess, old chap, youH have to preach a longer sarmint than that afore you make this old child believe that 'are nonsense. With all your lamin' I don't believe you'll get one inch nearder the stars than I will, or stanza flash of lightnin' a fiit longer after it hits you. Patriot. — That may all be so, uncle, but don^t say any thing more against our Union. Let us rapidly review her progress since she came into existence. Then she consisted of thirteen little stars on her flag ; now that cluster has multiplied and increased till a fiery constellat ion of thirty-seven blazes amid its silken folds, 'jesides territories almost boundless that have no repie- SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 117 eentation there. Empires mav cramble ; kingdoms may fall ; tyranny spring up, flourish its little hour, and then fall to the ground ; but our republic must flourish and increase while time and space endure. PlET.— Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones. Seth. — Who knows bnt it was time shook aour stable da own ; I thought it was the wind. Teacher. — Xot a horse stable, but the adjectire stable, permanent, fixed. Seth. — Oum wasn't a hoss-stable nor an adjective stable nuther ; it was the calf stable at the back end of the barn. There was three calves in it, and the red one got killed, and the spotted one got its head onjointed, and its tail smashed a-most off, so it died before we found it the next momin'. Teacher. — ^I think there was one calf escaped that disastrous end, or you wouldn't be here to talk such noni?en5e. SzTH. — Oh, yes ! The black one didn't get hurt a-bit. P? :iz - ; :^, — Such ignorance as tliis individual mani- fr- ^ ^ T.erable; unworthy the enlightenment of the V rii L:ary. SziH. — Ei I ain't worthy this censure, I can dew withaout it. I don't want yeou nor your censure nuther. Tz :zzT, — He isnt speaking of censuring you. Si: : rily^. — He did say censurin', tew; I beam T I -^ : E z ?. , — You can say it means what you like : that's 1 7 z ^ ^ ?. — It is useless to attempt to convince the ■^ : : tng that is not perceptible to the Uncle Zeke. — Who can convince any body of any thing other than by their senses. If their senses isn't wantin' why can't you convince a dog or cat or a boss of any thing as well as a man. Professor. — By the senses we mean the faculties of hearing, seeing, smelling, etc. ; not intellect. Uncle Zeke — I don't know what inteUeck is ; but I know neighbor Dobson's Bill could hear and see and 118 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. smell as well as any body, and he hadn't no sense at all. Professor. — I love to respect the aged where the case will admit at all : but this is too flagrant a viola- tion, of reason to allow respect or mildness ; it is insuf- ferable. Poet. — Concealed within the marble block The polished statue stands ; Yet only issues from the rock Beneath the sculptor's hands ; Just so the mind, the living mind, Hidden in darkness lay ; No light burst from its powers, confined, Till education cleared the way. Seth. — Haow mighty knowin' you think you be ! That rhymin' ain't notliin'. I can make better varses than them by a jug full. I know some a good 'eal better than that feller's. Professor. — Please recite them. Seth. — There ain't a sight of them ; only tew. Professor. — Say them then. Do you understand that? Seth. — Yes, easy I Well, listen I went daown to Cap'n Blake's And there I seen his darter : I never seen a prettier gal, Or one what acted smarter. Her eyes is like two lightnin' bugs, Her lips like lemon candy ; Her cheeks is like a robin's breast. And ear-rings, aint they dandy ? Professor. — Well done I You seem to possess some faculties notwithstanding. Quite a poet. Seth. — I don't know whether I've got any or not. I've got a good many things In my trunk; I guess there's some amongst 'em. Professor. — What a paragon of ignorance ; and yet that individual is under the influence of the tender pas- sion, judging from his poetic erf'usions, and probably contemplates entering into matrimony. Seth. — What sort of mone3^ ? Professor. — Yes I say 3'ou probably contemplate entering into matrimony. ^ SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. • 119 Seth. — I daon't know exactly, but I guess I'd take any thing that would pass. I wonder if a body'd let me have a chance to earn it. Teacher. — Were j^ou ever at school, sir ? Seth. — Oh, yes ! I went to school three afternoons, but the first the master wasn't there, and the next he was drunk, and the last he kept talkin' to Kate Robbins, and didn't larn us nothin'. Uncle Zeke. — Well, I went to school a good 'eal when I was a boy. I went three winters day-times, and one, evenin', too ; and I guess that was a school. There was no jimnastiums and excesses there ; none of your new-fashioned fooleries. If the boys didn't behave, they got the ferrel ; and if the gals didn't carry 'em- selves straight, they had to stan' upon the bench till they felt cheap, I tell you. Teacher. — And that was the school system jou admire. What branches did you learn ? Uncle Zeke. — We larned readin' and ritin' and siferin'; and that was plenty for common folks to know. Ministers ort to know a little more so as to expound the scriptures a little ; but for boys to larn big words and high branches, and the gals to larn drawin, paintin', music, thumpin' the pianour, and pinchin' the guitar, instead of spinnin', weavin', nittin' stockings and makin' close, is the ruination of all of 'em ; and when the people is ruined, the nation is ruined, brag on it as you please. Professor. — The use of machinery has superseded the old-fashioned spinning-wheel and hand loom ; they are only relics of by-gone days. The day is fast ap- proaching when the buzz of the spinning-wheel, and the clatter of the loom shall be heard no more in our land for ever. The piano and guitar have taken their places, and our maidens may learn music, and our sons science, while steam performs the labor the}^ formerly were obliged to do. Teacher. — The Lj^ceum is now about to go into session, gentlemen. Please step into the next room. lUxit all but Uncle Zeke.'] Uncle Zeke. — Jes so, Mr. School-master, but if yeou'll wait till I see em in their precious mess of torn- 120 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. flumper}'' yeou'll wait till yeou're graj^er than yeou neow be. [Exit Uncle Zeke, calling to John to drive around the team. Noise, as if the old gentleman was climbing into an ox-cart, and the oxen restless.^ ■ THE SPELLING CLASS. [This piece can be spoken by either sex, or by both, uy changing names. A large boy or girl should be selected as teacher.] PUPILS. ^ John. Samuel. "^ Michael. James. Daniel. --'-JOSIAH. '^^^WlLLIAM. Joseph. —Oaleb. ^ Peter. Henry. Patrick. Scene 1. — Pupils playing on the stage when the curtain rises. Teacher. — Now, boys, I want you to form into a class, and spell the lesson I assigned you. All the Boys. — Yes, ma'am. Teacher. — Peter, you may go to the head of the class this evening. Michael. — Teacher, Pat Flannigan's head. He trap- ped Jim Barnhill last evening. Caleb. — No, Pat Flannigan's not head though ; I'nj head, I guess. I trapped Pat at the word conglomerate didn't I, Josie? Jostah [slowly']. — I don't know, I wasn't in school yesterday. William. — Teacher, I was third last evening, and now Joe Davis won't let me in my place. Teacher. — Joseph, let William in his place. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 121 Henry. — AVell, I wasn't foot, either, when we spelt last, for I marked my number on this paper, and 1 was fourteenth. [^Holding up the paper.'] Teacher [^counting the class]. — Why, you are twelfth now, and last evening you say you were fourteenth. Henry. — Well, but I wasn't foot. John. — Please, ma'am, Dan Lutz is pinching me. Teacher. — Daniel, walk to the foot of the class. Peter. — Teacher, shall I go head ? Teacher. — Yes, I told you to go there when I called the class up, didn't I ? Peter. — Yes, ma'am. Caleb \_as if crying]. — It's not fair. I was head. Teacher [holding up a stick]. — Quiet, now, or you'll get a good flogging. James. — Please, teacher, Sam Snodgrass is standing on one foot. Teacher. — Samuel, stand erect. The class will all pay strict attention. Peter, where is the lesson for this evening ? Peter. — On page forty-nine, lesson fourth, section seventeenth. Joseph. — John Barnhill told me, that we were to get the last section on page forty-eight. Samuel. — And Dan Lutz told me that Bill Smith told him that we were to get the first two sections on page fifty. He said that Josie Lichtenberger heard the teacher say so. Teacher. — Did you hear me saying so, Josiah ? JosiAH [slowlij]. — No, ma'am, 1 wasn't in school yes- terday. Teacher. — Joseph Davis has the right place. He will go to the head of the class, and Peter may take his place at the other end of the class. Henry. — Why! I'll be ahead after awhile, if them fellers keeps coming down here much more. Teacher. — Quiet, there. Attention all. Joseph, spell the first word. Joseph. — Teacher, I don't know what the first word is. Teacher. — Well, if you only have a little patience I will pronounce it for 3^ou. Caleb Thand up] — I know what the first word is. 122 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Teacher. — You keep quiet, until you are called upon to speak. The first word is commutation. Spell, Jo- seph. Joseph. — C-o-m, com, y-o-u, you, comyou, — Teacher. — Next. William [droivling']- — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, commu, t-a, ta, commuta, s-h-i-o-n, shun, commutation. Teacher. — William, you must get your lesson better the next time. AViLLiAM. — Please, ma'am, I have no book. Some- body stepi^ed on it, and the skin came off. Teacher. — The cover, you mean, don't you ? William. — No, ma'am, I mean the outside of the book, the skin. Teacher. — Well, what did you do with the inside of the book ? William. — Why, it looked so ugly, that one evening last week, as 1 went home, I threw it into the creek down there. Teacher. — You deserve a good whipping; but we must continue the spelling. Patrick, you spell ? Patrick. — Plase, mar'm and I don't know the w-u-r-r-d. Teacher. — James, spell. James. — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, t-a, ta, t-i-o-n, tion, commutation. Teacher. — That is right ; go up. James [goes vp and Williain h^ps him.2. — Teacher, Bill Smith tried to throAV me down. Teacher. — William, you will take your seat. John, do you spell the next word, molasses. John. — M-o, mo, [smacks his lips'] m-o, mo, [smacks them still louder'] m-o-l-e, mole [still smacking.] Teacher. — What is the matter ? John. — I can't spell that word ; it's too sweet. Teacher. — Josiah, you can spell it. JosiAH [ivhose head, has been turned in an opposite di' rection, now faces the teacher, and sjjells sloivly]. — S-u, Bu, g-a-r, gar, sugar. Teacher. — That is not the word. JosiAH [slowly]. — Why, John said it was so sweet he SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 123 oould not possibly spell it, and I thought he meant sugar. Teacher. — I don't believe you are paying attention. Caleb. — Teacher, I know how to spell the word. Teacher. — Spell it, then. Caleb [^very earne.'iQ. — C-a-n,can, d-y, dy, candy. [He goe>: up.'] Teacher. — Hold on; that is not the word. Go back to your place. You all deserve to be punished severely for your neglect in preparing this lesson, and your indif- ference in the recitation. Let me hear you define a few words. Henry, what is the meaning of the word exter- minate ? Henry. — Exterminate, means that natural reflection subsiduary upon longitudinal molusc, when the conspi- cuous generality of ideas, encompass the plausibility consequent upon the gelatinous machinations of pneu- matics, during the precise admonitions of an avaricious duadecagon : or, in other words, the incompi-ehensible gyrations of antiquated logarythms, when in a state of lubricating gymnastics, produced from the exhilarating effervescence of hydraulic aspirations, flowing from the ambiguous castigations in the colossal amphitheatre of redundant asseverations, while renewing the categorical receptacles of an ignited concatenation. Teacher. — Very well done, Henr}^ ; I am pleased to see that you studied the lesson so well. Michael. — Teacher, I don't exactly understand about that avaricious duodecagon. Teacher. — Henry, please explain those words for the satisfaction of the class. Henry. — "Why, an avaricious duodecagon. simply means a black spotted cat with a long white tail. Teacher. — Now, Samuel, brighten up. and give me a short definition of the word procrastination. Samuel. — Well, the literal meaning is systematically that phenomena of auxiliarv conceptions, which by their egotistical perplexities affiliate with the aromatic plausi- bilities of an analytical stove-pipe, that has for its ori- gin the unavoidable periphery b^' which it is metamor- phosed into an exaggerated chrysalis of oleaginous in- visibility. 124 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Teacher. — That is excellent. I knew there was some- thing in you, if only the right method was taken to extract it. The audience will readily see the import- ance of pupils being thoroughly conversant with Ian* guage, so that they will be able at all times to dissemi- nate that liojht amono- those around them, which shouHl Oct ' cliaracterize the enlightened era in which we live, ^^ow, boys, we will close the lesson for the present, hoping that 3^ou are all more sensibly impressed with your duties. Continue in the course you have commenced, and you will become great men and women. \_Boys leave in confusion.'] THE TWO TEACHERS. CHARACTERS. Clara, a faithful teacher, who loves the employment. Lizzie, one who disUkes teaching. Scene. A Scliool-room. Clara stands by a desk read- ing, while a group of little ones are preparing to leave. Before they go, they take an affectionate leave of the Teacher. [Lizzie enters hastily, as if she had been walking a long distance.'] Clara [^starting forivard]. — Why, good afternoon, Lizzie! Your school must have been out early; for now it is only half past four, and you teach four miles away. I expected you to-night, but not so soon. Lizzie. — I dismissed school a little after three. There ! you needn't look so terrified ! I guess the scholars SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 125 were glad enough to get away. I am sure I was ! Oh ! it'^did. seem so good to get out in the pure, fresh air, away from the noise of the children. But come, Clara, let us dismiss such dismal things as school, scholars, and teaching, from our minds. Let us " drive dull caro away" with song. [Tahing a singing book and sifting doivn.'] Dear me, I'm so tired I I am glad there's no school to-morrow ! Let us sing, " Bain on the Boof " You sing alto and I will soprano [_sounding Jceyl Clara \Jio.If impatiently']. — iS'o, not now, Lizzie, please ; I want to talk a little while. Lizzie. — Well, my dear, I suppose you are going to lecture me. Proceed ! I'll bear all your good talk with the patience of a martyr. [Folding her hands demurely.'] Clara [_soherly.] — By what you said of your f. Meeks. Teacher. Hall. — Say, Swain, who, tliat is now in this school, will make the greatest figure in the world ? Do you think there is one that will ever be President of the United States ? Swain. — Your questions. Hall, are easier asked than answered. You know as w^ell as I who are the best scholars, who are the best in the ball alley, and who are the most popular every where about the school. Hall. — Do you believe there is one that will ever be a member of Congress, a governor of some State, or even a member of the Legislature ? Swain. — I do not know about that. Time often brings about wonderful things. Lincoln never attended as good a school as this ; and perhaps I might say the same of Washington. But these great and good men made the best use of such opportunities as were in their reach. They were more studious than some in this school. Hall.— Now, Swain, I know that you intend to be something in the world ; what would you like best to be? Swain. — I think that I shall be well satisfied with farming. Hall. — What I with all the scientific learning that you will acquire in [Jiere use the name of the school where this piece is spoken,'] and perhaps a college course besides, and A. M. attached to3^our name, would you then condescend to be nothing but a country clod- hopper ? Swain. — Don't speak in such disrespectful terms of that business which is the main source of every bodj^'s living. Before you talk so, learn to live without eating or wearing any thing that has grown on a farm. Some of our best men have been farmers. Some of the best governors and members of Congress have been invite*? 170 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. to those exalted positions from rural homes. When a man is thus honorably promoted from a secluded home, if he have the benefit of a good scientific and literary education acquired in his youth at some good institution, how great his advantage ! And then no one leads a more honorable and independent life than the farmer. If he be a scholar, and take delight in scientific and literary pursuits, he can find entertain- ment with his books, while his crops are growing. Think of Washington, who, after gaining the independ- ence of his country and aiding in establishing a new form of government, then retired from public life and engaged in agriculture. Hall. — I see the force of your reasoning. \^Enter Dean.'] Dean. — What now, Swain ? you seem to be giving a touch of the sublime ! Swain. — I was just setting forth some of m^^ ideas about farming as a business. Hall. — Yes, Dean, and he has almost persuaded me to be a farmer. Dean. — It would be well if many people who are look- ing to some profession that they imagine will be genteel and dignified could be altogether persuaded to be satis- fied with life on a farm; even some now in this institu- tion. Hall.- — Do you include me in that list ? Dean. — I mean no personalities, but future time and circumstances will disclose what position you and others in this school are best adapted to fill. Hall. — Now, since the subject is fairly opened, tell me. Dean, what business would you like best ? Dean. — I'll tell 3^ou some time. [Enter Sleeks."] Meeks. — Talking about business, are you ? well, then, let me join your company, and hear some of j^our ideas about the pursuits of life. * Swain. — All right, Meeks, what have j^ou in view? Meeks. — I am not yet fairl}^ decided about that. I intend first to get a good education, and tlien see what prospect opens for me. What do j^ou intend to do, Hall ? Hall. — I intend to graduate ; then pitch into legal SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 171 studies, and after practicing law for a few years, I will aim for going to Congress. Dean. — It will be well for you, if your means are equal to the wants of 3'our ambition. You may very much miss your aim. Hall. — You know the sajnng — " He who aims at the ftun ma}" not reach his object, but he will be likely to shoot higher than if he aimed at something on the earth. ' So if I never reach the Senate, I shall expect to attain some position higher than common life. Dean. — You would do well to bear in mind the fact that some of our would-be-great men have used them- selves up in just such ambitiotis schemes as 3^ou now entertain, and then did not attain the grand object of their wislies. If every man went to Congress that wishes to go, TVashington City would not hold them all; but if none were allowed to go, but such as are well qualified, I believe that there would be many vacant places in the Capitol. Meeks. — Hold on, or you may discourage him in his grand projects. Dean. — Well, then, I will change the subject. I sup- pose that yon look to the ministry. Meeks. — I will not say that I do, nor that I do not. I intend, after graduating, to proceed as Providence opens the way. Swain. — That is sensible, Meeks. I hope the right thing for you will soon be opened to you. Hall. — If he looks to the ministry, why not decide on it now, and then look to the pastorship of a good church, or perhaps a bishoprick ? Swain. — Time enough to think about that after a few years of successful pastorship in a common church, or a few years of circuit-riding. He might be xerj useful in either capacity. Dean. — Well, it takes all kinds of people to fill the world. We must have farmers, mechanics, merchants, and professional men. All are useful in their places. Hall. — The most of our students are looking to some of the learned professions. I suppose that I shall have the pleasure of calling 3'ou Doctor Dean sometime. Dean.- -Wait till you see that on my sign, and 172 SCKOOLDAY DIALOGUES. the emblems of a physician's office in my windows. l^Unter teacher.^ Teacher. — Young gentlemen, I have overheard a part of your conversation about the choice of business. A judicious choice in this particular will be one of the greatest things of yonr lives. If you wish for some of my ideas about it I will tell yon what they are with pleasure. Meeks. — I would like to hear you. All the others. — Go on I Speak on I Teacher. — I believe that all persons are designed to be useful in some way ; and every person in his pupil- age should strive to ascertain what this particular voca- tion is likely to be. Your studies should develop your abilities and capacities, and your learning should qualify you for future usefulness, and for living in such a way that the world will be the better for what you shall have done in your lifetime. A man's life is a failure when after his death it can be only said of him that the world has not been benefited by his having lived in it. Consider now the character of the different pursuits of life, and what is necessary for success in each of them ; and your ability and adaptation in them, as well as their respec- tive uses ; then ma}^ you expect to learn where and how you can be most appropriately employed. It is wise to trust in Providence. When -^^our merits and your ac- quirements become well known, you may be invited to some dignified and honorable position in church or state that you do not now anticipate. To whatever 3''ou look do not despise labor. Farmers and mechanics are the bone and sinew of a nation. They should be educated as well as any others ; they, too, can enjoy scientific and literary pursuits as well as any people. Do not despise labor because you have a scientific education. Do not foist yourselves into some of the learned professions because they appear to you genteel and dignified. Some of them are now too much crowded. The Chris- tian ministry is truly a noble and glorious calling. It may not advance you t,o wealth, but by it you will do good for your fellow-beings, and have the blessing of heaven to rest upon you. Other professions and all trades look mainly to the acquisition of wealth ; and I SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 173 need not now speak of the demoralizing influence of in- ordinate ambition for this. But I will remind 3'ou that a rational education will counteract this and all other evil Influences in the different vocations of life. It is not for me to dictate what should be your chosen vocation, but your natural inclination, your acquired learning, and the judgment of your wise friends wlio will sometime see your merits, will direct you to the place that you should fill. Young gentlemen, I now leave the subject with you ; think about it and act ac- cording the best of your judgment. \_Exit Teacher.'] Dean. — There, fellows, what think you. now about choosing a trade or a profession ? Swain. — The more I think of agriculture as an employment, the more interest I feel in it. I en- dorse the language of my favorite poet : — "Oh, knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he ! who far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, Drinks the pure pleasures of the Rural Life." That's the life for me. [^Exit Swain.'] Meeks. — As for me, I hope to see my way to honor and usefulness when I finish my scientific studies But now I feel an inward monition that says, Live not in vain ! Live to do good ! But I can not now say much about it. [Exit Meeks.] Hall. — Swain and Meeks seem to be quite set on leading a humble career ; and how eagerly they swal- lowed the teacher's discourse ! Dean. — They take quite a common sense view of trades and professions. What do you think now about your schemes ? Hall. — Not discouraged ! A few years after I graduate at [here use the name of some college often talked about where this piece is spoken] perha}>s you will hear from me. Dean. — When you reach the pinnacle of your glory, 7"omember those who were once your fellow-learners in this school, and then come and Adsit me in my humble abode. [Exeunt.] 174 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. CHILD-PHILOSOPHY. LiLLiE. — I shan't stand it ! I wont ! I do declare 1 It is the most absurd thing I ever knew ! If it is not enough to provoke a saint ! ! MiNA. — What is that, Lillie ? Did you say you were going to be a saint ? Lillie. — No ! any thing but that I MiNA. — Why 1 Did you not sa}^ you felt like a saint? Lillie. — How should I know how saints feel ? It is bad enough to feel like one's self, and I know that I feel very much provoked ! MiNA. — Why, that is funny ! Lillie. — Well, I don't see any fun in it ! MiNA. — But, see here, Lillie ; tell me what Lillie. — Don't talk to me ! I am too much vexed! MiNA. — But, Lillie, do tell me — what has annoyed you so much — come ! What is it ? You will tell me ? Won't you ! Lillie. — Why ! people treat me so ! I MiNA. — Do they ? That is too bad I What have they done ? Lillie. — Why, they think at our house that I am nothing but a little snip of a girl I They think they can say any thing to me ! I am of no consequence at all ! And here I am, nearly ten years old ! And yon see how very tall, and womanly looking I am ! I think it is abominable ! I MiNA. — Well, so it is, Lillie I Lillie. — Oh, yes I I must be good ! I must not be rude I I must do every thing, just so 1 and yet, when I want any thing — Oh ! I am only a little girl 1 1 MiNA. — It is too bad I Lillie. — Don't you tell any body, Mina ! There is my sister Bell — (now, if she is a young lady, why shouldn't I be ?) She went off to Saratoga with trunks full of dresses and mantles and shawls, waterfalls, Gre- cian curls, nets, (oh, beauties !) two new bracelets, em- broideries, handkerchiefs, and all kinds of bright ribbons, and every thing nice ! — and I SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUE^. 175 MiNA.^But Bell is eight j^ears older than you are, you know ? LiLLiE. — That is nothing! Age has nothing to do with it ! If it had, why doesn't mother go off and dress and ride and have good times ? But here I am, ex pected to behave like a lady, and I ought to be treated like one ! MiNA. — Well, is that all? Have you told me all your troubles ? LiLLiE. — No ! not half I There is my brother George, ne talks to me as if I was good for nothing but waiting on other people. Just a little mite ! Calling out Lillie, here ! or, Lillie, there ! Bring me this ! or, bring me that ! I don't mind running up and down stairs for him, and helping him, for he is real nice, and bringing him his slippers and his papers and his dressing-gown and his cigars and his cane and his books and his Florida water ! But then, why doesn't he take me out riding with him in his new wagon ? Why doesn't he ask me to walk in the park ? Why don't I sit up late at night in the parlor ? I think I deserve it — don't you ? MiNA. — Why don't you speak to your brother and sister, and tell them how you feel ? Lillie. — Yes! That is just what tries me so! George gives me a paper of candy, and says I look so small — • that it sounds cunning to hear me talk ! And Bell says, Pshaw I child ! run away, and play with your dolls ! You must not think about such things for years to come 1 MiNA, — What does your mother say ? Lillie. — Oh ! mother says I am only making trouble for myself — that these are my happiest days. But, dear me ! how can that be ? MiNA. — I guess she is right, Lillie ! That is just what my mother says ! Lillie. — Well, I don't believe it ! If people mean what they sa}^, why don't they act it? If they are hap- piest at home, why don't they stay at home ? If fine clothes are such a care and trouble, why do they have them ? If sitting up late at night injures their health, why don't they go to bed at eight o'clock, like me? If jellies, and creams, and pickles are so very good for older people, I don't see how they can be so very bad 176 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. for me ? Oh, I don't think a few years ought to make such a difference ! And I tell you I am not going to stand it I It is not right I If I am nothing but a child, let me act as a child I And if I am a little woman, then treat me as a woman ; and I shall never be satis- fied until they do ! THE NOBLEST HERO. DRAMATIS PERSPN^. Mr. Manly, the schoolmaster. Mrs. Truman. Frank Truman, Joe Martin, Henry Morley, [ Scholars. Clark Richmond, Lewis Hermann, Scene 1 . — School-room, class standing. Mr. M. — Now, boys, I promised you a new study for Monday, and as it is Friday I will give you the sub- ject now. It is — What Constitutes the 'J'rue Hero — and you ma}^, if you choose, give an example of the no- blest hero of whom you have ever read. Frank. — May we ask our friends about it, or must we find out for ourselves ? Mr. M. — I prefer that you should find out for your- selves. Henry. — We may look in books, may n't we ? Mr. M. — Certainly. Any books which you can find to give you any light upon the subject. It is the hour for dismissal; put away your books, and when you come out be sure to lock the door. [Uxit Mr. M.'] Clark. — Who under the sun is the greatest hero ? I can't guess. Lewis. — You're not expected to guess, 3'ou're to think. Joe. — It is not very hard. I think I know mine already. Frank. — I should know mine if I thought Mr. Manly SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 177 meant what we are thinking of. But he smiled so oddly when he told us the subject, that I suspect he means more than we think he does. Clark. — Well, come home ; we can talk it over after- ward. I am as hungrj^ as I can be. \_Exit all.'\ SoENE 2. — A parlor simply furnished. Mrs. Trumon and Frank Truman sitting at a table. Frank in dec]) thought. Frank. — Mother ! Mrs. T. — Well, Frank ! what is it ? You seem to be more thoughtful than usual. Frank. — Yes, mother ; because our new teacher gave us such a queer subject for our lesson next Monday morning. Mrs. ^T.— Well, what was it, Frank ? Frank. — It was — What Constitutes a True Hero — and 1 c ann ot make up my mind ; and we are not per- mittedjSlMask anybody. Mrs! T [smiling']. — Well, Frank, then I am afraid I can not help you. Frank [leaning his head on his hand, thinks ; but suddenly jumping up exclaims]. — I have it ! I have it, mother! [Runs from, the room.] Mrs. T.. — I am sure I hope he has, as he has tried so hard. [Exit Mrs. T.] Scene 3. — Monday morning, the street before the school- house. Enter Henry and Lewis at opposite doors. Henry. — Well, Lewis, have you your hero ? Lewis. — Yes, indeed, Henry. It did not take me long to think who I should have. Henry. — Well ! where are the others ? It seems to me they'll be late if they don't hurry. [Enter Frank, Clark, and Joe.] Lewis. — Here they are ! Good-morning ! .Ice. — Got your hero, Lou? Lewis [slapjnng his jacket]. — Yes, all right; safe here in my pocket. Clark. — He must be a precious small hero if he is in that pocket. 12 178 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Lewis. — He may turn out bigger than yoiiis, who knows ? though he is in such a small space. Eeank. — Yes, Lou is right ; it is not always the largest bundle which contains the most valuable article. lUnter Mr. M.'] Henry. — Well, here is Mr. Manly. Mr. M, — Good-morning, boys ! All. — Good-morning, sir. Mr. M. — I hope your heroes are all chosen ? All. — Yes, sir ; we are all ready. \_Exeunt all.'] Scene 4. — School-room. Boys seated. Mr. M. — Well, boys, I'll call upon each in turn for his idea of what constitutes a hero, and for your chosen one. Well, Joe, you may speak first. Joe. — I think, sir, that heroes should have great tal- ents, and should never be afraid of any one ; but should conquer all their enemies. Mr. M. — Well, certainly, you are quite right, as far as you go ; but have you not omitted any thing ? Joe. — I could not think of any other necessary quality, sir. Mr. M. — Well ! we will hear what the others say ; bat who is your hero ? Joe. — Alexander the Great. Mr. M. — Truly you have chosen a great conqueror ; but I am afraid he lacks some qualities which I should wish m}^ hero to have. Now, Clark, tell us your defini- tion. Clark. — I think, sir, that a hero should be generous and forgiving; but, at the same time, firm and un- daunted, and should love his country more than his life. And I have chosen Washington. Mr. M. — Very wejl, indeed, Clark, your definition is good, and your choice is a noble one. Now, let us hear Henry. Henry. — I, sir, have chosen Cromwell ; but I fear he is not the right kind of ^ hero, as I think he fought for himself quite as much'ifor the liberty of the English from Charles the First's tyranny, though I did not think of that before Clark spoke. Mr M. — I believe you are right, Henry, though it is SCTIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 179 a disputed point whettier he did all for himself or not. Xow, Lewis, who is your hero ? Lewis. — I, sir, chose Washington, but as Clark has taken him, I will choose Abraham Lincoln, who was so kind and merciful, so just and good that he can stand side b^' side with Washington in our love and respecl. Mr. M. — Very well, indeed, Lewis. I am much jdeased that you should have chosen him. Xow, Frank, tell us your thoughts, we have heard all the rest. Frank. — I, sir, thought for a long time over all the heroes of ancient times, but none suited me ; they ai wanted something. Then I thought of the Bible verse : "He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty ; and he that ruleth his spirit than he thattaketh a city." I took that as n^definjtion, and I add to it generosity, self-devotion, ancWHfcsacrifice. Mr. M. — Truly, Frank, you are right. Yor [twrning to the audience, 2 "The noblest Hero of the whole Is he who can himself control." [^Exeunt omnes.^ WOMEN'S EIGHTS. CHARACTERS. Five Boys. Polly Simpsox, a tall, slender spinster. Nancy Lawrence, a strong-minded lady. Granny SnaiTL, a slender spinster, with a blue cotton handker- chief bound tightly around her head, and tied in a bow knot behind. Simon Yilderblows, a small, inferior-looking old bachelor. [All seated near a desk, excepting the boys, who are in the back part of the house.] Polly Simpson [rising^. — The first thing in order will be to choose some one to preside over this meeting. I nominate Sister Snarl for president. Nancy Lawrence. — I second the nomination. Polly Simpson. — It is moved and seconded that Sis- 180 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. ter Snarl be president of this meeting. If this be yer minds, please manifest it by saying aye. All. — Aye ! aye ! Polly Simpson. — 'Tis a vote. Sister Snarl will now take the desk. \_Granny now marches to the desk, while Polly takes a seat at her elbow.'] Granny Snarl. — Sister Simpson will now read ye the resolutions. Polly Simpson [^rises and reads'], — Resolved, That the awful state our country is in, bids us wimmen folks do something right off. Resolved, That as, under the present rule of the men, we are already in a deplorable condition, which grows worse and worse every day, we wimmen folks will take matters in hand, seize the reins of government, and make better steerage than they do. Resolved, That to put a stop to this war, and to make peace, which shall be thorough and endurable, and to bring down vittals and things, so as not to have so many paupers for the town to support, we will go to the bal- lot-box at the next annual town-meeting, and elect, if possible, competent women to take charge of the public business. Granny Snarl. — If it be yer minds to accept these, you'll please say aye. All. — Aye ! aye ! GraNxVY Snarl. — It's a vote. Sister Simpson will now continue her remarks. Polly Simpson [^hemming and bowing, and clearing her throat, proceeds to speak]. — Fellow-citizens : This is an awful state that our country is in just now, and every thing is growing worse and worse. Goods, and such like, are so dreadful high that we'll soon be vmable to live at all, and it's all owing to the mismanagement of the men folks. Now, if we wimmen folks take things in hand, and follow these resolutions, things will soon get to going straight along, and then decent folks can live. The men folks have mismanage d\X\Q business long enough, but the wimmen folks must manage it hereafter. Granny Snarl. — Mrs. Lawrence will now express her views of the subject. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 181 Kancy Lawrence. — You all know tbat what Sister Simpson has said is true Our country is in a deplorable condition, just on account of the mismanagement of the men folks now-a-days. Why, when my first husband, Mr. Whitecomb, was alive, I was happ}^ and had the good times. Ah ! I then had a kind companion ; he knew how to manage an' keep all strings a-pullin\ But times, alas ! have changed. I now have to look out, not only for number one, but for number two, also. I have to work like a dog, an' see to all the business myself, 'cause if I didn't every thing'd go to rack and ruin. It's no use to arguefy the p'int — no use at all — some- thing's got to be done, and that something right straight off, as Sister Simpson says. I've no more to sa}-. Let deeds, not words, be our battle-cry. Granny Snarl. — We will now hear what Mr. Yilder- blows has to say on the subject. Simon Vilderblows. — Things is going on to ruin as fast as they can go, fellow-citizens, an' I'm most dread- fully afeard it's owing, as has been told you, to the mis-' management of us men folks. I, for one, approve of letting the women rule. Do this, and my word for't, things will get cheaper, and poor folks like us'll have some chance to live. Yes, my friends, pork is gettin* to be monstrous high. Bimeby w^e shan't have enough to put into baked beans, and then what shall we do ? I don't know what we shall do unless wc put in intch-knots instid of pork. Western pork, they say, is fattened on rattlesnakes, and who wants to eat serpents 'long o' their tea an' coffee ? As to raising our own pork, why, corn, p'taters, an' sich like, is so awful dear and skerse, that if it so happens we do have a little to spare, we're obliged to take it to buy West Injee goods, and so forth. Then if we kill our hogs in the full of the moon, it'll shrink, you know, and there, again, is a loss. I raised a nice spring pig this year, and t'other day, as we's most out o' meat, and he'd got to be fat's a poirpoise, I thought best to kill him. So I put on the water a-heat- in', got the scaldin' tub au' other things ready. Well, says I to John, my hired man, it's now full moon, an' some say'f you kill hogs on the full they won't shrink. But, however, says I, bein's tbe moon's so fur off, I'm 182 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. pesky afeard she wont ke^p the pork from shrinking. But, John, there's one thing I do know, sa3^s I, and that is, if we scald him at just high tide, he wont lose an ounce by skrinkin'. Yes, says John, I know this to be true, for I've often seen it tried. Well, sii3^s I, I tell you what I'll do, John ; I'll let my sister — 3'ou know my sister, Widder Small, fellow-citizens, what keeps house for me — I'll let her take the almanac, an' watch the clock, an' when it's just high water, she'll sing out, an' we'll stick and souse the critter. So, to suit me, Sis- ter Small stuck a mark in our almanac — your old Rob- ert B.'s — where it told the high tide, an' took her station at the door. Well, when 'twas about high tide, John and I lugged out the water to the tub, an' caught the hog. Pretty soon Sister Small sings out " High tide 1" 'Pon that I stuck him with a butcher-knife and he bled like a serpent. In with him, sa3'^s I. We then give him a rousin' scaldin' an' dressed an' weighed him. Well, next day I weighed him agin, an', dear me ! don't you think, lie^d shrunk ten pounds and a half! Something's to pay, says I. Into the house I hurried, and says I, Sister, get me the almanac, and let me see where you found, where't tells high water. The almanac was got. I looked into it where she'd put a mark, an' as true's my name is Simon Vilderblows, if she hadn't made a mistake an' got a last year's one ! This explains it all, sa3's I, and I've lost jest ten and a half pounds of nice, sweet pork by sister's not been keerful 'bout lookin' at the date. The schoolmaster happening along I told him my misfortins, an' he only smiled and said 'twas done by evaporation. I told him he had better stick to his Alh-ega, an' not talk of what he did'nt know nothing about. My friends, I've nothing more to sa3^ I feel that we are in a good cause, an' desarve success. Polly Simpson [/-mnc/]. — I should be pleased to hear something from our president. Sister Snarl, can't you say something for the good of the cause ? Granny Snarl. — Men folks, women folks, an' feller- citizens greetin ! \_She stops and blows her nose with a ragged red pocket-handkerchief when the hoys roar aloud.^ Stop yer larfin' up there'n the back seat 1 Ye Ain't but little better than heathen ! Wont some one SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 183 that's a friend to woman's rights go an' larn them tar- nups what manners is, an' stop their disturbin' this meetin' ? Simon Yilderblows. — I hope you boys will be civil there on the back seat. Granny Snarl. — Feller-citizens, I would like to say a good deal, but you see I've got a terrible cold [^she coughs'] ; got it a killin' my hog, which, by the way, was a buster, for he weighed two hundred and thirty pounds arter he's dressed and his liver taken out. Hogs like that are skerse in these diggins, you'd better believe [the boys laugh]. There now ! it's jest as Sister Simpson has often said, the risin' gineration is an awful set of bein's. They don't know a mite better than to come to sech a solemn an' interestin' meetin' as this an' laif, un' haw haw, an' hee hee, jests if 'twas a circus, panorandle, or nigger concert. I've been afeared all along that if we wimmen folks didn't take the reins in our own hands there'd be war an' bloodshed an' every thing else that's bad. And jest what I'se afeard on has come to pass ; we've got inter trouble with our mother country, an' dear only knows when 'twill eend. I haint had a good dish o' Young Hyson this six months ; an' what's more, I never shall, unless we wimmen folks rise rite up an' let em know who's who and what's what. Then, as Sister Simpson, an' Sister Lawrence, and Brother Yilderblows have jest said, coffee's riz, sweetening's riz, an' every thing else we have to buy has riz accordingly ; and, fel- low-citizens, they'll keep goin' up, till bimeby we shall be on the town, and then who'll take keer o' the poor ? And what's to be done ? methinks I hear ye all ax. I'll tell 3'e what's to be done. Let the wimmen take charge on the government, put in some good lady, like Sister Simpson, here, for Town Clark, an' sech wimmen as Sis- ter Lawrence for Seleckmen and then if the men folks wants any of the small offices, sech as hog-reef or sur- veyor, why, vve'll let 'em have 'em provided they'll swear to support the constitution of the United States. Do this, and you'll see how quick sugar, molasses, and other West lujee goods would come down! 1 shan't ask for any office myself, 'cause I haint got much of a school edication, and I don't want to take sech responsibility 184 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. on my poor shoulders : but then 3^e know my vote'll tell. Now, something has got to be done right a way — the sooner the better, Sister Simpson an' myself have talked the matter over and made up our minds to do some- tliing. Boy. — The President will pardon my interruption, I rise to move that a contribution be taken up to defray the expenses of this meeting. Another boy. — I second the motion. Granny Snarl. — Yer real kind, ye be! We'll now take a vote. All who's in favor of passin' round the hat to git money to pay for firewood, lights, an' sech like, will please say aye. All. — Aye ! aye ! Granny Snarl. — 'Tis a vote, sartin's the world. The gentleman who's so kind as to think of payin' expenses^ will he please carry round the hat, while Sister Simpson reads that little ditty she's writ for the occasion ! [Boy takes round the hat.'] Sister Simpson will now deliver the ditty. It's proper nice I kin tell ye, I've heard it once. Polly Simpson [reads in a loud, sharp voicel ODE IN BEHALF OP WIMMENS RIGHTS. The men are real obstrogolus, They wont mind their own biz- Iness, and that's the reason why That tea and lasses both has riz : And every thing that we do eat, And every thing that we do wear, Have got to be so awful high — What shall w^e do, I do declare ! Molasses once was four and six ; But now two dollars we must give ; And liquor, too, is such a price That tavern-keepers scarce can live ; And when last Sunday I'se at church, I heard Parson Jenkins in his Sermon say, that flour and corn, And ev(fry kind of thing has riz. ' Now don't you see the reason is The men are so obstropolus — They will not let tlie wimmen vote, And things; is growing worse and worse. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 18'5 Now, we must rise and let 'em know What our rights be : and then, I guess, That all kinds of West Ingee goods In prices will grow less and less ! Now we have all met here to-night — ■ Sisters Lawrence, Snarl and I, And Mr. Yilderblows, and all The rest of us — to see and try To lay some plan to ease our lot And make things cheap, and make a law, Whereby all fighting shall be stopped, And never have another war. Now every woman that does live In any part of Greensboro,' Must rise on next town meeting day, And to the ballot-box must go : And then must vote — and then, I guess. Once more will have a good, brisk biz- Iness, and shall no longer hear, That every kind of thing has riz. [ The hoy who carried round the hat, now deposits its contents on the desk (contents being a promiscuous mixture of buttons, nails, chips, and just five large coppers), and says to the President ;] Boy. — The amount of money is not so great as I hoped to get, but still there's sufficient to pay the ex- pense of oil and candles. And here let me say, I feel assured, that when the community shall awaken to a full sense of the importance of the glorious cause in which you, our honored President, and your patriotic colleagues, have so nobly engaged, they will rally around 3^our bright banner, and put forward this great work toward its final consummation. That your praiseworthy and disinterested eflTorts may be crowned with ultimate success, is the heartfelt hope of your humble servant. — . \_Bowing, retires.'] Granny Snarl. — Bless ye! you're a noble-hearted creetur I \_Putting the money in her pocket, and with her hand sweeping the buttons, etc., off the desk.~\ If all the men-folks was sich as you be, there 'd be no need of us wimmen-folks takin' matters in hand. Polly Simpson. — The President had better put the funds in the hando of the collector, and let him settle the 186 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. bills. He has already proved himself an honest and patriotic soul. Let him be our treasurer, by all means. Granny Snarl. — Oh, I kin take keer on the funds myself Polly Simpson. — But 'twould be better to do as I have suggested. Granny Snarl. — I tell ye I kin take keer of it m\ - self Polly Simpson. — I know you'd take care of it, and 11 such a way as wouldn't benefit the society. Granny Snarl. — What's that I D'ye think I'm in- clined to cheat the public ? [Granny shakes her fist.'] Polly Simpson. — 1 haint said it. Granny Snarl. — Well, ye mean it, if ye haint said it. Polly Simpson. — Yes, madam, I do mean it, and say it, too. I wouldn't trust you any further than T can see you. I've heard, 'fore now, of people's stealin' lard and flax ; but I wont call names, for that aint my natur. Granny Snarl. — Yer a miserable, low-lived, sharp- nosed, old scamp I You not only want wimmen's rights in gineral, but ye mean to take away my rights, too. Accuse me of stealin' right afore folks,, do ye ? I'll fix ye, you old Satin, one o' these days ! Nancy Lawrence. — I call the house to order ! Granny Snarl. — Better call that old pirate to order I Polly Simpson. — I call the president to order ! Granny Snarl. — Call me to order, hey ? Now comes the time for reckonin' old lady ! [springing toward Folly.] All. — Order ! order ! order ! All. — Adjourn ! adjourn ! adjourn I THE ORPHAN'S TRUST. Scene. — A gipsy camp in the background. A young girl discovered in the act of withdrawing her hand from that of the Gipsy Queen. Gipsy. — Not care to know your future, blue-eyed maiden? Who lovefi you, vjham you love, and whom shall wed? What laces, satins, jewels, he will ^^ivu you ; What acres, palaces and rentals, leave you; SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 187 How rich must be her thoughts, how treasure-laden ; To crowd such common hopes and dreams from that young, golden head ! Maiden. — Ah ! gipsey, but I love ! I love, dark sister ! The hand I worship robed this earth with bloom : His glory clothes each far off, wandering planet ; Yet loving eyes in tiniest flowers may scan it, And, with sweet fervency of heart, adore ! Thus my sweeet mother taught me; living, dying: And, passing hence, so wide she left the door Of that fair upper world, I scarce have missed her, Or grieved her 'midst the songs of Heaven with crying: So smiles Our Father's grace, e'en on the darksome tomb I Gipsy. — Thrice happy maid ! my love is all unneeded, Where faith and love like thine, assure the heart ! Yet deem by sooth, for common human feelings. Your starry gems have true and bright revealings. And, though full oft, through idle scorn unheeded, The voice of God and fate, speaks through my mystic art I MRS. SMITH'S BOARDER. CHARACTERS. George Washington Wiggins. Mrs. Jane Sm/th. Scene. — A room in Mrs. Smithes boarding-house. George Washington Wiggins discovered. Wiggins. — Well, I'm getting considerably in debt, and something must be done to raise the wind. Here's my new coat not paid for, and my pantaloons are get- ting somewhat seedy. I got a hole knocked in my hat t'other day, and I ought to have a new one ; but, reall}^ I can't see how I'm going to raise the money to pur- chase the desired article. Beside this, Mrs. Smith is continually growling about her board bill; and, really, that is a little bill I ought to settle. I certainly w^ould fork ever if I had the tin, but where 's the tin to come 188 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. from ? That's the question. I suppose the bill will amount to some forty or fift^^ dollars by this time, and if I don't square up, I may expect to be required to travel pretty shortly, and leave " ray bed and board," as the advertisements say. Something must be done, that's certain ! I guess I'll carry my watch to a pawn- l)roker's, and try to raise a little money for present purposes. [Knock at the door.^ Come in. [Enter Mr><. Smith.'] Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Smith ? Really, I am delighted to see you. Here, take this chair. Sit down, sit down ; never mind me, 1 can stand. [Mrs. Smith sits.] It gives me great pleasure, Mrs. Smith, to receive a friendly call from you. How is j^our rheumat- ism this morning ? Mrs. Smith. — Oh, somewhat better. But, Mr. Wig- gins, I have brought in your bill. I have no doubt you are prepared to liquidate it this morning? Wiggins. — Let me see it if j'ou please, Mrs. Smith. [ Takes bill and reads.] George Washington Wiggins, to Mrs. Jane Smith, Dr. To ten weeks board, at four dollars and fifty cents, forty-five dollars. Mrs. Smith. — All right, is it ? Wiggins. — Oh, yes, it's all right, I guess ; but really, Mrs. Smith, I am not prepared to settle up this morning. Mrs. Smith. — Not prepared ! Mr. Wiggins, didn't 3^ou say 3^ou would most certainly settle on Saturday morning, and isn't this Saturday morning? Wiggins. — Yes, Mrs. Smith, I must confess that this is Saturday morning, but this Saturday morning like last Saturday morning, finds me almost strapped, if I may be allowed to use that not very nice but very ex- pressive word. If 3^ou will bear with me a few days longer, my dear Mrs. Smith, I think I will be enabled to square up. Mrs. Smith. — A few days longer! That's what you said last week and the week before. But I want you to understand that I will not wait a few days longer. A few days longer, indeed ! That's exactly what you said one month ago, and what you have said every time since when I asked you to settle up. I tell you, Mr. Wiggins, I can't be expected to board people for nothing. It takes money to set my table and hire my cook j it takes SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 189 money to buy coal and oil and the thousands of other things necessaiy for keeping a boarding-house. Wiggins. — That's ver}^ true, Mrs. Smith ; xery true. 1 expect some money soon, and if you will give me one Areek more, I'll endeavor to settle in that time. Mrs. Smith. — Not another day, Mr. Wiggins! But I have a proposition to offer, which, perhaps, will stra"ghten matters. Wiggins. — Let us hear the proposition. Any thing to straighten matters will be listened to attentively by me. Mrs Smith. — Well, the offer I have to make, will en- tirely clear you of your indebtedness to me if 3^ou accept it. Wiggins. — Good, kind, indulgent Mrs. Smith ! What an amiable woman you are ! Let us have the offer. Make all possible haste and let us hear it. I would be a hardened wretch, indeed, to decline. Mrs. Smith. — Well, Mr. Wiggins, the proposition is that you consent to be my husband. Wiggins [^aside^. — Did mortal ever ! What's the world coming to ? Mrs. Smith. — I will confess, Mr. Wiggins, there is no great and undying love for you in my heart, such as young persons have, or imagine they have, when they think of entering the state of matrimony. I am not the least bit sentimental. The days of sentimentalism with me have passed away ; but I have come to the conclu- sion that I ought to have a husband. I find that it is very hard to oversee every thing about the house, and I know a man who understood his business would con- siderably lessen m}^ labors ; and, beside this, if I was married again, I would feel more contented and happy than I have felt since my dear Smith left me. Now, if you accept the offer, I will forgive you your debt and will give you your boarding free. You shall also have an allowance large enough to keep you in clothes and such nick-nacks as this [^pointing to his meerschaum']. But remember, I will expect yon to superintend the market- ing, do the carving, and take whatever labor off my hands I may wish. Wiggins laside']. — They say Mr. Smith led a very 190 SCHOOLBAY DIALOGUES. hen-pecked sort of a life, and I'm sure I'm not going to step into his shoes. [To 3frs. Smith,'] Really — I — I — ■ Mrs. Smith, I thank you for your flattering offer, but it is very unexpected — very. To tell the iruth, Mrs, Smith, it came like a clap of thunder from a clear sky. 1 would, therefore, like to have a few days to consider the matter. You know it is of the utmost importance that we consider well before we take a step that can never be retraced. I hope you will give me a few days to think the matter over, before I give my answer. Mrs. Smith. — And while 3^ou were thinking, you would be living at my expense. Not a day will 1 give you, Mr. Wiggins. Let me have your answer now, fair and square. If you reject the offer, I will send you to jail for debt inside of two hours. Wiggins [aside']. — Here's a fix! I'm cornered, and there seems to be no getting out. What an old dragon she is to think of sending me to jail, simply because I don't happen to have a little bit of filthy lucre about me. [To Mrs. Smith.] Well, Mrs. Smith, i'have thought the matter over, and have concluded to accept your very flattering offer. Mrs. Smith. — All right, Mr. Wiggins. I thought you would look at the matter in a proper light, and act as a sensible man. Wiggins. — But Mrs. Smith, you will not require the sacrifice — oh — ah — I beg pardon. You will not wish to make me the happy man for five or six months yet, will you? Mrs. Smith. — Five or six months ! Why, Mr. Wig- gins, I need you now I The marketing and all the other work is laborious, and I have been thinking for some time past, of hiring a man to attend to the things about the house. No, Mr. Wiggins, the matter can not be deferred so long. You may be prepared for the event in two weeks from next Tuesday. Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday ! [Aside.] Oh, dear! [To Mrs. Smith.] Why, Mrs. 'Smith, that will not give you time to get the new dresses, etc. Mrs. Smith. — New dresses, pooh ! I aint going to bother myself about new dresses. I've got an old black silk, whi^h, when it is fixed up a little, will look charm- SCHOOLDAY DIAX^OGUES. 191 ingly. But I must be down stairs again. Make your- self comfortable here, Mr. Wiggins, and remember the da3" of our wedding is two weeks from next Tuesday. [Exit 3Irs. Smith.'] Wiggins. — Two weeks from next Tuesday ! Isn't it awful to think of it ? Most men feel happy when the wedding-day is so near. I don't ! I'm a miserable dog. Now if it was onl}- Celesta Ann Jones I was going to be tied to in two weeks, I could bear it. In fact, 1 be- lieve I could place my hand on my heart and say I was the happiest fellow in creation. Can't do that now though 1 I'm a sacrificed man if I marry Mrs. Smith. But [with a sudden dete lamination'] I ivont marry her I How could I, when visions of hen-pecked husbands are continually floating before my eyes? How could I so far forget myself, as to leave m}^ darling Celesta Ann and jump into the sea of squalls with Mrs. Smith ? Can't do it — I wont do it ! But how am I going to help myself? That's the rub. Can't go to jail! Celesta Ann would never look at me again if I did; and, be- sides this, I'm too well raised to live on bread and water. I can't run away — it would be of no use. I would be nabbed before two days I I know Mrs. Smith's vindictive disposition wxU. She wouldn't allow me to escape — she would follow me to the ends of the earth. [After a pause.] I have it ! I'll act insane — I'll be overjoyed with the bargain — so much so, that reason will take her flight. Ha, ha ! aint I a lucky dog ? Now to commence. [ Takes off his coat and turns it ; after which he commences to shout, and kick the tables and chairs around.] Hello! hello! Mrs. Smith — Smith — Smith — - Mrs. Smith ! Fire, tire, thieves, fire, murder, fire, fire, murder! Mrs. Smith— Smith — Smith — Mrs. Smith- come quick ! Mrs. Smith [entering]. — Why, Mr. Wiggins, what's the matter? You frightened me. Where's the fire? Where's the thieves ? Wiggins. — George Washington Wiggins, the Presi- dent of the United States, speaks to you. Be very quiet. I have arrayed myself in a new coat — coat cost twenty- two dollars — and I am about to deliver m^^ inaugural. [Stands on a chair.] But, Mrs. Wiggins, that is to say, 192 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mrs. Smith, as used to be, I am a happj?- man. I am about to enter the state sometimes denominated matri- mony. It becomes me then, as the Emperor of France, to say that I think Mrs. Smith. — Keall3^ the man's demented. Mr. Wig- gins ! Mr. Wiggins ! what is the matter ? Do come down stairs and have a cup of tea ; it will do you good. [Aside.'] His mind isn't very strong when it's so easily upset. [To Mr. Wiggins.'] Come, Mr. Wiggins, you will ruin the furniture. Do come down and have a cup of tea. Wiggins.— Come down ! No, indeed ; not I ! "To this point V\\ stand," as Shakspeare says. I'm a mar- ried man row. and I'm not going to be coaxed and ruled by women. I'll show the world that I'm not a hen-pecked husband, such as the world believes me. I'll show the world that I'm no John Smith. I'll show the world, that when I say, " Mrs. Smith, go to market !" Mrs. Smith will go instantly. [_Becomes calmer.] Mrs. Smith, I am slightty nervous to-day. To tell the truth, I am so completely overjoyed at the prospect of becoming your husband, that it has caused reason to totter on her throne. Take care, Mrs. Smith, I feel it coming on again. Ladies and gentlemen, I appear before you this evening to debate the question, " Should woman have eqnal rights with man ?" and I find myself altogether unprepared to do the subject justice. [_Dances round the room.] Tol de dol de dol de do, tol de rol de dol de da. Mrs. Smith, will ,you honor me with your hand in the next dance ? I think it was time we were en- deavoring to thread the mazes of the graceful cotillion. Come on, Mrs. Wiggins — as is to be — come on, fair com- panion of my future life. Mrs. Smith \_aside]. — The man is completely insane. \_To Wiggins.] Do leave the house, Mr. Wiggins ; you will alarm the whole neighborhood. Wiggins. — Leave the house, Mrs. Smith! What do you mean ? Have you not consented to be my wife, and are we not to be married to-morrow? Mrs. Smith. — No, no, no ! I have no notion whatever of marrying you. Marry a crazy man ? Never I Do SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 193 be kind enough to leave the house, and I'll forgive you the debt. Wiggins. — Mrs. Smith, I couldn't think of it! Would you be so cruel as to wreck my happiness in this manner ? Didn't you promise to be my wife, and didn't you en- gage me to do the marketing? Mrs. Smith. — Yes, but I have changed my mind, and will remain single for a while. Come, hurry out of the house and I'll say no more about the board bill. Wiggins. — Thanks, thanks, Mrs. Smith; that board bill has weighed heavily on my mind for some time past. I will go, Mrs. Smith — and believe me, I part from you with feelings of sincere regret. [_Pretends to weep.^ I will send a boy for my baggage, and will come and foot the bill when my head gets a little more settled, and after I have succeeded in getting into some kind of business. But, Mrs. Smith, let us have a hop before I leave — come. Mrs. Smith [^aside']. — This fit is coming on him again, and he may become dangerous. Mr. Wiggins, do leave the house. Wiggins. — I'm going, madam ; I'm going. Tol de lol de lol de la. [Dances round the room — and exit.'] Mrs. Smith. — Well, it's lucky I've got him started. I'm glad I found him out as soon as I did. It would have been awful to have been tied for life to a crazy man. I've lost his board bill, but that's nothing in comparison with the trouble I would have endured had I married him. Wiggins [putting his head in the door]. — Never mind the board bill, Mrs. Wiggins. I'll make that all right some day. Mrs. Smith. — Well, well; all right. But hurry off, Mr. Wiggins, or you may take another spell. Wiggins. — No danger of that, Mrs. Smith ; but F'm off. Good-by. [Exit Wiggins.] ,„ [Curtain fdlls.'} ■H 194 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. LA TEUNE MALADE. [The daughter's part in this httle colloquy, is from the French of Andre Chenier. It is intended for peasant costumes of Normandy. The mother seated beside the chair of her sick daughter, is occupied in making lace.] Scene. — Enter Julie, a child of ten. Julie. — Good-evening, Marie I Marie. — Welcome, little coz. ! Mother. — Welcome, sweet child ! you come in a happy hour I Julie. — I've brought some flowers for Marie, auntie, dea,r. \_Julie fastens a spray of lily of the valley to Mfovie^s cap, and goes on to say^ : " Sweets to the sweet," " Herself the fairest flower." [^The little cousin here courtesies and trips away. Ilarie looks at the flowers, holds up a white rose and begins to speak.'] Marie. — See, mamma ! See this rose of stainless snow I Like this my cheek is chill and marble white : Thus droop my languid eyes, while my young brow From heaven's fair sunshine turns, and prays for night ' Because I feel the gall of vain desire, Well o'er my sick heart, like a veil of fire : Fainting and exiled here my footsteps rove ; God keep thee, mother ! we shall meet above I Mother. — Nay, darling ! Lay these gloomy thoughts aside I In May, our Greta comes, a blooming bride : Look forward love to joyous festal hour. When wearing wreaths of freshly-knotted flowers, With gleam of gold amidst thine auburn curls, Thou'lt walk a bridesmaid 'midst our loveliest girls. Marie. — These freshly-knotted flowers, this bracelet fair I clasped so proudly, the gay masque, the ball, Where whispered voices praised my step and air^ They chai-m no longer; smiles seem mockery all. My spirit trembles with the leaf that leaps Down where the still lake, lapped in silence, sleeps; My spirit flutters with the ascending dove: Adi/>u, sweet mamma ! I am thine above I SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 195 Mother. — Mine ever ! wliora to this fair home and me, To be ovir joy and pride, the Master gave ! 1 can not yield her from these arms of love. To the dark bosom of the gloomy grave ! Thou must not go, my darling ! young and bright With all youth's grace and charm, thou must not die i No heart is lonely in your worlds of light. And Heaven hath not such need of thee as I ! NIGHT AND MORNING. [Let Night be personated by a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl dressed in iDlack, wearing a crown of crescent and stars of silver, and a vail also spangled with stars. Let Morning be represented by a blue-eyed girl with blonde or golden hair, wearing a white dress with a sash of white and blue, with a necklace and bracelet of white beads and a garland of opening buds.] Night. — Canopied with shadows, and attended hy the fair moon and gentle stars, 1 come to earth, bringing dew for the flowers and rest for the weary. I am not silent, and my voices, though still and small, are doubly powerful. I have sheltered all the young birds in their nests, and childhood, forgetful of its mirth, has sunk into soft slumbers. The daylight toil is ended, and I have brought the father home to his loved ones. Beautiful, holy is my reign. A thousand ages gone men looked upon and loved my starlit countenance. On the far hills of Judea I dispensed visions of glory to watching shepherds and rapt prophets. How was I beloved by the parents of mankind when in the garden of Kden they slept in the blooming bowers of innocence! Then the stars sang together for joy, and tlie moon gleamed silvery soft on rock and tree, stream and fountain, and the fair, sweet face of Eve looked up- ward to the sk}^ in sinless gladness. My moon, beautiful, though ever changing, that glit- tered over Solomon's temple in all its glory, and over the lowly stable in the town of Bethlehem, when the star-guided shepherds worshiped there, now lights mil- 196 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. lions of worshipers to the house of God in the stillness of Sabbath evenings. The poet adores me, for there is something in my shadowy mantle, my starrj^ canopy, and my sweet, low voice that harmonizes with his holiest dreams. The Christian loves me well, for in the meditation of my quiet hours the light of immortality shines clear and undimmed. I look into human hearts and spy out secrets the day- time never dreamed of, holy and sad, and deep and sacred to memory. It is mine to kiss down the pale eyelids of the broken- hearted, and give to their spirits sweet visions born of sweeter memories. What though I bear not with me the song and bloom of morning, the dazzling splendor of the snn, nor its beams that glitter on the waves like diamonds, I show the many worlds that are unseen by day far off and beautiful, and there are the vales of never-dying flowers, and the fountains of living waters. Far along that shining pathway they go who seek the portals of the celestial city. I say to the children of men that here are the shadows of the tomb, there all is light, here death walks beside love, there is the reign of love only. To mortals I teach " holy lesssons Of the hopes unto sorrow given, That spring' through the gloom of the darkest hours, Looking alone to Heaven." Morning. — Rejoice, oh earth ! I come to thee in my glowing loveliness, radiant and glad as when first I awoke on thy face at the voice of God. The tender buds that crown me unfold their leaves but to fling forth odors sweet as if born in heaven, and with my light upon them the dews of night become pearls. I have smiled on the far off isles of the sea, and poured a golden light over gushing fountains, the echoes of whose many waters gladden distant solitudes. As my silver car mounts the horizon, every breeze spreads its pinion to flutter forth its joy, and many sweet voiced birds soar upward and sing after the angels teach- ing the <2:lad and I'lorious anthem of nature. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 19T Darkness is lost ; shadows vanish ; light that is beauty, light that is poetry, light that gleams from heaven and is divine, reign, and sorrow is vanquished ; for weeping, may endure for a night, but joy cometh with the morning. Blithe are the voices now, when rosy, bright-ej-ed children awake to the sound of the loving mother's voice among the beautiful homes of the world's many lands. I am an acknowledofcd blessinor to all, and darkness flies before my face from country to country. For thee, oh Earth ! I wear the same sweet smile I wore when I heard thy Maker's voice pronounce thee good. And never since my birth have I refused my light to th^e save when on Calvary that dread scene was enacted at which I turned away, and shrouded all my beams in sorrow. But the luster of my youth was renewed on the morn- ing of the resurrection, when on a world of sin had dawned the Sun of Righteousness^ Death was van- quished, and I, a type of the morning land, was seen in saintly visions beyond the tombs, and "there should be no Night there." I have been the loved and welcomed for ages past, I will be the beloved for ages to come. I shall be the glorified in the land of the hereafter. SCANDAL ON THE BRAIN. CHARACTER^. Emma. Sue, Lizzie. Fan. Aunt Hakding. Emma [is alone, she yawns, throws aside her work, and exclaims'], Oh, dear! oh, dear! How lonesome I am ! I do wish the girls would come soon, it's so dull since the Fair, and I'm dying to hear some news ! I suppose Aunt Harding would lecture me soundl}' if she heard me say the like. There's the bell! The}^ are coming now. [Enter Sue and Lizzie, Emma runs to greet them.'] Oh, I am delighted to see you ! Why did 3'ou not come sooner ? 1 have been almost ready to perish with ennui. Le"^ m* h?.ve your hats. 198 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Lizzie. — I don't know as it is hardly worth while for the time we will stay ; Sue, what do you say ? Sue. — Yes, Lizzie, let's stay a little while. You know it has been an age since we've been here. I have a fancy handkerchief to hem, and I heard 3^ou say you had your tatting collar in your pocket. Emma. — Oh, that will be just the thing! Stay all the afternoon with me I Mamma went out to make some calls and I am alone — we will have just the coziest kind of a time I What's the news? It's so dull! I wished at dinner that some one's house would catch a-fire, and ma scolded me awfully for being so wicked. Sue. — Why were you not at the party last evening? Emma. — I did not feel well, and mamma would not hear to my going. It was such a disappointment 1 Who was there ? How was every one dressed ? Tell me all about it ? Sue. — Well, first, Lizzie and I were there, then there were the Trac^^s, and the Cannons, Miss Williams and Mr. Holland, Mr. and Mrs. St. John, and Mrs. St. John's sister. Emma. — Why, I did not know they were home from their tour. Lizzie. — Yes ; and Mrs. St. John w'as dressed so handsomely I Emma. — I wonder if she is in debt for her beautiful clothes ? Sue. — I'm sure, I don't know. Then there was a Mr. Furgison with them, and Mrs. St. John told Mr. Lee that he is quite a catch, wealthy and handsome. Emma. — Struck He, I suppose. That's the way people come by fortunes now-a-days. Lizzie. — Emma Gather, you are for ever turning up your nose at people I What's the difference how on© comes b3^ a fortune, so he has it ? Emma. — Yes, and you go into ecstasies over a man if he has a little money and a mustache, and pronounce him distinguished looking I Oh 1 Sue. — Now, Emma, you are too bad. Indeed, Mr. Furgison has a splendid set of whiskers, and father was speaking of him to-day, and he said he was talented be- SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 199 side belonging to one of the oldest and wealthest fami- lies in Virginia. I'm going to pitch in for him. E:mma. — Success to you ; so he has good sense and is not one of the shoddies, and his handkerchief is not scented with coal oil, he will do. Oh! there goes the bell ! I wonder who is coining ! [Goes and returns luith Fannie. 2 ^ Sue. — I'll bet it's Fan. Butts. You know she said she was coming. Emma. — It's Fan., girls. She has come to stay all the afternoon, too ! Give me 3^our things, and take this chair. Lizzie. — Wh3% you dear girl, how d'3^e ! Take this fan. Sue. — How did you enjoy the party last evening? Fan. — Tip-top! Supper was splendid, wasn't it? Didn't the Dumfreys try to put on style ? Lizzie. — Did 3'ou get acquainted with that MissBituer ? Fan. — Yes, I noticed Morris trying to shine around her. Don't he go ahead of an}- one you ever saw to Jlii^t f Every strange young lady that comes to the city he must be her gallant ! He is so conceity, too ! Sue. — They saj' he is abominably stingy, but has good habits. Fan. [ironically']. — Yes, so are the habits of most young gents ! Lizzie. — He came honestly by his stinginess. His father was so before him. Whj', girls, pa saj^s the wig old Mr. Morris wears is one his brother, who nas been dead ten 3-ears, used to w^ear. After he died Morris took it to save buying a new one. Emma. — I do wonder if it is true ! I suppose the old gentleman was buried in his bald head Fan. — Oh, Emma ! Emma. — Was Grace at the party? Sue. — Yes, and don't j^ou think Captain Blair was her escort ! I was perfectl^^ surprised ! Emma. — Well/ I am astonished ! I thought he was not countenanced in society at all. I suppose, then, Grace will not discard him. Just like her, though. She said to me one da\' when I was giving her his pedigree, that she thought he was naturallj^ good, that there was something fine about him, and that he tried to do what was right, and so on. Bah ! She is too smart for him I 200 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Sue. — Smart I I say she's a milksop I J never heard of her doing any thing wonderful ! Lizzie. — Why, Sue, how dare you express yourself so about an authoress! She writes beautifully 1 She has written one or two effusions for the Repository, and the editor of one of the juvenile periodicals hails her con- tributions with delight, I've heard. Sue. — Bah ! I've read her spoutings ! I can write as well as she any day. She is just a shallow little girl, and believes herself illustrious Lizzie. — Now girls, I wont hear another word I You all know she paints well and sings sweetly Emma. — Daubs brightly, and screams loudly, you mean ; her voice, instead of being '' sweet as a nightin- gale's," is strong as — onions ! Fan. — Well, gals, let me tell you the johe on her. Girls. — Oh, yes I The joke I tell us ! tell us I Fan.^ — Well, if you will promise not to tell on me. I wouldn't have it come to their ears that I told it for any thing ! Girls. — We all promise I Fan. — Never to tell on me ? Girls, — Never ! Fan. — Well, last week some young ladies sent Capt. Blair a bar of soap, to wash Grace's neck and ears ! Emma. — Not so loud ! Aunt Harding will surely hear ! [ The girls laugh.'] Sue. — Now, Fan., you don't mean to say that's true ? Fan. — Of course, it's true I Lizzie. — Well, it's too bad I Grace is careless, but not so bad as that. Emma. — I say it's good ! Sue. — Who were the young ladies? Fan. — Oh, I mus'n't tell that I I wonder if Emma. — That makes me think of Miss Orton. Have you heard the report on her ! Girls. — No ! No ! do tell us I Emma. — I thought every one knew it! The othei evening she was standing at the gate, where she boards, talking with Bob Brandon, and he kissed her I It was bright moonlio:ht, and some folks across the street ?aw them SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 201 Fan.— Oh ! that is horrible ! Sue. — Why, he is the hardest case in town I I would not believe she would speak to him ! Lizzie. — Only think ! He plays billiards and drinks, and is a gambler, too ! Fan. — But girls do you believe it ? Lizzie. — I do. I never could bear her anyhow ! Sue. — I believe it ! Fan. — I don't ; for, Miss Cassell is very intimate with her, and she told me 'that this Bob Brandon goes with Miss Thomas, who lives the very next door to Miss Orton, and you know a mistake might be made easilj^, besides I heard her say not long since, that Miss Orton only knew Brandon b}^ sight. Emma. — Where there is smoke there is fire. Lizzie. — Speaking of Miss Cassell — ma was there to tea last~iveek, and she said she never sat down to such a table in her life. She could hardly find enough to satisfy her appetite ! besides, they had no napkins nor individual salts ; both of which are awful. Emma. — S'pose we all go there to tea some afternoon I Fan. — Oh, girls, I have a capital idea ! It just struck me ! Let's form an inquisitive club ! Girls. — Inquisitive club 1 What's that ? Something new? Fan. — You see, I just thought of it. When I was in Lawrence last summer, the girls had such a club. Emma. — Not so loud. Aunt Harding will surely hear I Fan. — Who cares for Auntie ! [in a lower tone.'] We met once a week at one of the girl's houses. No gentle- men were admitted, so they gave it the name of scandal circle — all of spite you know, and we had the most fun at those meetings ever you heard of? Emma. — But what did 3^ou do ? Fan. — AVhy every member was a committee of one to find out all she could about every body's business. We were posted on every thing that was going on. We knew all the reports in circulation ; what girls were en- gaged, and who were not ; we knew who every body cor- responded with, how much every one was in debt — no one was spared, from the minister's wife down. We dissected every one, and the girl that could give the most 202 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. information in the most comical manner, was the best fellow, and every one who failed paid a fine. Lizzie. — That would be gay ! But I don't think ma would approve of it. Sue. — That's Lizzie for you, afraid of ma ! Emma. — Don't let ma know an}^ thing about it. Fan. — No, you little goose, that's the fun of it. But the best part was our practical jokes ! We played some of the richest ones, I must tell you. — [Aunt Harding, an old fashioned old woman, with cap and spectacles on rushes in, with her knitting, etc., very much excited.'] Well, gals, if I ever ! I didn't mean to hear what you said but I couldn't help it! — [Girls look at each other scared.'] Miss Emily what do 3^ou spose your mar would say if she'd a' heerd you talking 'bout folks as you've bin a' doin' this arternoon ? Say! Emma.^ — Don't, Auntie ! Do be still, we were only in fun. Auntie. — I wont be still. I tell you, you're all given over to the wrath to come if j^ou don't mend your wa3^s. Emma [aside]. — I knew Auntie would hear us, what will I do ? Auntie. — I heerd what ye was a' sayin' about the party, 'bout what folks had on an' this one an' that one an' t'other, 'bout one feller bein' stingy an' 'bout Miss Lane, an' the Lord knows she's smarter than any of ye — Miss Cassell's mar didn't have enough fur [turning to Lizzie] your mar to eat, did she ? I think she must have an awful stomach. Emma. — Auntie, please don't. Auntie. — I wont please [turns to Fan~], but when ye come to talk as ye did 'bout an insquisitive club 1 could Stan' it no longer 1 Findin' out olher folks' business, medlin' things that ye are — I think 3^e'd better be to hum mendin' the holes in yev stockin's or helpin' yer mar's wash dishes ! ThaVs what / thinks on't ! Dissec- tin'' the poor creeturs, too ! oh my ! what on airth ye comin' to ! Even the minister's family ! Insquistion club ! When /was a gal what would folks said at us if we had done the like o' this! I'll tell your par I will Emel- ine Gather. It's bad enough for ole' wimmin' folks to talk, but I'll dt^clare on it, if ye can't beat 'em all! SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 203 Emma. — Oh, Auntie, do please be still — girls, never mind. Fan. — Don't mind us. Emma, we deserve it all. Auntie. — Desarve it all an' more too. I should think the men folks would call it scandal circle. I'd advise ye to form a young ladies female wimmin folks prayer- meeting circle, instead of scandalizing this way. Sue. — Yes, Emma, we have been talking about every body awfully, hut I'm sure J meant no harm. Lizzie. — Nor I. I am sorry that I forgot the Golden Rule for an instant. Ean. — And the Inquisitive club ! It was lots of fun, but when I turn it round and think of it as Aunt Har- ding does, it is ridiculous ! Oh, I am ashamed to re- member that I proposed such a thing ! Emma. — Girls ! 1 do believe we have been suffering this afternoon with scandal on the brain. Auntie. — I guess so, too, gals. Girls. — Yes, scandal on the brain ! that must be what ails us, and if the audience, and Aunt Harding will fo^rgive us, we pledge ourselves \^they join hands'] hereafter to speak well of our friends and say nothing of our enemies. Auntie. — I'll forgive ye with all my heart, gals [^steps in front of the girls'] ; I guess this is not the only Insquistion club in the world, nor these the onl}^ ones with " scandal on the hrain.^^ an' I would advise all per- sons to " mind their own business" if they don't want to catch the orful disease! \_Cur tain falls.] THE COMMON BOND. Page. — Who are you, my little neighbor, Wandering in the woods so late ? Oft I've seen you at your labor, Loitering near the garden-gate. Peasant-girl. — I'm the Miller Martin's daughter : Gentle Page, I crave your pardon, If I never stopped to heed you, Lingering near the Countess' garden. 204 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, Mine the task to weed the borders, Mine, the strawberries to gather ; Yours, to serve your lady's orders, Or iinhelm her noble father. Yet believe, oh, stately boy ! Dressed in rich and gay profusion, Satin scarf and velvet cap. Plume and tress in bright confusion ; Mine as light a heart as thine. Songs as blithe, and sleep as tender I Page. — Yes, my little cottage-maid ! For this grace our thanks we render. Daily at our mistress' board. Nightly at the chapel shrine. Thanks and praise our hearts afford. That thy lot is blest as mine ; That the rich and poor, as one, Share the bounties of Our Father 1 Feel alike the summer sun, And the garden treasures gather ! This the tie that binds, in love. Great and small, sublime and lovely; Lifts our grateful hearts above. Toward the throne of God, most holy 1 PHRENOLOGY. Dr. Phrenology [yoith a pompous tone']. — Ah I what a wondrous age is this ; an age of philosophy and intel- lectual light. Who can contemplate the rapid march of intellect, as it rolls onward in proud triumph, and not feel his heart exult in the approaching perfect ability of all human knowledge ; a triumph at which the stars of heaven stand aghast ; but oh I phrenology, most occult, 3^et most noble of all sciences ; though now ridiculed and scoffed at, thou art destined to burst forth in daz- zling splendor, and sweep awa}^ the darkness of ages. March on thou science of sciences, thou grand climac- teric of all human discoveries. Oh, happy, thrice happy era, when phrenology SCllOOLDAY DIALOGL^ES. 205 Linguist [interrupting']. — Oh ! circlaso Rexator, are "y Oil giving lectures to ghosts and hobgoblins ? Phren- ology comes from the Greek word Phreno, Phrenoso, lephronoko, (to bring one to his wits,) and hence also Phresis, Pephriticus, Morbus (a disease which seems to have turned your brains). Inverse ortum, and happy, thrice happy will 3^ou be if phrenology restores you to your wits, before you find the interior of a Hospitium Insanatum ; in plain English, '* a bedlam." J^HRENOLOGIST. — You impudent, brainless fellow, do you thu^ address a man of my honorable standing and profession. Perhaps you are not aware of addressing a professor of that most sublime and most profound of all sciences, phrenology. Have you not heard, sir, of Dr. Puhipologies, FRS., AAS., LLD ? L/NOUiST [LLD., Legum']. — Doctor, the very degree acquired by our honorable President, and also conferred upoii the celebrated Prince Black Haick. I am per- suaded of your right to the title Bumpologicus, Phren- ologixjus, Pompologicus, or any other logicus. Professor Ponderation, a noted philosopher, lives just iiere, who would be glad, I presume, to learn something of this Occulticimus, Etnohellicimus Scienti- tia from so learned and renowned a professor. I'll call him, sir. [^?7,oc/:8] Hallo ! [Servant enters.'] Servant. — What's wanting? Linguist. — Is your master at home ? Servant. — I guess he is, sir; he was here just now. Linguist. — Tell him Mr. Obstreperosity, a particular friend, wants to see h'mi. Servant. — Obstrecherosity, I should think so, 3'es, I will tell him. [Servant departs.] Phrenologist [alone luith linguist]. — I contend, sir, that phrenology is one of the most important discoveries ever invented b}^ man. Why, sir, by a careful inspec- tion of the cicibral developments, every trait in a man's character is scientifically explained, and infallibly dis- covered. [Enter philosopher and servant.] Linguist [to philosopher]. — Good-morning, Mr. Pon- deration, I have the honor to introduce 3^ou, sir, to Dr, Bumpologicus, Erudicimiiset Bumpologicimus, profes- sor, who can tell at once, b^^ a tangible operation upon the 206 SCHOOL DAY DIALOGUES. excrescences of your pericranium, whether you are & phi- losopher, phrenologist, physiognomist, fiddler ov fool. Philosopher. — I had supposed, sir, that in order to determine a man's genius and character, it was neces- sary to descend beneath the exterior of the skull, but it beems I have been mistaken. Phrenologist. — I presume, sir, you are unacquainted with my theory — which is that each facult}^ of the mind is appropriated to a particular organ of the brain, which organ is known by the cerebral developments on the skull ; and that every man is scientifically under the necessity of being and thinking what these prominences indicate that he should be and think. Servant. — Xow, Mr. Bumpus cornfessor, I know thaVs true, for t'other day I bumped my skull most plaguely, and I tell you I couldn't help thinking fifty things in a half a second. Philosopher. — It will require some phrenological sagacity, sir, to make it appear that a man must neces- sarily act thus and thus, because he has a bump on this or that part of the skull. Phrenologist. — I tell you, sir, that careful and ex- tensive observations have clearl}^ proved that all are under the influence of these several organs, and it is morally impossible for them to act otherwise, than these cerebral developments indicate they should. Servant \to Bumpologicus']. — Sir, a swarm of ponder- ations will fly before you, like grasshoppers before a limping hemp-dresser. You dash at once the scales from our eye-winkers, and in ^treams lighf through skulls, though as thick as the staves of a wash-tub, and opens not only the origin of dispositions, but thoughts, which come forth in the character of bumps on the per- icranum ; even if they come as plenty as the flies about my master's fish-pond in summer. \_Linguist s'peaks to philosopher. ~\ Linguist. — Such discussions as these, if not instruc- tive, are amusing; but 1 must retire to amuse myself at my library, having added some new volumes to my former stock. Good-da}^, sir. [_Iietires.2 ISome one calls to the phrenologist.^ SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 207 You will confer a favor by stepping this way. I will, sir, as it gives me as much pleasure to teach in private as well as in public. [iTe retires.']'^ CORRECT HABITS. CHARACTERS. Salem Town, a distinguished teacher. John W. Newman, Henry D. Wise, }» Salem Town's pupils. William Brewer, Scene 1. — Salem Town^s Address. My much-esteemed Pupils : — As our school has now drawn to a close, and I am about to leave you, perhaps to see you no more on earth, I feel it ni}^ duty to call 3^our attention to several subjects, which are intimately connected with your future prosperity, usefulness, and happiness. Almost every day since m}^ connection with this school I have given you more or less of advice and counsel, ''here a little and there a little." I am now before you for the last time, and shall proceed to give you my last, my parting counsel and advice, as to the course which, in my opinion, it will be both your duty and interest to pursue. I trust you will hear me pa- tiently, and with the utmost attention. You will be called upon in a fevv years, should 3^ou live, to battle with the stern realities of life. And as it is indispensably necessary for the soldier, before going to battle, to be properly armed and equipped, and have the benefit of thorough drilling and discipline in the art of war, so it is quite as necessary for you to undergo a thorough training in mind, morals, and manners, before * This dialogue is intended to ridicule only the quack phren- ological lecturers, who travel over the country and misrepresent and bring into disrepute the science of Plirenology. We wish that triflers covild all be rid out of society, and this important subject represented by its more able and conscientious advo- catea 208 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. you can enter the great arena of active life with any well grounded hope of becoming a really useful member of society, and occupying high positions of honor and trust. Life is one great struggle, and he is wise that prepares himself to meet its trials, its duties, and its emergencies. No intelligent person will pretend to deny, that the better a man is educated, the better citizen he will be — the more good will he do — the happier he will be — the more capable of making others happ}^ — and the better will he subserve the great and noble purposes for which his Creator designed him. Early impressions are the most lasting, and have a wonderful influence in forming character. Hence the reason why parents and teachers should take great pains to make good and correct impressions upon the minds of children. It is said, and Avith good reason, too, that ''youth receives impressions, and manhood ratifies them." How important, then, that correct outlines for future life be presented to the youthful mind, that a broad foundation may be laid for the great temple of Truth. My first advice to 3^ou is, study to do right, irrespec- tive of consequences. Do right, and let the conse- quences take care of themselves. In your conduct toward 3'our schoolmates, and others with whom you associate, cultivate high and noble principles of gene- rosity and kindness, and prove 3'our friendship by a willingness to sacrifice your own happiness to secure that of others. Guard against ill temper. Labor to subdue every bad passion. Choose to suffer wrong rather than to do wrong; and, what I regard as very important, never indulge in speaking ill of any one. If you cannot speak well, hold your peace. Cultivate po- liteness everywhere, at home and abroad — first, at home, and then it will be easy and natural for 3'ou to practice it abroad. Let these principles grow with your growth, and strengthen with j-our strength ; and when 3'ou shall have completed 3'our labors at school, 3'our correct moral principles will turn 3'our learning into the right channel, and you will enter out upon life with fair pros- pects of gaiii'Mg the esteem and confidence of the wise SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 209 and the good. You will be promoted to the highest positions of honor and trust, and 3^ou will fill out the measure of your days in the full enjoyment of the mul- tiplied blessings of life, an ornament to society and an honor to your country. In conclusion, I would say a few words in refereuce to the best means to be employed to develop and strengthen the mind, and prepare you to search success- fully for the exhaustless treasures of knowledge. 'i'he first indisputable requisite is, punctuality in at- tending school. And whenever the hour arrives for study, summon to your aid every faculty of your mind, and never allow it to be diverted from your lesson till it is completely mastered. This going to your task half dreaming and half awake, irresolute and uninterested, is just the way to weaken your mind, and to hedge up your way with difficulties, which accumulate and appear more and more insuperable at every step in your ascent up the hill of science. Bend to your task, my boys. Let every fibre of j^our minds be tasked to their utmost tension, and soon difficulties, one after another, will give way, and vanish like dew before the morning sun. Thus will your minds gain strength, and expand, and enlarge, and you will be able to take wider and more comprehen- sive views of nature and of science. Thus go on, from day to day, deporting yourselves in good morals, and habits, and manners, as well as in every thing that pertains to the good student, in such a dignified and sensible manner as will command the love and esteem of your schoolmates, your parents, and of 3-our teachers. Now, my much-esteemed pupils, fill up faithfully the out- lines I have given you — carrj^out faithfully the doctrines and principles I have offered you asj^our guiding-star up the hill of science — and in a few j^ears you will have completed your studies, and your worth will be appre- ciated, and society, with one unanimous voice, will shout , " Come up higher !" and you will be promoted to high and honorable positions, and stand preeminently above those of your schoolmates who, though the}^ may have en- joyed equal advantages with you, yet fail to make use of tVe proper means and appliances for the accomplish- 14 ' 210 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. ment of that which those of higher aspiratioms have at- tained. I submit these well-intended remarks to jour serious reflection, trusting that some of you at least will profit hy them, and that, after many days, I shall see, with satisfaction and pride, the fruits of my labor. \_Exit all hut John, Henry, and William.'] John. — Well, boys, what do you think of Mr. Town's good-by speech ? Henry. — I think the advice he gave us was excellent, and I'm more than half inclined to make the most of it. William. — Yes, I'd like to see you about it. It will be after this, I reckon. I don't swallow all his doctrines by a long ways. John. — Why, Bill, what did he say that you can take exceptions to ? William. — Why he said a heap of things. John. — Well, let's hear what they were. William. — Oh, I don't remember all he said, but I know I aint going to trouble myself to do half nor quarter of what he recommended. Think I'm going to split my head open studying ? no sir-e-e ! Henry. — Did he say you must do that ? William. — No ; not in those words exactl3% but that's what he meant, I suppose. John. — He urged the importance of forming correct habits of study, and said it would be greatl}^ to our in- terest to study hard; and I believe it and, as Henry said, I'm resolved to carry out in every particular, as far as I am able, the plan he offered and recommended for our adoption. William. — Two silly boys ! just as though you can remember half he said over night. He can't cage me, boys, depend upon it; I'm not going to submit to all this school drudgery for nothing. The great thing in this world is to get a living. Mr. Town kept telling us almost every day that the great object in coming to school was to learn to think. Nonsense ! I could think well enough afore I over went to school at all. Then ag'in he would tell us that the grand object was, to pre- SCnOOLDAY DTALOG-UES. 211 pare ns for the great and responsible duties of after life, to use Ms own words. Pshaw, wlio believes such as that; I think the great object is to get a good living, and just as though splittin' one's head open tryin' to work hard sums, or conjugate a parcel of nonsensical verbs, would help anj^bod}- about hoeiu' corn and such, or make oak rails split open an}' easier ! It's all nonsense. It's well enough to know how to read and write some, and the like of that. Just look at old John Cross, why he's as rich as a Jew, and he doesn't know a letter. JoHX. — Well, old John Cross, as you call him, is one out of a thousand. He has managed, it is true, by his shrewdness, and avarice, and dishonesty combined, to accumulate what some would call a fortune. But what signifies wealth to such a man as Mr. Cross ! why he's one of the most unhappy beings on earth, and everybody knows that society is no better off for all his wealth, and he is esteemed as little perhaps as any man in this country. His money does him no good nor any- body else. William. — Well. I know I'd enjoy myself mighty well, if I had half his money. Henry. — You seem to forget, or else you never knew in what true happiness consists, William ; for my part, I think there is but little happiness in money, especiallj' when its use is controlled by a spirit of avarice and selfishness. William. — You precious little learned saint yow ! do tell me, if you please, what happiness consists in, if it's not in getting money. I heard our teacher say here one daj' in school, that ever}' body was eager in pursuit of hajopiness, now any body can see with only one eye open that ever}- body's hard at work to get money, and when they get it aint they happy ? now thenl Henry. — This kind of happiness is only temporary ; it vanishes as soon as the money -has gone. There is a happiness of a higher order ; a happiness that is ever springing up afresh in the heart and which sweetens many of the ills of life. William, — Pra}^ be so kind as to tell what it is? Henry. — Well, sir, I can in a very few words. It is 212 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. the happiness which arises from doing good and making others happy. ' William. — Yes, yes, I understand. Well I'm too in- dependent to want anybody's helj^ to make me happy. My doctrine is *• let every man take care of himself." If I can manage by hook or crook or in some way to get plenty of money, I'll risk but what I'll be happy enough to do me, and get through the world as respect- ably as either of you who are so crazy about all those hifalutin notions and whims of Mr. Town. John. — Come, boys, we've shown our colors. We are about to separate and go to our respective homes, in different States, and I move we suspend further discus- sion, till old father Time, in future years, assumes the province of Umpire, and then we'll be apt to get a wise and correct decision. Henry. — 1 second the motion. \_Exit allJ] Scene 2. — Salem Town with spectacles on reading a newspaper. A rap is heard at the door. Enter John W. Newman, governor of JNew York. Governor Newman. — Good-evening, sir. Salem Town. — Good, evening sir, walk in. Governor Newman. — I think I recognize my old friend and teacher Salem Town. [^Shaking hands.'] Salem Town. — My name is Town, sir, but really you have the advantage of me — that voice sounds famil- iar, it seems as though I ought to know 3'ou. \_Gets the candle and holds it up to his face.] I do declare I can come within one of guessing. It is either John New- man or Henry Wise, and if you'll repeat the first line of Brutus's address at the funeral of Caesar, I can tell which it is. Governor Newman, — Friends, Romans, Country- men — Salem Town \_overjoyed'\. — It's John Newman ! it's John Newman, I know it is I Am I not correct? Governor Newman. — Quite correct — John Newman, your old student at Aurora, New York — I'm glad to see you. Salem Town. — And I'm rejoiced to see you, too. I've been long wishing for this. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 213 Governor Newman. — Having business in Missouri I resolved not to leave the State till I had paid you a visit, and tendered you my sincerest gratitude for your instructions in early life, and particularly for the truly excellent advice and counsel you gave us on the last day of school. I owe mj^ peculiar success in m}^ studies, and in my political career, and ray position in society and in business to the address to which I have just alluded. Salem Town. — It rejoices my heart, sir, to hear yon profited so much by it. But tell me where is Henry Wise. Do you know any thing of him ? Governor Newman. — Oh yes; he's coming to see you. Salem Town. — When, pray? [A rap at the door.'} Governor Newman. — I guess he's coming now. lEnter Judge Wise']. Governor Neavman [^takes Wise by the ami]. — This is Judge Wise. SalExM Town \_shaking hands'] — Judge Wise, your most obedient. But I thought you said you expected Henry Wise, your old class-mate, here to see me to night Governor Newman. — This is he — the very same. He, too, is on precisely the same errand that brought me here. Salem Town. — Why, Henry, how do a'ou do ? Judge Wise. — I am well, and exceeding glad to see you. Why, Governor Newman, isn't this a rich treat ! Salem Town. — Who's this you are calling Governor Newman ; explain yourself. You don't mean to say that iQ.y old student John W. Newman here has turned gov- ernor ? Judge Wise. — It is truly so, or rather the people of New York made him governor. Salem Town. — John Newman a governor, and Henry Wise judge. Pretty respectably sounding prefixes to your names, you've got, boys; but Governor Newman 3'ou didn't tell me what kind of a judge Henry is, but I suppose [laughing] it's one of the commonest kind, probate judge, or something that way. Governor Newman. — Higher than that, Mr. Town. He has the h'-'nor of being Judge of the Supreme Court of the United States. 214 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Salem Town. — Is it possible! But I am not bo much astonished after all, for I often remarked when you were my students, that John Newman and Henry Wise would some day, in my opinion, be men of distinc- tion. I gave as a reason, that they were very studious, and seemed to take great pains to cultivate good morals and manners, and to comply with the rules of school. But what's become of William — the boys used to call him Bill — somebody, I can't think who ? Governor Newman. — You mean William Brewer, I presume. Salem Town. — Yes, that's the name. Have you ever heard what's become of him ? I don't carry a very plea.s- ing record of him in my mind. I always thought he would never be of much account in the world. Judge Wise. — I understood several years ago that he had joined a traveling circus, and w^as serving in the capacity of teamster. I learned, also, that he had become very dissipated, and was, on the whole, rather a worthless character. [^Unter a servant^ Servant. — Here's a man at the gate, wants to know if he can get to stay all night. He says he's got no money, but he is a tinker and will mend up the old tin pans in the morning. Salem Town. — Tell him to come in. [Enter tiaher or Bill Brewer.'] Good-evening, gentlemen ; I called to see if I could get supper and lodgings to-night, and I'm pretty tired and hungry, too, having traveled since breakfast with- out dinner, 'cause why plain enough — I had no money, and nobody appeared to want any work done in my line. If you please allow me to stay with you to-night and in the raoi-ning hunt up all your old tin ware and as sure as my name is Bill Brewer [^all look at each other'] I'll mend them all up in the nicest manner for you. Salem Town. — Be seated, sir, you look tired. You can stay with us, sir. I never refused supper and lodg- ing to a traveler whether he has money or not. Did I understi^nd you to say your name was Bill Brewer? Wm. Brewer. — Yes sir; William Brewer is m}- name; SCHOOLDAY DIALOGIJES. 215 but the boys used to call me Bill, and eveyybody. I be- lieve, calls me Bill noic. Salzm Towy. — Pardon my curiosity ; but did you ever go to school in Aurora. Xew York ? Wm. Beewzb. — Yes. sir. when I was a boy : and I often think of the discussion John Xewman, Henry Wise and me had after our teacher. Mr. Town, had given his farewell address to the school. Yon see. they indorsed every word 'he said, and promised themselves they'd do just exactly as he advised us all to do. But I took strong grounds against his speech, and we had quite a warm discussion over it. Salem Towy. — Well who got the best of it ? AVm. Bbzwer. — Well, we adjourned without any decis- sion, and agreed to call in old Father Time as Umpire, and renew the discussion the next time we met, which we didn't expect would happen for many years, and goodness only knows whether we'll ever meet or not. Salem Town. — Do you think you would know your old teacher. Mr. Town, if you should see him ? TTm. Brewer. — Well, I dare say I might : but he's get- ting pretty old. and may be dead for what I know. Salem Towx. — ^Xot dead yet, sir. My name is Salem Town, the very same you went to school to in Aurora, Xew York. I don't wonder you didn't recognize me, for sickness and old age have greatly altered my ap- pearance. [Shabing hand^.'] How do you do, William ? W3L Brewer. — ^Xot to say very well, sir ; and the worst is I'm ashamed to meet you under snch circum- stances. ^ALEM Town. — Oh, make yourself easy. William! There's many a one worse off than you in the world, I dare say. Wm. Brewer, — That all may be true : but when I reflect how stupid I was, not to heed the good advice you gave us. I can hardly forgive myself. The conse- quence of this neglect is that I'm now a poor wanderer through the world, without any home, without friends, and without a respectable trade even, by which to make a living. Salem Town. — I presume you would be glad to meet with Your old friends, John and Henrv, and renew 216 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. your acquaintance, and finish up that discussion— wouldn't you ? Wm. Brewer. — Sorter glad and sorter not, as the old clown used to say. Why they've got up so high in the world before this time they wouldn't know me, wouldn't even say "how do?" to such a bundle of rags as I am^ and a tinker at that. Salem Town. — Oh ! I have no doubt they would both be glad to see you. Do you think you would know them if you should meet them in your travels ? Wm. Brewer. — Know them ! yes, in a minute. T shall never forget how they looked. Salem Town. — Pardon my impoliteness. I suppose you are not acquainted with these gentlemen ? Wm. Brewer. — Never saw them before, that I recol- lect of, sir. Salem Town. — Well, William Brewer, allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Judge Wise and Governor Newman, your classmates in Aurora. I will withdraw while you conclude your long postponed discussion ; trusting that old Father Time, who is now present, and to whom 3^ou agreed to submit your arguments for de- cision at your next meeting, will do you full justice. Wm. Brewer. — Am I dreaming ! The decision is made and I am satisfied. By faithfully filling up the outlines, submitted to us by our worthy teacher, to be our guide in the formation of our habits and character, Henry Wise is now Judge Wise, and John Newman is now Governor Newman, and I, Bill Brewer, by rejecting his counsel, am — what ? An outcast and a tinker. [ Curtain falls,'] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 217 THE SECRET. Hettie ^running to overtake Mary on her icay to school']. — Oh, Mary, wait a minute, won't you ? Don't be in a hurry. Mary. — Wh}-, Hettie, what is the matter? You look as tired as though 3'ou had been ruuning this half hour. Hettie. — Well, I should think I was tired, running clear from the corner, and calling you loud enough to split my throat open. Mary. — Well, Hettie, you know I didn't hear you ; if I had I'd waited ; but we musn't stop here, for it's almost time for the bell to ring, and I wouldn't be lat6 for any thing. Hettie. — Oh, well, we sha'n't be late, for it was only eight o'clock, when I started, and I've run all the way. Let's sit down here a few minutes, it's so cool and shady, and I'm so tired. Mary. — Well, I'll wait a few minutes, and only just a few. Hettie. — Why, Mary, I believe you like to go to school, but I don't. It's school, school, school, school, from morning till night. I hate these old books, and this old school. I wish there was no such thing as school. Mary. — Why, Hettie, I don't; I like to go to school, and get mj' lessons, and write compositions, because mother says I ought to. Hettie. — Well, I don't, if mother does say I ought to. But, oh, Mary [clapping her hands'], I heard some- thing. I know something, Mary. Mary. — Well, Hettie, you'll tell me, wont you ? You know I always tell you every thing. Hettie. — I'd like to, Mary, but then I can't. It's a secret. Mother doesn't know that I know it, nor sister Emily. Mary. — Oh, now, Hettie, you're too bad. If I ever know a secret, I'd tell Dora Yau, would I ! I shan't tell you — but come, tell me, please do. Hettie —Oh, I musn't, Mary, indeed I musn't. 218 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mother said it was a secret, and I don't know what she'd do to me if she knew that I know it. I'll tell you some, though. Mary. — Oh, now come, tell me. If you will, I'll give you all these flowers [holding a bouquet]. Hettie. — I say I'll tell you some, but I can't tell the secret. Mary. — Well, I'll give these flowers to Dora. But come now, Hettie, if you will tell me all I'll give you my new wax doll that father brought me from New York. Its nose isn't cracked, nor nothing. Hettie. — I can't tell you all, indeed I can't, but I'll tell you some. Mr. White comes to our house, oh, so often ! And every time he comes he pats me on the (iheek, and says, "Hettie, isn't it most your bedtime?" just as if I was a little girl and didn't know my own Jbedtime. But that isn't all. If I ask Emily any thing she says, "never mind now, dear ; run off to your play." And mother comes and calls me, and says, "didn't you know your sister was engaged ?" I suppose she didn't think I knew what that meant, but I did though, and I think she might answer my question if she is engaged. But I don't care, for I know some- thing, and she doesn't know that I know it, either. The other night after Mr. White went away, mother and Emily were talking. It was so warm they opened the bed-room door, and they thought I was asleep, but I wasn't. Emily had a new white dress; it cost fifty dollars at the City Mill Store, and the best dressmaker in town is making it. And mother is baking such lots of cake ! I just wish you could see it. There is one, I do believe it's that high [measuring its height fi^om the floor], all made out of little ones on top of each other, and all covered over with candies and raisins. There is another — I do believe it's that big [making a half circle with her arms], and just as white as snow. Mary [jumping up and clapping her hands]. — Oh ! I know, I know, I know ; Emily is going to be married. — Emily is going to be married. Hettie [jumping up and throwing her arms around Mary]. — Well, I didn't tell you, did I? You guessed it — you guessed it — you guessed it, didn't you ? SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 219 Mary. — Oh, there goes the bell! I wish we hadn't waited. Hettie, — Oh, well, we shan't be late — we'll run. THE TWO FRIENDS. CHAEACTERS. Tom, a school boy. Harry, his friend. James Truemax, son of his employer, late from college. Scene 1. — A village street. Tom and Harry meet, one- well dressed, the other shabbily. Harry. — Good-moruing, Tom. Going to school to- day? Tom. — Xo, Hany ; pa is sick and I can not go any more. Harry. — What ! never ? Tom. — My schooldays are orer, I fear. I did so hope I could continue this session, but ma says it's im- possible — I must work to support the family. Harry. — Too bad, Tom. We will miss you so ; our teacher, too, will miss you sadly. Where will you work ? Tom. — On Mr. Trueman's farm. Harry. — That old curmudgeon. It's a mile to his farm, and, work as j'ou ma}', you can't please him, better come to school and get the prize. Tom. — I can not [^/y/?;?]. But, Harry, I will be at home ever}' evening; lean stud}', you kuow. Harry. — Oh, yes, youll be a ripe scholar, no doubt,, with your little brothers cryiug around. Tom Rafter a jjause^. — If somebody would cnly teach me. Harry. — I believe our teacher is too* busy to teach around after school hours. Tom. — I did not mean him — if some of the boys would study w^th me— — 220 SCHOOLPAY DIALOGUES. Harry. — I would like to help you, Tom, but I have so many engagemeuts. May be Bill Smith would study with you. Ill mention it to him. [^ Turns aicay.^ Tom. — Oh, no ; don't tell anybody. Harry [comes bock^. — Well, I won't. I'll be your friend, Tom, through thick and thin. If you want a favor come to me. Good-by, Tom. Good luck to you. [^Goes off muttering that's the way father talks to poor ■people. Curtain falls.'] tCENE 2. — Tom alone in Mr. Trueman'slihrary reading. Enter Janits. James — Tom, you appear to be devoted to books. I hope 3'ou are not reading any thing trashy. [LooLs over his .shoulder, steps back surprised.] Is it possible that 3'ou read Latin ? Tom. — A little, sir. I have not much time for stud}'. James [seats himself]. — Any other boy would say, no time for study. But how do you get on by your- self. Tom. — Very slowly, but ma says, as J {im learning so many things I must not expect to get on fast. James. — You are not perplexing yourself with too many studies I hope ? Tom. — Oh, no, Algebra is my principal study ; but she says I am learning patience, diligence, and self-reliance beside learning to reason widely and think deeply ; these are learned without being studies, and mj- teacher said the last day I was at school, that the nation needed thinkers. James. — Very true ; I wish there were more such mothers in the land. Tom, could you not stay with us every night? Tom — Don't know, sir; believe pa would let me, now he is well. James. — Get his consent and I will teach you from six till nine every evening. Tom. — Thank you, Mr. Trueman ; I can never thank you enough. But you must only give me a few lessons, then I can get on better ; it will be such dull, tiresome work, tiiat I can not allow my best friend to be more imposed upon. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 221 James. — You will confer a favor b}^ becoming my pupil. I still prosecute my studies, but only occasionally and I want to learn of you those other things that are not studies. Please see your father to-morrow. Tom. — I will ; thank you, sir. IPicks up his hat.'] Good-night, sir. [Uxit.] James. — Good-night, Tom. [Looks after him.'] I will follow his bright example and do my whole duty better in future. [Curtain falls.] KILLED WITH KINDNESS. Scene 1. — Two girls walking arm-in-arm. Abby. — When mamma first proposed the idea, it struck me as rather absurd. Kate. — It still seems so to me, I must confess, Abby. What is the u#e to spend your pocket-mone}^ for people who can't appreciate your kindness ? Whatever we do for Miss Fling, will be sure to give offence. If it's a goose, she'll wish it was a turkey ; if it's a turkey, she'll say, " Oh, you foolish Galathians, why didnt you bring a goose ?" Abby [laughing]. — Well, it's a matter of course that we shall not please her. But will it not be all the more generous in us to give, without expecting thanks ? She is a poor, crazed old body, any way ; and you know we were sent to her school when we were mere babies. She taught us the alphabet — remember that. Kate — I shall not forget it. It was severe at the time, and now it's awful to remember: She taught us to read in two letters ; that was the extent of her accom- plishments. Abby. — Our parents were afraid our pronunciation would be ruined if we staid longer. Now she hasn't taught for years. She is poor, and I pity her. Kate.— So do I. I pit}- her for being Merc}^ Ann Eling, a compound of crab-apples, cambric-needles and vinegar. 222 SCIIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Abby. — And for living alone. It must have been hard for her to lose the property her father left. Mamma says it affected her mind. Kate. — Dear me ! Did she ever have a mind ? It has dwindled away to a remnant, weak and small. Well, Abb}^ perhaps you are right. I'm willing to con- tribute the larger half of my pocket-money toward buy- ing the poor creature some holiday presents, if the other girls will do the same. Abby. — You dear old Kitty ; you'll give more than the rest of us, I dare say, in spite of your joking. Kate. — Don't flatter me, or I wont give a penny. Let's meet to-night and make our plans ; but we must look out, every one of us, for a good scolding. l_Curtain fa,lls.'\ Scene. 2. — Miss Fling^s parlor, poorly furnished but neat. Miss Fling, respectably but coarsely dressed, with spectacles, frizette and cap, sits alone, knitting ; her face bound up with a red silk handkerchief. Miss Fling. — Ugh, how the wind blows ! If it comes from the north, it slams the blinds ; if it comes from tlie east, it settles in my teeth. I'm worse off" than Job, for I've nobody to speak to. Should think some of the neighbors might come in, when they know I'm alone. But they wont. Nobody remembers me now-a-days, not even my old scholars. If I hadn't been cheated out of my property, I should have been treated with attention. It would have been, "My dear Miss Fling," here, and " My dear Miss Fling,' there. I should have gone to the first houses to eat Christmas dinners, and none of these cold messes lying around in my cupboard. Oh, no ! .But here I am, lone and 'lorn, suff'ering with ao^iie, and nobody comes near me, to see if I'm alive or dead. [^ knock. Miss Fling settles her cap and shakes out her dress.'] I wish people would stay awajM I should have caught a nice little doze in about a minute; but I never can have the house to m^yself '[Goes to the door.] Good evening, Abby Fletcher. Walk in, child. Abby. — Good evening. Miss Fling. [Sets a little box on the tablff' 1 Wish you a happy New Year. I SCH00LDA7 DIALOGUES. 223 Miss Fling. — You needn't. I shall not have one, if you do wish it. \_Looks earnestly at the box.^ Abby. — And a hundred more, Miss Fling. Miss Fling. — Keep to the truth, child. You don't wish me a quarter of a hundred New Years ; or, if you do, you must have lost 3^cur senses. You didn't learn such morality at my school ! Abby [^smiling^. — I merely offer the compliments of the season to my old teacher. I hoj^e she is not offended ? Miss Fling [angrili/^. — Offended ? One would think, to hear you, that I had the temper of a North American tigress ! Such insinuations, Miss Abby, would never be thought of, if I had not been cheated out of my property. Abby [^opens the box']. — My dear Miss Fling, I've been w^ishing to make you a little holiday present, and hope 3^ou'll please accept this cap. Miss Fling [taking it']. — Thank you. Miss Abby. Remarkable, I'm sure, that you should happen to re- member a poor lady like me, if I was 3- our first teacher. [Examines the ribbon.] Purple, upon my word ! If there is a color I can't abide, it's purple. But of course you didn't know that, and I'm just as much obliged to you [Puts it on over her other cap ; looks in the mirror.] Too large over the ears, too small in the crown ; doesn't come far enough forward to meet my hair. Now, child, if you'd only taken the measure of my head ! Abby [smiling]. — Perhaps, dear madam, if 3-0 u should remove that silk bandage [Knock. Miss Fling opens the door. Enter tivf) girls.] Both Girls. — A happ3^ New Year, Miss Fling, and many pleasant returns ! Miss Fling. — Two more of my old scholars ! How did it happen ? [Offers chairs.] Please take seats, young ladies. If 3'ou had called on me thirt3^ years ago, Iconld have offered you hair-cloth and mahogan3^ [Sighs.] But since I've lost m3^ propert3^ Louise [opening a bandbox]. — Miss Fling, I thought I would like to give 3^ou something as a token of my 224 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. good-will. \^Offers a velvet ho7inet.'} I hope you will like this. It was made by niy own milliner. ^ Miss Fling Isurprised^. — Why ! Thank you, Miss Louise. Keally, this is quite unexpected. [^Turns it over on her hand.^ Some like black bonnets ; but, for my part, I think they are only suitable for ladies in the down-hill of life. \_G-irls look at one another, and smile. Miss Fling puts the bonnet over her cap, and it perches upon the back of her head.'\ Well, Miss Louise, [look- ing in the mirror,'] yova' " own milliner" may be a French lady, and eat frogs every day of her life, but she doesn't know how to make a bonnet ! Louise. — Miss Fling, if you'll only remove that silk bandage and one of your caps Miss Fling [shatply']. — I've got the tickleroo in my cheeks, and it's likely to sta}^ there ! Do 3'ou think I'll wear a little nut-shell that wont leave room for so much as this ? Louise. — But it's so thick ! Miss Fling \jperching the bonnet on the summit of her head]. — Because I've caught cold in m}^ ear; the tinny- pum is affected. Take home this furbelow, and see if your doll can get it on. [But at the same time she puts the bonnet iri the bandbox, and carefully sets 'it away in a closet.] Jane [offering a shawl]. — Please accept, Miss Fling, with the compliments of the season. Miss Fling. — Thank you, Jane. Why, really, this is most astonishing! A shawl is better than nothing. I had a velvet cloak once, with eleo-ant frinoe. But I never expect to have a cloak of any kind again; for when people lose their property Jane. — Excuse me, Miss Fling ; but I once heard you sa}^ 3'ou wouldn't take the gift of a cloak, so I ven- tured to offer a shawl. Miss Fling. — You might have heard me say I never would take the gift of a shawl. Those were m3' words, Jane. [Putting it on.] It is the oldest looking gar- ment in the world, onl}'' suitable for a lady in the down- hill of life. Jane [grieved]. — I'm so sorry, Miss Fling. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 225 Louise [asitZe]. — She is delighted at heart. Never mind what she says, Jenny. [^Knocks. Miss Fling opens the door, still accoutred in her new garments ; shaiul put on awry ; bonnet perched on the organ of benevolence. Enter Kate.'] Kate. — Good-evening, Miss Fling. [^ShaTcei hands heartily.] Ah, ha ! You are dressed cap-a-pie! The happiest of New Years to you, for ever! \_Offers to kiss her.] Miss Fling \_drawing back]. — Wh}^, Kate ! Kate. — Oh ! but you taught me to read in two letters, Miss Fling. Can't you let me kiss you for New Year ? Miss Fling. — I was brought up never to Mss. My father was a gentleman of the old school. He consid- ered kissing a foolish use of the lips. Kate. — A fig for foolishness ! \_Seizes Miss Fling playfully by the shoulders ; kisses her several times.] There, there ! Now I've kissed you for Christmas an(^ New Year, and Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving ; and I'd like to see you help it. Miss Fling ! Miss Fling. — Oh, you foolish Galathian ! Your manners are very uncultivated, and always were. .You'll ruin my beautiful new cap and shawl. Jane [_aside]. — She calls the cap and shawl beautiful I Louise \aside]. — She has the same opinion of the bonnet. She likes it all the better for being in the height of fashion. Kate. — Now, Miss Fling, what a figure you are! What makes you roll up your face in a blanket ? Miss Fling. — A handkerchief, child ! On account of tickler 00 ; and also a pain in the ear. The tinnypum is afi'ected. Kate. — No wonder. Miss Fling. You keep your room too cold. Please, Abby, put some more coal on, for we came to spend the evening sociall}^ ; and this is certainh' a chillj^ reception. Miss Fling. — You were alwa^ys called a forward child, when 3^ou went to my school. You used to creep under the table, and I couldn't make you come out. Tor haven't improved one speck, Kate Gilman I The 15 226 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. idea of visitors touching my fire ! How do you kno^ I've any coal to spare ? Kate. — Oh ! Miss Fling, you like to be hospitable, you know you do. And now, please step into the next room ; for I've brought you a new dress, and long to see you try it on. Louise, will you light this little lamp for us? [^Louine takes the lamp and looks re und for matches.^ Miss Fling. — There is the match-safe, Louise, right under the clock. If it had been a bear, it would have bitten you. I shall be sure to catch my death o' cold, going out of this fire-room, Kate Gilman. But I sup- pose I must do as you say, you foolish child ! Kate. — To be sure, you must do as I say. And I am, as you playfully observe, a foolish child. [^JExeunt together.'] Abby. — Now is our time. IGoes to the door, followed by the other two girls. They all return with baskets.] Louise \_spreading a white cloth on the table, and putting upon it a large frosted cake, ornamented], — Behold a peace-offering for our amiable hostess 1 Abby [^putting on pitch'^.r and glasses]. — -Here's some lemonade, which we will diink to the gentle lady's health. Jane [adding two handsome dishes of confectionery]. — And here are some goodies. May they sweeten her disposition ! Abby [suspending an arch with letters of green, "A Happy New Year," over the table]. — She told me I needn't wish her a Happy New Year ; she shouldn't have one, if I did ; but what do you call this ? Louise. — Poor, unfortunate soul! [Setting lamps o?i table and lighting them.] Let us give her a slight illu- mination for once. Abby. — And a little warmth. Don't you perceive a change in the atmosphere since I replenished the fire? [Rubbing her hands.] Louise. — Yes, and Miss Fling's sad, frozen heart is thawing Do you observe it? SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 227 'Tane, — Iso wonder she gets cross living here with her own gloomy thoughts for company. Oh, we forgot to set chairs. [_Places them around the table. Enter Miss Fling, attired in black silk, with false front of curls, Abby^s cap on her head, her face free from bandage. Altogether her appearance is strikingly improved. She looks like a lady. Followed by Kate, who laughingly holds a lamp, and exhibits Miss Fling as if she were a painting.'] , Kate. — Look, girls ; here am I, Cinderella's god- mother ! I found my poor Cinderella sitting in the ashes ; I touched my wand and here she is all ready for the prince's ball. Make a courtesy, Miss Fling ! Miss Fling [_with a really graceful though oldfash- ioned courtesy']. — Good-evening, young ladies ! You see Kate is one of the kind that will be obeyed. But what have we here ? {^Looking at the table and holding up both hands]. Louise [putting shawl over 3Iiss Fling^s shoulders]. — Oh, you have come to the prince's ball, you know ! [Offers chair. Miss Fling sits at the table, sur- rounded by the girls, who also seat thenfis elves.] Miss Fling [smiling]. — Why, children, this is — why really this is quite unexpected ! It carries me back thirty years. It reminds me of the beautiful old times before I lost my property. [Draws herself up and looks very happy and proud. Kate as mistiness of ceremonies is about to cut the cake, when a loud knocking is heard, also several shrill whistles.] Miss Fling [starting up in alarm]. — Oh! what has happened ! Run, girls, the house is afire ! Put me out! Open the door ! Put me out! Save ray bonnet I In the closet ! Save that velvet bonnet I [ The girls all laugh.] Kate. — Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Fling. It'a only the boys — our brothers. They have come to add theif mite ai X gi-e 3'ou some coal. 228 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES Miss Fling [setting bach in her chair, putting handkerchief to her face as if undecided whether to cry or nof]. — It's first one thing, and then another. You girls and boys, take you both together, have given m}^ nerves a pretty start! Abby \_going to the door~\. — As I have made such free use of your coal, Miss Fling, I suppor^e ifs but fair that I should attend to the management of this. Now, where shall I tell the boys to have it put, if you please ? Miss Fling .[laughing^. — Oh, you foolish Galathian I In the cellar, where do you think ? \^Bursts into tears."] You dear, blessed children ! Such a holiday as this I've not known for many a year — not since I lost my property. Come here, every soul of you, and let me kiss 3^ou. Kate [laughing']. — Such foolishness. Miss Fling ! [ They all surround their hostess in a group. Boys still knocking and whistling.] Miss Fling. — You've killed me with kindness. [ They all kiss her at once. Curtain falls.] THE SISTERS. This little piece is founded on a passage in the Colo- nial history of New England, in which it is related that a young girl who had been captured by the Indians, re- maining among them till she reached the age of woman- hood, became the wife of a young chief Afterward, returning to visit the home of her infancy, she refused the earnest prayers of her parents and sisters to take up her abode with them, and with many tears, and ex- pressions of affection, she bade them farewell, and went back to the wigwam of her savage husband. The com- plete Indian costume of the mother and child may be made to contrast finely with a simple white dress of the SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 229 colonial fashion, worn by a blue-e^^ed blonde, as the English sister. Sister. — Go not, sweet sister, from our home of peace, Into those dark and gloomy wilds away ! Here, day by day, our household joys increase : There, deeper darkness settles, day by day. Stay thou beside our hearth of warmth and light, And nurture this fair child in English lore, — And in our mother's faith, that made more bright Those happy girlish days, so bright before I Indian Captiye. — Nay, gentle sister ! Deem not sadness dwells, Nor moral gloom, amidst our wigwams wild I This fair child lifts to heaven, at evening-tide, Hands pure as thine, and prayers as undefiled. And thou, my absent lord 1 believe not, thou, Thy wife will linger from thy side away I The sweetest sunshine crowns thy noble brow, My soul of home is in thy evening lay. I know thy tender trust is strong as death. Unchangeable as heaven, where'er thou art, And the sweet burden of that generous faith Lies safe, a shrined gem, upon my heart. I go, sweet sister ! yet believe thou well. No later love, how fond and close so e'er. Shall ever, from this forest-nurtured breast Unwind one bond to grateful memory dear. I go : but here, at thy beloved feet, I leave a portion of my heart's warm love ; And trust, in shame of narrow creeds, to greet Thee, and our mother, in that home above. Where thought of race or caste shall ne'er divide The pastor's daughter from the sachem's bride I 230 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. MANAGEMENT; OR, THE FOLLY OF FASHION. [The young girl performing in this dialogue will understand she is to be in party costume, without hoops beneath the calico dress, that the mere removal of hoops and dress may be quickly efifected.] Scene 1. — Mrs. Snooks in a loose calico dress busily sweeping. Enter Mr. Snooks. Mr. Snooks. — Dear! dear I what a dust! You're always in a htirry. ^Takes the broom from her and leans it up carelessly.'] Mrs. Snooks. — Well, you^re not I Mr. Snooks [^slowly, with hands in his pockets']. — No, I'm waiting for something to turn up. Mrs. Snooks. — Waiting for something to turn up, are you ? I wish you'd turn something up, and sup- pose you begin with my broom. You ought to know, any man ought to know, it ruins a broom to set it that way, the brush end should always be up, so; [^shows him] but to-morrow, Mr. Snooks, you'd come in and set that broom up the very same way, I'd be bound you would. [^She slips a bandana from his pocket and begins to dust the furniture, hurriedly.] Mr. Snooks. — Flurry, hurry, flurry I I hate this thing of flying around as though the world were a-fire ! [Sits down and affects to read a newspaper, but looks from time to time at Mrs. Snooks.] Mrs. Snooks [with arms a-kimbo]. — If I were you I'd \ot say fire — the world a-fire, indeed I If you were to p.'ovide the kindling the world wouldn't burn up soon — that last oven wood you got was a superfine article — ■ hardly wilted the pies, and left the bread all dough — and a pretty fuss you made about that. Your paper is very interesting, I presume! [Approaching him, and looking over his shoulders.] Mr. Snooks [gruffly]. — Of course, it is ! Mrs. Snooks. — I thought so ; ah ! I was quite sure of it I f Turning it up she shows him he had held it upside SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 231 down — a letter falls.'] Ah! there, I had almost forgot- ten ; this is our invitation to Mrs. Stuckup's party — the greatest affair of the season ! Mr. Snooks. — Don't ! oh, don't say Mrs. Stuckup's party to me, I know what that means ! Mrs. Snooks. — What ! Mr. Snooks. — Dresses and ribbons, feathers and flow- ers, and Mrs. Snooks. — Fiddlesticks ! Mr. Snooks. — Yes, fiddlestick, and worse than that, oh, far worse ! she'll want me to dance, and I wont ! I wont 1 I wont ! Mrs. Snooks. — Oh ! Mr. Snooks, how you do go on I Why you are one of Mrs. Stuckup's favorites ; how she does admire your taste ! Mr. Snooks. — Yes. Mrs. Snooks. — And she will be pleased with the bon- net you'll choose for me ! Mr. Snooks. — Yes, she will admire the nice new bon- net you'll get out of me, by your blarney. I'll just tell you I've no notion. \_She goes close up to Mm, looking very smiling.'] Oh, don't think it ! I feel a contempt for Mrs. Stuckup, and fashion, and you. [^He jumps up.] \_Mrs Snooks at the same time rises, and takes the cap from his head.] Mr. Snooks. — Oh, I forgot to take my cap off. I didn't mean any disrespect to you. What on earth *are you turning that cap around and around for ? and what does that delighted expression on j'our face mean ? Mrs. Snooks.— Oh, I have it now, Mr. Snooks! Mr. Snooks. — Have, what? Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, such a capital idea ; just let me have my own way, and I'll save you ten dollars, right straight I Mr. Snooks. — No, you shan't have your own way, either — not a bit of it ! No, no I Mrs. Snooks. — Yes ! yes ! yes I Mr. Snooks. — No ! no ! n Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, to save ten dollars ! [^Lays her hand on his arm.] Mr. Snooks. — Well, how ? 232 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mrs. Snooks. — Sit clown, now, and listen to me. You know you don't care about fashion ? Mr. Snooks. — No. Mrs. Snooks. — And I do! Mr. Snooks. — Yes 1 oh, yes Mrs. Snooks. — WeU, see here, now; I'll put this piece of velvet about here, and this feather I'll put here, and, now — oh, isn't it a love, a beauty ? Why, I declare, 'tis beyond my expectations! the effect is decidedly fine. Ah I Mrs. Stuckup will admire that 1 That, she will say, is some more of your husband's taste — his wonder- ful taste. Mr. Snooks. — Taste ! taste ! rather a bitter taste, I should think ! Woman ! woman ! what do you mean, woman ? Mrs. Snooks. — Don't stand there and call me woman, as if a woman was something you never saw before ! Mr. Snooks. — You've taken my best hat ! what am I to do ? Mrs. Snooks [^soothingly, and producing an old and very shocking hat']. — Why, bless your head and your heart, man! you don't care for fashion, and here, now, is my grandfather's hat, as good as new ; you can wear that, I'm sure — you're very welcome to it. [^She puts it on his head]. There, now ! Mr. Snooks [walks to a mirror and surveys himself] — aSIadam, it is not comfortable 1 Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, you'll soon get used to it! Mr. Snooks. — No doubt ; well, I will. I will weai the concern provided you will in other respects dress according to my taste — my taste that is so lauded by Mrs. Stuckup. Mrs. Snooks. — Now 'tis time I were dressing. I must be going ; give me your suggestions, quickly I Mr. Snooks. — Well, see here, I know you will, as you gave up the ten dollar bonnet to please me, you can't have any objections ; you'll just leave off these circular absurdities — this crinoline. Mrs. Snooks [with hands upraised in astonishment].-^ Ah 1 [then laughing]. Yes, yes, I will; I will please you this once ; I'll be ready in a minute, yes, in half a min- ute. [She- runs off laughing.] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 233 Mr. Snooks '[gazes on the hat, turning it in every posi- lion, and soliloquizes — using his luatch^. — A minute, in- deed ! she'll keep me half an hour, she'll be sure to ; of course she wont ; I wish she would leave the hoops off. But, yes, she shall, I can show my authority if I want to; she shall do it ; how I'll laugh to see her, and wont I enjoy madam Stuckup's surprise, I'll tell her that's some of my taste. That minute is rather lengthy, and I know it would be useless to call " hurry," she's all hurry now, and will keep hurrying till I'm half crazy. Here, Mrs. Snooks I Mrs. Snooks ! come hurry, hurry, we'll be too late I [^Enter 3Irs. Snooks in elegant party dress, but with- out hoops."] Mrs. Snooks. — Oh I we will make all the greater sen- sation on our entrance. Mr. Snooks [starting back aghast]. — Why I What upon earth, you look like a broom-stick I I'd be likely to go with you ! You're a beauty ! Mrs. Snooks. — Thank you, 'tis many a long day since I received such a compliment 1 Mr. Snooks. — But Mrs. Snooks ! Mrs. Snooks. — What's wrong ? Mr. Snooks. — Mrs. Snooks, I can provide clothing enough for you to make a genteel appearance. My goodness I how skimpy you do look ! Mrs. Snooks. — Why, Mr. Snooks, this is your taste • here, put on your hat, Mrs. Stuckup will be delighted ! Mr. Snooks. — Oh, you don't mean ! Oh, dear !" Mrs. Snooks. — Why, come on, I've learned to despise fashion, too Mr. Snooks. — Put one on, please, just one hoop. Mrs. Snooks. — Oh, it's too late now; come, come away, I will be the admired of all [She hurries him along with her. As they leave the stage he says, ruefully : " If she will, she will, you may depend on't, . If she wont, she wont, and there's an end on't." 234 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. COLUMBUS AT THE COURT OF SPAIN. OHAEAOTERS. Queen Isabella. Juan Perez de Marchena. Dona Beatrix de Bobadilla. Luis de St. Angel. King Ferdinand. Fernando de Talavera. Christopher Columbus. Pedro, a page. In the second scene, an Indian or two. [We leave the costumes of King, Queen and Page, and the court dresses of the rest, to the tastes of teachers and pupils. Prints in any school geography or history will suggest the styles of the times.] Scene 1. — King and Queen seated upon the throne, the Lady Beatrix near the Queen, and the Page in view. The Page announces ''Juan Perezy Queen. — Grant him admittance. King. — Oh, Isabella! must we listen again to the wild schemes of this dreamer Columbus ? [Perez e7uering.'\ Queen [addressing the King']. — Our friend, Juan Perez. It is the part of wisdom, Ferdinand, to listen patiently and consider well of these weighty matters. King. — Well, Perez, go on ; we will hear the old story over again. Perez. — Will your gracious majesties listen to me once more. I would fain have you receive this remark- able man, Senor Christopher Columbus ; he is no idle dreamer, as you have supposed. King. — An enthusiast; a mad enthusiasti Page. — Don Fernando Talavera. Talavera [to Perez]. — What ! you here, Perez. ^To the King.] Oh, my King 1 what is Spain coming to, when she talks of fitting out an expedition in search of a jack-o'-lantern ? Queen. — Nay, Fer Jinand 1 we will hear Columbus : if it is folly, call it mine ; if it is glory, you shall share it. Perez. — Oh, thank you, gentle queen. Talavera. — I beg your pardon, but this man Colum- bus is surely a little afiected up about here [touching his SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 2B5 head]. Why the verj^ children point to their foreheads as he passes. Queen. — Don Talavera, you are too severe ; now pause awhile, for I woul take a woman's counsel. Dona Beatrix, will you urge the claims of Columbus to me once more ? You are enthusiastic but not rash. King. — A woman and not rash. Oh ! Queen.— Dear Dona Beatrix, you must win the king over to our side. Proceed. Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella! Gracious queen and dear friend, something within my breast tells me that this man is intimately connected with the highest good and glory of Spain. Do not think of him as a vagrant dreamer, a nameless adventurer, hovering about courts for the sake of gaining honors and titles for himself; think rather of the sublimity of all that noble mind has conceived ; think of all that noble heart has suffered. For eighteen weary years he has toiled and hoped so bravely. Oh I there is a grandeur in such hope as his, and God will surely reward it. My queen, look not coldly upon such enterprises as his, calling them mere adventure. Know you not thait Adventure is the child of Prosperity ? And now, in these most prosperous days of Spain, it would be madness in you to let the banner-folds of another nation fly where yours dare not. Perez. — Oh, gracious sovereigns! did you know this man's modesty you would not doubt his honesty; on our first meeting, 'twas but a little bread and water for his child he asked. Page. — Don Luis St. Angel. Queen. — Just in time ; most welcome. King \to Talavera^. — We shall be overwhelmed. To the ladies this man is a host — sanguine as they. St. Angel. — Listen, your majesties, ere it is too late. If Senor Columbus is not at once patronized, he will quit the country, and this would, I believe, be an irre- parable loss to Spain. Why, oh ! why, when you have risked so much in so many perilous adventures, fear now to risk so little when the gain would be incalculable ? Consider, with its suc- cess ho^ ii^uch may be done toward extending your owt 236 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. power and dominion ; how much for the glory of God and the exaltation of the Church ! Page. — Senor Christopher Columbus. Talavera [aside to the king']. — In a court-dress, too; the last time I saw him he was threadbare and looked most forlorn. Queen. — And is this Columbus ? Welcome, most welcome to our presence ! Now reveal without hesita- tion what thy hopes are should we see proper to grant the wished-for outfit. Columbus. — Ah! your majesties; could you but know of the tumult of wild hope that agitates me now. But I know you will listen patiently. Eighteen weary years have I sought for the means of traversing the ocean to the westward, and every day of all those years have my convictions grown stronger that all my hope should yet be realized. Far away over the broad and blue Atlantic lie fair islands, whose trees beckon, whose breezes whisper me to come, whose clear gushing fountains alone can cool my spirit's fever. Most gracious sovereigns, these dreams were born in Heaven. The}^ have haunted me from early boyhood. King. — Columbus, do your own words declare you to be a dreamer, then ? Talavera. — This is enchanting 1 Do you not think so, Dona Beatrix ? Dona Beatrix. — I do ! I believe this conviction is truly Heaven-sent. I believe that far toward the sun- set flowers bloom, forests wave, and waters flow in sweet expectancy of the coming of Columbus. Queen. — I am strangely moved. If it should be sol oh 1 if it should be that the banners of Castile and Ara- gon should float over now unknown lands ; that there the heathen should turn from his idols and bow before the cross. St. Angel. — Then act, oh, beloved queen ! upon the impulse of this present moment, or our great rivals, Portugal or France or England, may bear thither their flags. The present is the golden moment. I beg that you will, for your own sake and the honor of Spain, grant to Columbus what he asks. King. — But I would have reasons. We have sent to SCHOOLUAY DIALOGUES. 237 our learned and scientific men to investigate this rare project, and many of them considered to have sound judgment have pronounced in its favor. Wherefore ? Columbus. — I arrange tliis under three heads. First, the nature of things ; second, the authority of learned writers ; third, the reports of navigators. Talavera. — This is a new story. A moment ago, islands far beyond nowhere were calling him. King. — Well, hear him. Columbus. — I can not doubt that the world is round — Talavera. — The man is crazy. Columbus. — Its shadow on the moon during an eclipse shows this, and there are many other reasons for believ- ing it to be as other planets. Supposing the world to be round, it is not reasonable that hundreds of leagues should be but an expanse of ocean devoid of land. Fur- ther, there are many reports of navigators to confirm me in my idea of land lying to the westward. The Canary and Cape Yerde Islands were once unknown ; why should we suppose them to be the boundaries of all knowledge we shall ever gain ? Perez. — Oh, let us aid him to explore the wonders and secrets of the universe ! St. Angel. — Here is a splendid opportunity to sur- pass all kings and princes. Let it not pass. Even his failure can not reflect disgrace upon you. Columbus. — But I shall not fail, my heart tells me I shall not ! I would that you could see how sometimes before my mental vision is unrolled the broad bright vista of the future. How wonderfully in God's provi- dence do the chariot wlieels of human progress roll on ! The newly discovered art of printing has awakened the world on this side the water, and oft I dream it shall be carried to enlighten islands and continents afar. Talavera. — He talks of a world on this side the water, now I believe that I have more faith in that than the one on the other side. King. — Let him go on. What more, Columbus ? Columbus. — There can never again be a dark age. Never shall the new light of knowledge spread abroad by the power of the printing press be trampled out. There will be no pause now for the career of science j and should 238 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. God will that all these high-born hopes of poor Colum- bus should fall to the ground, even then he would not quite despair; some other happier man will take up his theories, while the sphere of navigation will extend, and perhaps, yet, some great discoverer, unshackled b}^ the impediments that have beset my pathway, when he touches upon some beautiful sunset shores toward which this hand pointed him, will remember me — will weep for what I might have been ! BEATRix.-^Oh, queen ! this must not be 1 Would you could see with me the grandeur of this enterprise ! Tell me, could this man live the good life he has lived, struggling through poverty and ridicule, and wearing disappointments — yet, amid all, cling to this idea — it there was not truth in it ? Queen. — I know not what to think I King. — Great caution is necessary. St. Angel. — To you, my king, that word may have but a slight meaning ; but, oh ! I know, to Columbus, it is a word of almost heart-breaking import— y^ears, and years, and years — and then to speak in his presence of caution. Perez. — But never was man so endowed with jja- tience as this man ; he considers all else light in com- parison with this enterprise to which he has devoted himself. Dividing his scanty means with his aged father at Genoa, traveling on foot with thread-bare garments, with a hungry child, pausing but to ask for a little bread and water. Talavera. — And recompensed your kindness with his wild stories. Perez. — Yes, more than recompensed. I received his opinions with unwavering faith. I wish, for his sake, that I were king. King. — A common wish, but for a most uncommon reason, to benfit another. Beatrix. — Good Perez, I thank you for your kind- ness to Columbus, and trust that God will reward you for it. Surely, after death, you will be exalted into a white-winged angel of Hope. Queen. — Go on, Columbus, your talk is pleasant iu SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 239 my ear, whether it be of 3'our dreams or of j^our reasons. GoLrMBUS. — Oh! most indulgent queen ! listen, then, a little longer ! It must be that there is land lying to- ^vard the sunset. Have you not heard how on the coast of the Cape Yerde Islands two men were cast up by the waves of the Atlantic, differing both in color and feature from any known race ? also, a cane curiously wrought, but bearing no mark of iron instruments ? Trunks of strange trees have been found far OQt at sea, and unknown reeds and grasses. These islands, or this land, then, await discovery; and now, that 3'ou have conquered the Moors, why not turn your attention to a more important expe- dition than you have yet fitted out ? Queen. — Ah ! why ? King. — Why has not your own country, Genoa, hear- kened to you ? Columbus. — I grieve to say that my own land, the republic of Genoa, is now in a languishing condition, and can not aid me. Queen. — What do you say, Ferdinand ? King. — Say ! AYhy now that we have conquered the Moors, and are acknowledged one of the first, if not the first power in Europe, j'ou can busy yourself among your jewels — and Queen. — My jewels! I — must I pla}- with baubles, while the richer jewels of a royal mind are strewn to the winds, and great hopes perish, and heathen souls are shipwrecked ? King. — After years of the turmoil of war the natioD needs rest. Perez. — Idleness is the file that wears away pros perity, be it ever so great. St. Angel. — Hope on, Columbus. What though you meet not here the aid you ask ? A recent letter from the King of Portugal invites your return ; and the learned men of France bend, even now, o'er these maps and charts. Conviction must grow to certainty as they gaze. Oh, Isabella, Ferdinand, Beatrix, this is no dream ! Co- lumbus, wh}' linger? Thy life is passing; waste not I will go 240 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. with you to France, or return with j^ou to Portugal ; or we will set sail for distant England. Beatrix. — Oh, Isabella, before it is too late, con- sider — can you, will you, allow all this honor, glory, and power, now within your grasp, to pass to another ? Ah ! I sigh to think how much less worthy that other sovereign will be than my own. St. Angel. — We ask so little^but three small vessels. Let us away I The enterprise promises too much to be rejected elsewhere, and perchance English sails will first whiten some glad far-distant waters, while the lazy Span- iard hovers about his own shores, as snails coil in their shell tenements, that heed not and know not of aught else. We must go! Perez. — May all good angels attend you ; and I and the good brothers will care for your child. Talavera. — Tuat everlasting child ; give it a little bread and water ! St. Angel. — Time passes. Queen. — I echo it, time passes ! but oh, Columbus, think you, if you do undertake this voyage, this ventur- ing upon the unknown deep, that 3^ou will certainly find the wished-for islands ? Perchance they exist only in your own imagination — nnd you might go drifting, drift- ing, drifting, the sport of winds and waves for years. Columbus. — One hour, with Heaven's blessins; restino on it, is more than time enough to find a world ! King. — I would tha' world were found. Queen. — It shall b^. Heaven willing, for I will pledge my ro^^al jewels that he may go. Beatrix. — 1 am too happy 1 King. — My good Isabella. Columbus. — I have not lived in vain ; I could weep like a child ! St. Angel. — I could laugh, and leap and shout like a boy! Perez. — The saints be praised 1 Talavera. — I have nothing to say, so say nothing. Queen [_to Page]. — Bring me my casket of most pre- cious jewels. \_To Beatrix.] — Take thou the brigiitest jewel from my crown; and undo this necklace, worn SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 241 since childhood. M^^ soul now seems flooded with the grandeur of this enterprise. [ZTere the Page returns.'] Beatrix. — But pause ; this is the jewel of jewels in a crown of Castile ! and this lovely necklace — can they not be saved ? • Queen. — Nay, nay, they charm me no longer. Co- lumbus, now I feel that thy hopes shall be realized. Noble, patient, long-suffering one, forgive our tardiness. I feel that you will give to Spain her crowning triumph. King. — Columbus, I will hope as the Queen does, and shall ever feel grateful that you have conferred upon us the honor of giving patronage to this great scheme. May it succeed ! Beatrix. — Fair be the winds, and bright the sides, and calm the waves for thee, Columbus. May many a ti^trange flower bloom in thy pathway. May sweetest song-birds cheer thee, and mayest thou drink of the waves of glad fountains, and rest in the shadow of trees even lovelier than those of Andalusia. Queen. — And there will the blessed Cross go^and the story of the dear Redeemer. Columbus. — Yes, lovel}^ Queen, there shall our blessed religion go ; and ever, next to my love for it, will I cher- ish fond memories of thee. All the uncertainty, all the danger before me, are as nothing in th s proud and happy hour. Now, indeed, under this new-born rainbow of hope, does the future stand arrayed in dazzling sheen I dream that there may come a time when even all Mm YO\)Q may be a field too narrow for the proud step of Freedom ; that an enlightenment far, far beyond what earth has yet known, may rise and stream over lands that lie towaiM the setting sun. Now I have almost too much, for Isabella, for Ferdinand, for Spain, for the future, for the great interests of humanity, for these dear friends, and for the voice within my own breast, that ridicule, neglect, poverty and time could never silence — and for the religion of our fathers. Now, for the first time, I feel it all in its awful splen- dor, and it almost overcomes me — St. Angel, Dona Bea- trix, my Queen ! King. — I will trust that all is well ! Perez — I go to tell the good news to the Brothers 1 16 242 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Talavera. — There is no mistake ; the man is crazy [ Curtain falls.'] Scene 2. — King and queen seated, enter Dona Beatrix. Beatrix. — This is a most glorious day for Spain I the joy bells ring, and the shouts of glad thousands tremble upon the air I He has returned ! our brightest anticipations have been more than realized ! Thine is a glorious reign, and long to be remembered in history ! Spain stands first amongst Christian nations ! she has now ascended the proudest heights of 'triumph ! — - And now she may rest with her banners furled, On the heights of Fame she hath found a world ! And what hath she more to do ? \_Enter Page, announcing ''Don Talavera.''^'] Talavera. — The procession is coming this way, all sorts of gew-gaws along, and some strange red men, too. A terrble fuss in the streets, all the ladies at the windows. I used to think Columbus crazy, now every body else seems to be, [Page announces ''Father Perez.''^'] Perez. — A happy contrast this, to our last reception here, then fears were mingled with our hopes, now our highest, highest hopes, are lost in perfect triumph I Now, Columbus comes surrounded by the flower of Spain's chivalry, and receives the homage of the bravest and fairest. Queen. — This is the triumph hour of Isabella's life I This day shall furnish the greatest theme for the greatest painter 1 the noblest subject for the noblest poet, for many, many a year to come. King. — I am lost in astonishment and overwhelmed with delight 1 This wonderful man ! this great Colum- bus ! why kings are insignificant by his side ! I can scarcely realize now, that he is the same follower of the court, who from 3^ear to year pressed upon us, what we, with our more limited ideas, conceived to be but wild schemes. Oh, Perez 1 your goodness is rewarded now 1 Perez — Aye, at last. It seems to me but yesterday, he came to our convent gate a poor, unknown stranger, and ashed "A little bread and water for his child!" SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 243 ALAVERA.— "^h, preserve me ! must I hear that again ? [_Page announces, "Senor Columbus, Don Louis St. An- gel, and an Indian, a reaUndian I^''] CoLdMBUS. — My noble sovereigns, all the honor is yours, I was but the humble instrument in the hands of God, of giving to Castile and Leon a New World ! St. Angel. — Not Portugal, not France, not England, to have this triumph, but it is for Spain, only for Spain, oh ! how wild are mj^ transports ! Queen. — Heaven has smiled upon our efforts, and oh, St Angel ! how shall we thank you enough ? It was your eloquence, that persuaded our doubting hearts ! You, too, Beatrix, had your own high part in this, and Perez, your honest friendship is rewarded now, and my noble Indian friend is welcome. Pedro, a chair for Columbus. Beatrix. — I saw all this long ago ; I knew these glad tidings would one day thrill through Spain. St. Angel, we are surely scarce less happy than Columbus. St. Angel. — To me, also, was this day revealed — I knew it must come ; I looked on it as a certainty. Talavera. — How apt is every son and daughter of Adam to greet all events, great and small, w4th " There, I knew it !" Queen. — Speak not lightly, now, my noble Talavera; the country has been discovered and gold and gems brought thence ; now la}'- aside your caution, and rejoice with us. King. — Yes, Talavera. we have nothing more to risk. I deem myself a good king, but acknowledge Isabella a better queen. Talavera. — I do rejoice with you ; but look you now, when Columbus sailed right in the direction of this land, how could he help finding it ? It was an easy matter enough; give me ships and men, and I'll go myself Columbus. — Will vour maiesty o-ive me an eo-o-? Queen. — An egg ? Columbus. — Yes, only an (tgg. I wish to favor Tala- vera with a trifling illustration of his position. 244 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Queen [to page]. — Pedro, bring Senor Columbus an eo-or. °^ King. — What can he want with an Qgg ; Queen. — What, Ferdinand 1 have you curiosity about such a trifle ? King. — Not much ! Q,ueen. — Tell us, oh Columbus, somewhat of that far wondrous heathen land ? Beatrix — Oh, yes ! we long to hear of it. Columbus. — Words can not paint its glories, its won- ders, and its beauties. The waves are as pure as crystal, the flowers ai'e of indescribable beaut}^ the trees are glorious to behold ! Ah, Beatrix, your wishes followed me there. The inhabitants are simple as chil- dren. Their lives beautiful as a dream of romance. And, lovely queen, there was not an hour that I did not think of and bless you. [Enter page with an egg.] King. — The egg ! Talavera, favor us again Avith 3^our last remark, that I may feel the full force of this illus- tration. Talavera. — I said 'twas an easy matter to reach this land ; give me men and ships and I'll go. [Here Columbus takes the egg, and asks Talavera, St. Angel, and Perez to balance it — all try vainly.] King. — Here, I'll try, too. I never thought of such a thing before, and have seen a thousand eggs. [ Trying, he goes on.] Why, I can't. How, now, Columbus I why I can't do it, and I'm a king ; it looks as though it ought to be done. 1 wonder if the Kings of England, France, or Portugal can do this. Such a contrary egg ! yet it looks like all others. I'd like to do this ! who ever did? Here, Isabella, 3^ou may try; you, too, Beatrix ; curiosity will surely prompt you ladies to do your utmost. [Both try in vain.] Queen. — Curiosit}^ patience, perseverance, all aie vain I King. — I don't believe any body can do it. Talavera. — Who would want to ? St. Angel. — Columbus, do balance this e^gg, I am sure you can. [Columbus taking the egg, balances it by striking it SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 245 upon the table, with just force enough to break the shell slightly at the small end, when it stands firmly.] Talavera. — Any body could do it that way 1 King. — Ha, ha, ha. Yes, since Columbus has shown you how I Bravo ! bravo ! Perez. — Most excellent ! St. Angel. — Always right I Beatrix. — How charming! Queen. — The world contains bat one Columbus I Talavera [offering his hand to Columbus, who takes it], — Now 1 am heartily your friend ! THE SILYEK DOLLAR. CHARACTERS. Harry Seetin. Mr. Berkley. A Flower Girl, afterwards Mrs. Berkley. Scene L — A counting-house. Harry Seetin discovered with newspaper in his hand. Harry.— Not much doing to-day — that's certain! Well, if I just had the time and the money to spare I'd go to hear Professor Baker lecture to-night, but I must be here until nine o'clock, and besides this, my funds are rather low, and I will have to be economical. I wonder if Mr. Patterson isn't going to raise my wages soon I think it is high time he would if he is going to live up to his promise. If he doesn't I'll have to seek employ- ment elsewhere. Hello ! who comes here ? [Enter Eliza, a little girl, ivith a basket of bouquets.] Eliza. — Please sir, wont you buy a bouquet ? Harry. — Bouquet ? No ! What do I want with a bouquet? I'm sure I've got no fair lady friend, to pre- sent it to, and, as for myself, I either haven't the time to admire bouquets, or else I haven't any taste. No, little girl, I don't want a bouquet. Eliza. — But please sir, do buy one. I've been trjdng 246 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. to sell all day, and no one cares any thing for them. Please buy one, sir, for we need money very much. lAl- most crying.'] Harry. — Well, well, don't cry little girl. You say we need money very much. Whom besides yourself do you support by selling bouquets ? Eliza. — My mother, sir; and she has been very sick for a long time and I can scarcely make enough to keep ourselves alive and from being turned out of doors hy the landlord. Harry. — Well, I don't want a bouquet, but here's a dollar [_hoAids money]; take it, and may you soon see better times ! Eliza. — Oh, thank you, sir, I will remember you as long as I live, and may God bless you and Harry. — Oh, never mind, little girl — it's nothing. Kun home to your poor sick mother and be kind to her. Eliza. — Oh, you are a kind man and I wish there were more like you in the world. [^Exit Eliza.] Harry. — There's another dollar gone. Well, that cuts off my supply of cigars for awhile, but I don't care. Mother used to tell me to cast my bread upon the waters and after many daj^s I would receive it. Well, I've cast a dollar away, or rather, I've cast a good many cigars awa}^ and bestowed a dollar on a poor little girl. Won- der if 'twill ever return. I don't know why it is that all the poor little girls come to me for money and never ask Mr. Patterson. I'm sure he is a thousand times abler to give than I am. Well, I don't regret giving this little girl the dollar for she certainly is honest — I'm sure of that ; and then her mother is sick, and they are very poor. I wish I had money enough to place all the p*oor people in the world in comfortable circumstances, and make mj^self a little more comfortable too. \_Curtain falls.] Scene 2. — Room in Mr. Berkley^s house. Time, even- ing. Mr. and Mrs. Berkley discovered. Ten years are supposed to have elapsed between first an(i second scenes. Mrs. Berkley. — Who was that man who was in here a sho"^ time ago ? SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 247 Mr. Berkley. — His name is Seetin — Harry Seetin, I believe. He came to apply for the situation of book- keeper. He said he had been at the store and found it closed and thought he would call here. Mrs. B. — Did you give him the situation ? Mr. B. — No, I didn't promise it to him, but told him t,o call at the store to-morrow and I would give him an answer. He makes a very poor mouth of it. He sa^^s his wife has been sick for some time, and that his two little children have barely enough to keep them alive. One doesn't know whether to believe half the stories one hears or not. However, this man looks honest enough, and from his appearance I know he hasn't a very great share of this world's goods. I told him to call at the store to-morrow and I would give him an answer. Mrs. B. — Give him the situation. I ask it as a favor. Mr. B. — And why, my love, do you take such an in- terest in the man ? Mrs. B. — I will tell you. You know that ten years ago, and long before you married me, I was very poor. I was out one day trying to sell bouquets to make some- thing with which to purchase some delicacy for my mother, who was very sick. I could not sell a single bouquet. No person would buy. They would not even look at them. I went into Mr. Patterson's store and found this young man there and asked him to buy. He replied that he didn't want a bouquet — that he didn't care any thing for them, but he gave me a silver dollar. He would hardly let me thank him for it; and I ran home very happy. I have seen Mr. Seetin several times since, but not since we were married until this evening, and never dreamed that he was in such straightened circumstances. When I saw him go out of the door I knew him to be the same person who had befriended me ten years ago, and now, as a favor, T ask that you give him the situation. Mr. B. — Most assuredly shall he have the situation. There are two other applicants who come with rather better recommendations than does Mr. Seetin, but he shall have the preference. And, my dear, you are very right to remember those who were kind to you long ago, when yru were poor and when you needed kindness most 248 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. I will write a note to Mr. Seetin this evening and send with Thomas, telling him he can have the situation. Fortu- nately he left his address with me. Mrs. B. — You need not go to so much trouble, Wil- liam. You know he will call at the store to-morrow. Mr. B. — I know ; but, somebod}' has said that delaj^s are dangerous, and it's true. From what Mr. Seetin said, I know that he and his family are very much in want. And, my dear here is a one hundred dollar note [hunding money']. You shall give that to him — a dollar for every cent he gave you — and write him a note stating that it is given in grateful remembrance of the silver dollar bestowed on a poor little girl ten years ago. [ Curtain falls.'] OIL ON THE BRAIN. CHARACTERS. Squire Hopeful, a retired alderman in moderate circumstances, Samuel BaLxMoral, a dry goods clerk. Mr. Simon Fogy, his uncle, a garrulous church deacon. Bob, small son of the squire. Fred, his cousin. Caroline, daughter of the squire, and loved by Samuel. Miss Arabella, her maiden aunt. \_Enter Simon Foyy and his nephew.']^ Simon. — If you do, you're a fool, that's alL Samuel. — Why, uncle, I see no harm in trying; be- sides, how can I hope to support Caroline properly, situ- ated as I am. I have now a chance to become, it may he, wealthy; at least to greatly improve my present con- ilition. I am assured by these, who are well informed^ that this is an excellent company. Simon. — Excellent nonsense! Xow mark what I tell you — no good will ever arise from this oil speculation. I have been opposed to it from the first, and I have had no reason to change my opinion. It is nothing more nor less than gambling. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 249 S iMUEL. — Uncle, I shall beg leave to differ from 3^ou. You know Shakspeare says, " There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to for- tune." Simon. — I am pretty sure the bard did not allude to Oil Creek. Samuel. — Well, just as you please. I have decided to invest. [Uxit.'] Simon, — It seems as if every one had gone crazy ! From morning until night, I hear nothing but oil I oil ! OIL I on the streets, in the cars, at home, abroad, in fact everywhere, it is the only theme of conversation. I have become so sick of the subject that I hate to hear the word oil mentioned. \_Enter squire with pa].)ers in his hand.'] Simon. — Good-morning, squire ; what have j^ou there ? Squire. — Something of importance, I assure jom. We are about to organize an oil company, offering ex- cellent inducements to those who, like you and me, have but a small capital and wish to see it increased. I thought that you, being a particular friend of mine, should be informed of the chance before it became gen- erally known. Just look at this prospectus ! Simon [throwing the paper aside]. — Don't talk to me of oil companies and the ruinous speculation which they cause ! I am opposed to it, sir ; conscientiously and re- ligiously opposed to it. I wouldn't invest a dime in any of your boasted companies ; they are swindles, sir, from beginning to end. Squire [aside]. — What a queer old grampus he is. Well, Simon ! if I can not induce you to embrace the present opportunity and make your fortune I must bid you good-morning. [Exit.] Simon. — I, Simon Fogy, deacon of a church, invest in oil ! that's a pretty idea ! The good book says : '* Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth," and if I do, it shall be something more secure than coal oil. Bah I it makes me sick to think of it. [Enter Caroline, singing :] "And every one is troubled with Oil on the brain." 250 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Simon. — I repel the insinuation with scorn ; I, for one, remain uncontaminated by the pre '/ailing reckless infatuation. Caroline. — 'Why, is it possible, Mr. Fogy ! that yon have failed to take the necessary steps to enrich your- self, at a time when fortunes are made in a day, and millionaires are almost as plentiful as beggars! But see, what a splendid piece of music Mr. Balmoral has given me ! Simon. — A most miserable subject at any rate. Caroline. — Do you really think so ? I don't ; and if 3^ou will come and hear me play it, perhaps, you will think differently. Well ! if j^ou wont I must go alone. Simon. — IS'c^w, one might think that women and girls would be exempt from such foolishness; but, alas! I'm afraid it is not the case. Ah ! here comes the charming Miss Arabella. [Enter Miss Arabella.'] Simon. — Pleasant morning, ma'am. Arabella. — Yery pleasant, indeed, Mr. Fogy. Have you seen the Squire this morning ? Simon. — Yes, ma'am, and am sorry to hear from his own lips that he has been foolish enough to put his money into oil stocks. Arabella. — He alwaj's was a fool as far as money was concerned. Simon. — What could have prompted him to take so rash a step ? Arabella. — I really can not tell. I suppose he be- lieves it will make a wealthy man of him ; but in my opinion, he will never realize a single cent of the money he has been dunce enough to invest. Simon. — I agree with you on that point. Arabella. — You can not imagine, Mr. Fogy, how changed he has become. Now, last night, for instance, instead of coming home at the proper time, as a decent man sliould do, he staid away until far after tea time, and when he did come, he brought with him a great crowd of men, and insisted on us getting supper for them. After they had stuffed themselves full of every thing eatable in the house, they all marched into the »^est room ; and there they sat arid smoked their filthy SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 251 tobacco, and talked of oil and stocks, and flowing-wells and certificates, till my head reeled, and it required a pretty good dose of the old legitimate castor oil to set me riojht again. Simon. — In my opinion the world has gone mad, and not content with performing its daily and annual revo- lutions in the customary manner, has conceived the idea of greasing its axis and orbit, in order to move more expeditiously, and with less effort. Arabella. — Very true ! very true ! I But who have w^e here ? \_Enter Fred and Boh, singing.'] Bob. — My dear Aunt Bell, did jom never hear tell, of the man that drowned himself in. a fifty barrel well ? Fred. — When he found out his stocks he couldn't sell. lExit] Arabella. — Why, even the children seem to have caught the infection ! [Enter Caroline hastily.] Caroline. — Have you heard the news ? Arabella. — No ! what is it ? Caroline. — I don't know as I can tell you properly, but papgi's company has, as he says, "struck oil," and the yield is so great, that the stock has risen — I don't know how much and he is going to sell his shares im- liied lately. Arabella. — I don't believe a word of it ! Simon. — Nor I, either. \_Enter Samuel.] Samlel. — Now, my dear Caroline, congratulate me. "Che stock which I bought, has, in this short time, risen 60 much per share, that I have been induced to sell, and have realized again far beyond my greatest expectations. Caroline. — I am so glad ! [Enter Squire.] vSquire. — Hurrah ! Our fortunes are made, Arabella ! 1 knew money was to be made out of this oil business. Why, how are you, Sam ? I hear that you, too, have been Buccessful ? Sam. — It is indeed true, and through the beneficial influence of such success, I am enabled to ask 3'ou foi' the hand of your daughter, without experiencing the disagreeable sensation of being unable to support her Squire. — I admire your candor, Sam — ^}^ou shal. have her with all my heart. [Joining their hands.'} May God bless you both ! 252 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. [Fx't all hut Hiss Arabella and Simon.'] Arabella — I believe there is some substance in this oil speculation after all, Mr. Fogy. Simon. — It begins to look so, indeed ; and my dear Arabe la, as we have just seen, success in love followed fast success in the oil business. May I not hope, then, in case similar good fortune should fall to my lot, that the lovely Miss Arabella will accept the proffered heart and hand of Simon Fogy ? May I not ? do not say no. [Affectedly.] Arabella [with emotion]. — There is no refusing you, Simon ! [Fall^ into his arms.] Simon. — It's oil right ; never venture never win. As far as oil's concerned, I'm in. [Exit.] GOING TO BE AN ORATOR. Scene. — Two hoys meeting ; one with Webster^ s large dictionary under his arm. Harry. — Halloo, John ! where are you going with that big book ? John. — I'm going to return it to Professor Niles, of whom I borrowed it. Harry. — What is it ? John. — Webster's unabridged vocabulary of the En- glish language. Harry. — What have you been doing with it ? John. — Wh}-, you see, I intend to be a public orator, and I wish to insert some large words occasionall}^, to make my oration sound more grand and eloquent. Harry. — Grandiloquent, you mean. I hope you will let me know when you deliver your maiden speech, for I wouldn't miss hearing it for considerable. John. — I see you are making fun of me, Harr3^ But you shall hear m}'^ maiden speech, and be made to ac- knowledge its merits. Harry. — I hope I am always willing to acknowledge true meritf John ; but how long have you been searching th« dictionary for big words ? SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 253 Jonx. — Oh! about three weeks; and I assure 5'on I have a fine catalogue of them all cut and dried for my advantage. Harry. — They may prove to your disadvantage ; but come, here you have been studying big words for three weeks, and I believe that I can use as many as you can, now ! John. — Well, 111 try you, my boy ! Now, when I say some high sounding word or phrase, you see if you cau get one to match it, will you ? Harry. — Yes ; go ahead ! John. — Harry. — Demagogue, Pedagogue. Exaggerate, Eefrigerate. Levigation, Amalgamation. Aristocratic, Epigrammatic. Antagonism, Anachronism. Ecclesiastical, Enthusiastical. Latitudinarian, Uniformitarian. Uncharacteristically, Ineffervescibility. Vicissitudinary, Usufructuary. Indiscrimination, Individualization. Yalculiferous, Antiomniferous. Transubstantiate, Pulmonibranciate, American institutions, Voluntary contributions. Evangelical denominations, Multitudinous associations John. — The ebon opaqueness of the nocturnal hour. Harry. — The concentrated quintessence of every thing sour. John [scratches his head, and apparently tries to think of other examples']. — Why, Harry, I guess you've been picking big words out of the dictionary, too. Are you preparing yourself £or an orator? Harry. — Xot at all ; my inclinations run in a differ- ent direction. But do you intend to devote 3'ourlifeto speechifj'ing? John. — To be sure I do. Harry. — Well, may I inquire to what subject 3^ou in- tend chiefly to apply your eloquence ? John. — Oh ! I shall not limit myself to any particular subject, but take up whatever is most popular, and dropit as soon as I find something better calculated to win public applause. I have made up m}- mind to create a sensatioi/ in the world, and I am determined to do it. 25-i SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. I shall yet see the daj^ that my praises are in every man's mouth. Harry. — Well, that would be very pleasant, to be sure, provided you merit such adultation John [interrupting Mm]. — Of course I shall merit it. I shall study eloquence and elegance until I become perfectly irresistible. Harry. — But what is your primary object, John ? You surely have some purer, nobler motive than self- aggrandizement ? John. — Why — why — I don't know as I understand what you mean. What do you think should be my pri- mary object, as you call it? Harry. — I think the first object in the life of every person should be to do good. John. — Pshaw, Harry ! you know as well as I do, that the world is full of persons who take all the respon- sibility of doing good upon themselves ; besides, I should have to give up my darling project of becoming an oratoi, if I attempt to play the philanthropist. Harry, — By no means, John ; you could so combine the orator and philanthropist as to form a most desira- ble character, instead of pursuing the useless, selfish career you have marked out for yourself. John. — Convince me of that if you can. Harry. — Well, then, let your first object be to benefit others ; next, remember that every subject has two sides ; and instead of advocating the most popular side and running after strange gods, and still stranger whims axid theories, study carefully which side is right, and the:!i oring all your eloquent artillery against the opposing side ; devote yourself to the redress of real grievances ; bravely battle for the right ; and you will not be unde- serving the praise that will surel}^ attend you. John. — Why, Harry, you are really growing eloquent, and I am half inclined to adopt ynur suggestions, and try to live for something high and noble. Harry. — K you should, the world might be both wiser and better for your having lived in it. John. — Well, I will think of it and tell you my deci- sion when we meet again. Good-morning I Harry. — Good-morning, sir. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 255 QUACKERY. CHARACTERS. Db. Pedanticus. Mike Miligan, an Irishman. Scene. — A doctor^s office. Dr. Pedanticus putting vtala in his saddle-bags. Enter Mike. Mike. — Good-mornin' docthur. Dr. — Good-morning, Mil^e. Take a chair. \_Mike sits down.2 Well, Mike, how is your health ? Mike. — Oh, bad enough, docthur. I'm afeard I'm a-goin' to have the bloody \^oo as in took'] cholera, what's on it's way across the say. Oh, docthur, caiiH you pre- vint me from havin' the bloody disase ? Can't j^ou, docthur ? sa.y now, sure you can. Dr. — Well, Mike, what induces you to onceive the idea that 3^ou are about to be visited with an attack of the terrible Asiatic epidemic ? Mike. — Well, you see, docthur, about a wake ago I got into a little fight with Jimmy Malooney, and the bloody spalpeen hit me a lick agin the stomach, and iver since that time I've had a quare falin, sort a-like cholera. Say, docthur dear, what can you do for me ? Dr. — Well, Mike, I will derivicate the diagnosis per- taining to the symptomatic indications, and then ascer- tain what remedial remedies to apply. Mike. — Yis, docthur, do ; sa [.s-ee] what you can do for me, docthur, for I'm afeard I'm a goin' to have the blood}^ cholera. Dr. — Let me see j^our tongue, Mike. [^3Iike puts out his tongue.'] The indications are of a rather heterogi- nary character. How is your appetite, Mike ? Mike. — Me appetite is very wake, docthur, ver3' wake indade. I don't ate more'n half a loaf of rye bread, six paces of mate, and fourteen petaties at one male, and as dhrink, nothin' will lay on my sthomach but whisky. Dr. — I would not advise you to indulge very greatly in whisky, as it has a deleterious effect upon the sub- Unguinary diaphoritic periosteum of the diaphragm. 256 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mike. — Oh, docthur, I can't git along without whisky, at all at all. Me health would give way inthirely if it wasn't for the dhrop of dhrink. Dr. — Let me feel your pulse, Mike. \^Feels his pulse.'} Mike. — Does it bate regular, docthur ? Dr. — It's action is rather efferoesical. Mike. — Yis, sir. I thought so, raeself, docthur. Dr. — How do you rest at night, Mike ? Mike. — I rest on a bed, now ; but before I got sick, Bridget made me slape on the floor. ^Pronounce flure.} Dr.— -I mean rlo you sleep well ? Mike. — Yis, sir. Excipt whin little Pat hollers like a wild cat for a dhrink of wather, and whin I git the wather he wants a pace of bread ; and so he kapes me runnin' all night long. Dr. — Well, Mike, I'll tell you exactly what is the matter with you. I'm not one of the class of physicians that keep their patients in the dark as respects the nature of their complaints. Mike. — Yis, do, docthur ; let me hare all aboot it, for I'm dreadfully afeard of cholera, bad luck to the bloody disase. Dr. — The transverse colon of the recto lymphatics is prevented from performing its proper functions, in con- sequence of the duplicatures of the j^osterior auricular temporo malillary esophagus, pressing against the facial urtery of the duodenum, located upon the meso rectum of the four layers of the great omentum. Also the aper- ture of the meatus auditoiius externis is obstructed, by coao-ulated secretions formed in the heart of the thorax. Also the seratus porticus superior is very much dilated, from the pressure upon it of the levator angali scapulae, and the flexor longus poUicis pedus tendon. Mike. — Oh, docthur, I knode it was something lik that was the mather with me. Oh, be-gorra, docthur, I kin niver git over so many ailments. Oh, docthur, do you think I can git all thim things fixed up all right ngin. Dr. — Oh, 3^es; you needn't be alarmed if you will faithfully follow my prescriptions. [JDoctor . prepares medicine.^ Here [giving him a via!~\ is the double ex- tract ofKramina ^rianda; take half a teaspoonful upon SCHOOLDAY E.ALOGuES. 257 going to bed, and the same quantity half an hour before each meal. You see, Mike, I alwa^ys let mj patients know exactly what I give them. Here is an infusion of Lauro Oerusus Yirginiana, intended to promote the proper action of the external plantar of the internal cal- canean. Take twent}' drops twice a day ; at three o'clock and again at seven. After taking these reme- dies three days, you will be entirely well. Here is also a small box of pills, consisting of Hydrargyri chloridi mitis cum ipecacuanhae. Mike. — There is none of the bloody mercmy in 'em, is there ? Dr. — Oh, none at all, they are perfectly safe ; take six pills at a time, twice a day, at ten A. m., and again at two p. M. Mike. — Good-by, docthur, God bless you. Dr. — Good-day, Mike. TWO FAULTS. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Nellie and Sarah, sisters at a boarding-school ; Sarah aged Fixteen, Nellie, fourteen and a-half. Mary, their mutual friend, aged seventeen. Mr. Ckabster, professor of matheixiiTics. Scene 1. — A room in the building, Sarah and Mary, busy at their books. Enter Nellie, humming softly to herself. Mi.RY. — Nellie please don't sing any more, that's a good child, it disturbs me and I do so want to under- stand this problem. Sarah. — Take jomv book, Nellie, and attend to your lessons immediately. If 3^ou don't alter j^our conduct, I will positivel}^ write to papa. You are a perpetual mortification to me. Nellie. — Really, Miss Perfection, it grieves me be- yond measure, to see you lay the matter so much to heart. I am afraid your angelic spirit will yet be 17 268 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. further tried. I know not what dark deed I may yet commit. [Pins a green ribbon to SaraJVs dress and goes off."] Sarah. — That girl grows more careless and provoking every day. I almost despair of ever making anj^ im- pression upon so vain and trifling a nature. Mary. — Really it grieves me, Sarah, to hear you speak so unsparingly of your sister's faults. The truly gen- erous mind can not blit look with compassion upon those to whom nature has given inferior endowments to its own. When I hear persons arrogate to themselves vir- tues, which they blame others for not possessing, I can not but remember the injunction of St. Paul, " Let him that thinketh he stand eth, take heed lest he fall." [A bell sounds, and they both go off."] Scene 2. — Recitation hall. Mr. Grabster — old gentleman, with sharp nose and spectacles. Sarah and Mary with the other girls of their class. Mr. Crabster. — Step to the blackboard in order. [Beads an example ; each one performs it, and returns to her seat.'] Take the pointer, Sarah, and explain the example. [Sarah advances with great dignity, amid the sup- pressed giggling of the class.] Mr. Grabster. — Silence ! Miss Sarah, before you proceed any further, please to remove that string from your dress. Sarah [storing at him. blankly and turning red]. — There's no string to my dress, Mr. Crabster. Mr. Crabster. — Yes, but there is Sarah [very indignant]. — There isn't; I don't wear strings to my clothes. Mr. Crabster. — Leave the hall immediately,, and go to your room, miss, and remain there until I give you permission to leave it. [Curtain falls.] SCHOULDAY DIALOGUES. 259 Scene 3. — 3Ir. Crabster, at his desk alone, busily writing. Nellie enters, and approaches him looking very con- fused and ashamed. Mr. Crabster [_griiffly2- — Well, what do you want ? Nellie. — To go to Sarah's room in her place, for [ was the one in fault. I pinned the ribbon to her dress f I only did it to tease her. I did not think of her weal- ing it to the hall. Please let me be punished ! Mr. Crabster presuming his tvriting']. — I'll do no such thing. I did not punish her for wearing the string, but for contradicting me, and speaking so unlady-like as she did. Nellie. — But she did not know the ribbon was there ; and any thing slovenl}^ about her dress always makes her so angry. And now you see that I am the one who deserves to be punished, and will let me go be a prisoner, and release Sarah. Mr. Crabster [^meditatively']. — In consideration of the extraordinary features of the case, I suppose that I will have to pardon you both, for this time, if Miss Sarah will make a suitable apology for her rude behavior, and you promise to give up your mischievous pranks for the future, and attend more closely to your studies. [Curtain falls.'] Scene 4. — Sarah and Mary in the latter^s room. Mary. — Sarah, you must not say you will never for- give her, it is both childish and wicked. If you were trul}^ grieved to see these faults in your 3^oung sister. as you say you are, you should be willing to use every means in j^our power to correct them. If I must speak with the candor of a true friend, I think you generally take the w^ay least calculated to effect a reformation in Nellie's character, and often succeed in placing your- self as much in fault as she. If 3^ou would only learn to control your temper, and meet her livel}^ sallies iu the spirit of banter, in which they are given, it would be half the battle. In the present instance, if 3'-ou had not lost your good humor the moment Mr. Crabster spoke to you about the ribbon, the whole affair might have passed off without occasioning any annoj-ance to any on<^. 260 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. , GRUMBLING OYER LESSONS. CHARACTEES. Olive, a large girl. Alma, same size. Sarah. CATtuiR. Mary, Salome. Maggie. Charlie, a niiscliievous boy, who can whistle Dixie. Scene. — The girls stand in groups, playing, and eating dinner, as it is noon-time. Olive. — Now, girls, the teacher has gone after her dinner, the boys are at play, so let us have a good time studying our lessons. Carrie. — Yes. Hurrah! let's get our books and stud3\ [^Tliey run and procure them, and study for a minute.'] I do think [pouting'] the teacher is real mean not to let us whisper, or hardly move in school ; now, when we study, we can stand up or walk around, and learn ever so much better. Can't we, Mary ? Mary. — Yes, that we can. / think she's mean, too. Sarah. — So do I. Salome. — And I, too. Olive. — Now, girls, stop talking so. You know we couldn't study a bit well if it was nois3^ MAaGiE. — That's true. Girls, keep still. How can I study now ? [ They keep quiet until Maggie exclaims] ' — Oh, dear ! I never can get this lesson in spelling 1 How hard it is ! I can never remember these definitions. And what good will they ever do ? There ! — [Ihroiving the speller on the desk] — I'll give it up — can't learn it. Olive. — Remember the motto, Maggie, "I'll try." Maggie. — Well, 1 will try a little. [Reluctantly takes up her book and studies aloud.] M-o-r-t-a-r, a short piece of ordnance used for throwing shells. C-a-r-b-i-n-e, a short gun, borne by light horsemen, carried over the left shoulder, and has a ball weighing twenty-four pounds. Olive. — Why, Maggie ! you had better think. It must be a large gun to cany a ball weighing twenty- four pounds. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 2CA Maggie. — Well, it says something about twentj^-four pounds. Olive. — It says twentj^-four balls weigh one pound. Maggie. — Well, that's a sad mistake. I'm most dis- couraged. Sarah. — That is as bad a mistake as our class in geography made the other day. We were going by water from Cleveland to Quebec, and going, too, right down the Niagara river over the Falls, forgetting all about Welland Canal. Teacher says we must learn to think, and that is so hard ; isn't it, Maggie ? Maggie.—Ycs, indeed it is. Olive. — But if yon do not learn to think, you will not make much of a scholar. Alma [who stands at the blackboard with chalk in hand']. — Well, I never can write this sentence, if I think a week. A sentence whose principal parts are each limited by a word, phrase, and sentence. [Sits down for awhile in despair, then arises and goes to ivork.'] Sarah [luith a frown, scribbling on slate]. — What a hard arithmetic lesson ! To write a rule of our own for long division. I never can do it without Olive. — Without thinking, Sarah. JST o, of course you can't. Sarah [contemptuously]. — Oh, Miss Preacher, I didn't mean that. I meant without looking in my book. Olive. — Oh, girls, you ought not to grumble ! Our teacher gives j^ou lessons which will teach you to think for yourselves. You must not be dependent on others, but learn to depend on your own energies. " Good scholars must be thorough in every thing." That is a good text. Alma [half laughing]. — And you are as good as a preacher. Say, Olive, how much salary would you ask to give us a sermon like the one just delivered, every noon until close of term ? [Sarcastically.] No doubt we would daily grow wiser and better. Carrie. — Now stop, Alma, 3^ou are nsing the lan- guage of irony too much. Olive. — Well, girls, I think you are most too bad You know I say the truth, and sometime you will be sorry When you grow old 262 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Sarah. — As old as the reverend Olive ! Girls let us count the gray hairs [touching Olivers locks\ on her ven- erable head. [All laugh.'] Salome [crossly']. — I never in the world can make seiitences which contain these words — discouraged, ven- erably, and contented. Alma [going to her and taking speller]. — Yes you can. Say Alma is discouraged about learning to write sentences, Olive's grave words sound venerably, and she is contented to lecture ugly girls, and so on. Mary [throwing down geography]. — Come, girls, let us go and play. Carrie. — Oh, no ! not yet. We couldn't get to the door before Olive, the preacher, would say. Girls remem- ber what the teacher sa^^s — "Lessons first, play af- terwards ;" and then we would be conscience smitten. [They all study, till Mary, with a sour face, exclaims] — Oh, what a hard geography lesson! How to go }jy water from Grand Rapids to Buffalo. I shall sink before I get there ! Dear me ! Carrie [cyphering]. — I never can perform this ex- ample ! Olive [cheerfully]. — Find a way, or make a way, Carrie. Alma. — Well, Olive, I've got a kind of a sentence. It's the best I can do. I wouldn't have tried, if I had not been anxious to be benefited by your sober sermon. Olive. — I'm glad it has done some good. If you have done the best you can, you have " done well — acted nobly ! Angels do no more !" Charlie [coming in whistling]. — Why, girls, what are you doing now ! Girls [all together, pushing and striking him]. — Go away 1 Stop bothering 1 You're always teasing I We are studying. Charlie [looking surprised, and giving a long whis- tle]. — Studying! nonsense! studying I You look cross as bears ! You never can learn with sucli sour faces ! Olive. — The}' are complaining, and pouting, and grumbling over hard lessons. Charlie. — Now, girls I I'd be ashamed I To spoil such a nice j daytime by acting so ! Come, let us sing " I ^ SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 263 wish I had my lesson," and then go and play awhile; and when school calls, if you stop looking cross, and study hard, the wish wdll surely come to pass. Sarah. — Yes ; the singing comes next in order after sermon. Olive, say the congregation will sing hymn on lT3d page, common, particular, lengthy, short metre. Olive. — Now behave, Sarah, or I will not help 3'ou. Sarah. — Well, I suppose I must mind, but it's tough. Olive, 3"0U commence, and I'll lengthen my face and sing with all the strength of my powerful lungs. \_They all sing "/ wish I had my lesson, ^^ tunej " Dixie. ''^ Charlie whistles. All go off with life and energy. 2 I'm glad I live in the land of learning, Wisdom's heights I'm just discerning, Far away, far away, away, far away. Although sometimes I'm sad and weary, And the way looks dark and dreary. I'll away, I'll away, away, I'll away. Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, I do, I do ; In learning I will end my days. And live and die in wisdom's ways. I'll try, I'll try, I'll try to learn mv lesson ; I'll try, I'll try; I'll try to learn my lesson. Sarah. — Sometimes, when I have hard lessons, I'm almost sorry I live in the land of learning. It will be a long time before I can ever discern wisdom's heights. Too many children fret and worr^^. Because the^?^ can't learn in a hurry, Eight away, right away, away, right away. But as for me, as I grow^ stronger, I will strive to study longer. Work away, work away, away, work away. Chorus. — I wish I had my lesson, ard all your soliloquy and your conversatiou with 272 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Tom. It was all a little plan to test you. Tom does not drink but, at m}^ request, he tried to induce 3^ou to join him in a glass of wine. I am proud to sa^^ that he is the strictly temperate fellow he spoke of who would not pledge Alice Craig in a glass of wine. Whilst you were talking he dropped the note to give you another test. It was rather severe, but you have stood it man- fully and henceforth you shall have a permanent situa- tion in my store, and your mother shall want for noth- ing. As an earnest of what I intend to do, I present 3^ou with the twenty dollar note. Take it and buy what- evfir you need, and remember that as long as you are as honest as you have proved yourself this evening, and that as long as you are as strictly temperate and as good a temperance lecturer as you have proved yourself this evening, 3^ou will always find a friend in me. John. — Oh, sir; how can I ever thank you for your kindness? \_G ur tain falls. ~\ THANKSGIYING. CHARACTERS. Henry Wentworth. Robert Allen. Emily Melville. Scene. — A room in Mrs. Melmlle^s house. Mr. Went- worth discovered. Mil, Wentworth. — Well, here I am, ei,sconced in my new boarding-place, and a snug little place it is, but the villagers seem most awful slow. I really don't know what is to become of me. It is about thirty 3'ear.s since I found myself a rich man, and since that time I have l)een a miserable dog. I've traveled all over Europe, and still I am not satisfied with mj^self, nor satisfied with any body else. I didn't like Russia ; it was far too cold, and Italy was far too liot. Holland was inexpress- ibly dull, and France was inexpressibly gay. Nothing pleases me. I am all out of sorts. 'Tis a great pity thatJ I am ^'ot still [)oor. It was an unlucky day for me SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 278 when I became possessor of 1113" immense fortitae. Well, I find myself now in a snng little house, and I think I'll stay a few weeks. It must be very lonel}^ for the lady and her daughter to live here all alone. The}' seem to be only in tolerable circumstances, and I think I'll lielp them along a little, if I can find a way of doing it -with- out ofi'ending them. To-morrow is Thanksgiving, and from the way the pretty little Emily is flying round, we may expect a sumptuous dinner of turkey, pumpkin- pies, etc. She's a famous little cook. I'll wager she can't be beaten in the State. Well, here's the morning paper — the Star. It's a stupid old thing, but 111 look it over, and take a smoke, on the porch. [^Retires.'] \_Enter Emily.'] Emily. — Mr. Went worth is gone out, and I'll brush things up a little. [^Proceeds to arrange furniture, etc.'] He's a nice old gentleman, but a little crusty sometimes. Well, while he boards with us, we will endeavor to make him feel happy and contented. They say that riches make a man happy, but I don't believe it. Mr. Went- worth is reputed a very wealthy man, and he doesn't seem to be the least bit happy. [_HumH a tune as i>he pro- ceeds with her work: knock at the door; opened hy Emily.] \_Enter Bohert.] Good morning, Robert. What's the matter, that you are out so early this morning ? Robert. — I came over to see if you wanted Mr. Gray's pony, to ride to church to-morrow. ♦I can get him for 3'ou. Emily. — Oh, no, Robert! I'll walk. Our old bachelor boarder is going to church, and we'll all w^alk together. You must remember what I told 3'ou last Monda}', and come here for dinner. We will have a nice time. Ai-n't 3'ou glad, Robert, when Thank^iving comes around ? ' Robert. — I can't say 1 am. Emil}', I have been won- dering what we have to be thankful for. What's the use of pretending to be thankful when 3"ou don't feel so ? Emily.— Oh, Robert! Robert. — I'm in earnest. Just look at it in every light, and tell me whv we should be thankful. Is there an^' thing we ought to be particularly' thankful for ? 18 274 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Emily. — Ob, yes, Robert ! We ought to be thankful for the sunshine and the rain. We ought to be thankful for the bread we eat, and for the many blessings that surround our daily life. Robert. — Yes, I know; but I am not thinking of these common-place affairs. Emily, you know we are both poor. I am totally without emploj^ment, although I have been seeking in the city for something to do for the last three weeks. While this lasts 3^ou know we can not be married. I would be willing to work, and work hard, from daylight to dark, that I might earn something, and that I might be enabled to lay some- thing by, and be able to look forward to the bright day when I could claim you as my own. Emily [^coming to his side, and lookingup in his face.'] — Dear Robert, don't be disheartened. A brighter and a happier day will dawn. We will yet be happy. Let us put our trust in God, and all will be well. He will pro- vide for us if we will implicitly rely on Him, and bide his own good time. Robert. — I believe — I — I know I have been talking like a great blockhead, but I can't help feeling discour- aged and disheartened. It seems hard that we must wear out our lives in this endless waiting. Our best dajT^s are passing away, and we are becoming poorer and poorer. Oh ! will there never be any change ? Must we still drag along in this wretched, miserable waj-- ? Emily. — Robert, do not talk in this way. If we but trust in G©d, all will yet be well. \_A noise is heard as of a chair being moved.'] Robert. — What's that ? Emily. — Oh, my ! The window is open, and perhaps Mr. Wentworth is on the porch. What if he has heard our conversation ? Robert. — I hope he hasn't. Let us get out of this anyhow. [^Exeunt to kitchen.] [Enter Mr. Wentworth.] Mr. Wentworth. — Well, I must confess I have a sort of a hang-dog feeling just now. I didn't want to h ar what the two young folks were talking about, but I couldn't get up and leave without disturbing them, and, to tell the truth, I couldn't help listening. [ think, SCITOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 275 however, tliey will forgive me for eavesdropping; for I will put them on a plan whereby thej^ can get married right off; and then that _yonng fellow will stop his whin- ing. Poor fellow, I pity him ! I know it is a dreadful thing to be in love, and not have enough of the filthy lucre to enable you to step into matrimon}^ I can sym- pathize with the young dog, for I was once in the same iigl^^ predicament. Ah ! that vision of sunny curls and soft brown eyes haunts me still, but, unfortunately, the possessor of the sunny curls and soft brown eyes hadn't the true heart that my little hostess has. But enough I will not think of the past. I'll make these two 3^oung lovers happ3^ and then Til run off. I couldn't stay and. hear the thousands of thanks they would rain on me. Indeed I couldn't! I'll be sorry to lose the Thanksgiv- ing dinner, too. The pumpkin-pies will be superb, and the turkey will be done to a turn. \^Takes out pocket^ hook.'] Here's a check for three thousand. That will give them a start in the world. Now I'll pencil a little note to Emily, and be off. \_Writes and encloses the check.'] Now, my hat. Thank fortune I 've no baggage. [_Goes to door leading to porch. Calls back.] Emily! I mean Miss Mellville ! \_Einily appears.] I'm off now. Emily. — Wh}^ Mr. Wentworth, wdiat's the matter ? Why are you going to leaA^e so soon ? Mr. Went^vorth. — Oh! I've suddenly taken a notion to go back to the city. I'm restless, you know; can't stay long in one place. There's a note on the table for you, explaining my sudden departure, and containing money enough to pay ni}^ board bill. I'll come back and see you someday. Good-b}' ! \_Exit Mr. Wentworth.] Emily. — Well, I declare; this is funny. What a strange kind of a man ! I believe he doesn't know one minute what he'll do the next. I will read his note. [^Opens and reads.] Robert, Robert, come here ! [_En- ter Bobert.] Would you believe it ! That strange old gentleman has run off, and lei't me three thousand dollars. Robert. — What ! Emily. — Three thousand dollars ! just think of it I 276 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. And he says I must marrj^ you immediately ; but here's the letter ; read for yourself. Robert [takes the letter and reads aloud']. — " M}^ little friend Emily: I unintentionally overheard your conver- sation a few minutes ago. Here's a check for three thousand dollars. Take it, marry the young man im- mediately, and be happy. I have piles of monej', and the only good it does me is to give it away to deserving persons. It makes a man feel good to do a benevolent action. Take the money, and don't forget your old friend Wentworth." Three thousand dollars ! Well, I'm astonished! What did he run away for? Emily. — I don't know, unless it was l3ecause he didn't want to hear us thank him for his kindness. I am real sorry he is gone. Robert. — And you will accept the present ? Emily. — Certainly, Robert. We are rich people now, and when Mr. Wentworth comes back, wont we over- power him with our thanks? Oh, what a kind-hearted man he is ! But 3'oa will now keep Thanksgiving from your heart, will you not, Robert ? Robert. — I will. Emily. — And should sorrows surround us, and the dark clouds lower over our pathway, you will still trust in the Great Benefactor. \\0 ^i rt [reverently.'] — The Lord helping me, I will. [Curtain falls.] THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT. CHARACTERS Mary Cole. Grandmother Cole, who is very deaf. Jack Cole, Aunt Martha Gordon. Cyrus Gordon. Scene 1. — The sitting-room of the Cole family. Mary reading a newspaper. Grandmother Cole knitting. Aunt Martha crochetting. Jack playing with the balls in Aunt Martha^ s loork-hasket. Mary Cole. — Oh, Aunt Martha ! only hear this ! it's in the Chronicle. What a splendid chance I I declare, I've a great mind to answer it myself I SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 277 Aunt M. — What have you got hold of no^ ? You're allez a-making some powerful diskivery somewheres What now? Something to turn gray eyes black, and blue e^^es gra.y ? Mary. — No ; it's a matrimonial advertisement. What a splendid fellow this " C. Gr." must be ! Aunt M. — Oh, shaw ! A body must be dreadfulty put to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. Thank goodness ! I never got in such a strait as that 'ere. The Lord has marcyfuUy kept me thus fur from having any dealings with the male sect, and I trust I shall be presarved to the end. Jack Cole. — Didn't you ever have an offer, Aunt Mattie ? Aunt M. [indignantly']. — Why, Jack Cole ! What an idee! I've had more chances to change m}^ condition than you're got fingers and toes. But I refused 'em all. A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks adrift — they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come over to our 'ouse, and I give him to understand that he needn't trouble hisself ; and he felt so mad that he went rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month was out. Jack. — Poor fellow ! Hoav he must have felt ! And Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at you a great deal in meeting, since you've got that pniK feather on your bonnet. What if he should want you to be a mother to his ten little ones ? Aunt M. [smpe?'miround smart and wait on me. Maybe it will do you some good. Janette. — It will afford me much pleasure to serve you, dear ^mcle I 298 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Jack. — " Over the left," you know. Uncle Z. — Speak a little louder ? Janette. — You can't please me better than to let me wait on you ! Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand ; then I will let you do it. I always try to please the ladies. Just hand rae that bundle. Janette [to Lucy']. — Get that bundle. [Lucy hands the bundle to Uncle Z., who begins to open it] Jack. — Audience please give contention. The inform- auce is about to commence. [Uncle Z. takes out an immense ear-trumpet, and puts it up to his ear. Boys sing out .•] " The elephant now goes 'round, the band begins to play, the boys about the monkej^'s cage had better keep away." Uncle Z. — Maybe this will be some help to us. Janette. — Oh, I don't mind speaking out loud to you. Mother, do take him to his room. Uncle Z. [hands bundle to Janette]. — Now do this up, and put it away. [Janette hands it to Lucy. Jack takes it, puts it on a cane over his shoulder, and promenades behind Uncle Z. Door-bell 7'ings.] Janette. — Oh, horror, mother! That's Don Pedro now. Do take him away. [Lucy starts to the door.] Wait a minute, you minx. [Boys begin to gather up bundles.] Uncle Z. [to Janette]. — Can't you get a pillow now and put to my back, Janette ? Mrs. F. — Wont j^ou retire, uncle, you must be tired ? Uncle Z. [using the ear-trumpet]. — Ha? Mrs. F. — Wont you retire, j^ou must be tired ? Uncle Z. — Of course I'm tired, but will be very com- fortable if I only get a pillow. Mrs. F. — I think you'd best go to bed I Uncle Z. — Oh, no ; not to bed these three hours ye\ ! It's earl}^ yet! [Bell rings again.] Mrs. F. — Well, then, step out in the other room and have some tea. Uncle Z. — Some what ? ' SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 299 Mrs. F. — Some tea. Uncle Z. — Well, yes. Bring it in here. [Bell rings.'] Janette. — Oh, what shall I do. Uncle, dear uncle, the tea is in the other room. Come and get it, wont you^f [Bell rings. Exit Lucy.] Jack. — We might ride him out on this cane, Tim, free grratis for nothino^, wont cost him two cents. Janette. — I wish he had some sense. Tim. — I wish we had some of his c-e-n-t-s. Yes, and dollars, too. Mrs. F. — Come, uncle. [Exit all except Janette. Enter Lucy iviih a dandy. Lucy retires.] Don Pedro. — Bon soir, mademoiselle. Janette. — ^Tres bien, monsieur. I am so glad you have come ! Don. — I am delighted to see mon cher looking so well, ce soir. [ They sit down on a sofa.] Janette. — This is a delightful evening ! Don. — Yes, very. The moon looks down in splendah. Janette. — Yes. It reminds me of the words of the poet : " The moon shines bright." Don. — Bon, bon. You have such a magnificent bump of memory, mon cher! Wont you sing "Meet me by moonlight alone, love?" Janette [affectedly]. — Oh, dear, I can't. I have such a cold. Don. — Oh, those lovely strains ! It would fill my soul with joy to hear your sweet voice I Janette. — Indeed, I can't. Don. — Please just try, for my sake, Janette, dear ? Janette. — Well, then, for your sake, remember ! [Janette sings. Uncle Z. comes hobbling into the room, followed by the rest. of the family. She stops singing — looks confused.] Mrs. F. [screams]. — Here, this way, this door, this door. Uncle Z. [making himself comfortable]. — Oh, this iocs very well. Don. — 'Pon my word, now, who's that ? Both Boys. — Put him out, put him out. Janette. — Oh, he's an old superannuated Methodist 300 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. preacher, who once met pa. Ma, do take him to his room. This is an imposition. Jack. — I sslj, Mr. Don, don't you want to be intro- duced to this here new arrival, just from your town — Paris ? Maybe you've met before ? Uncle Z. [to Lucy']. — My little girl, will you get me the paper? Lucy [handing it to him']. — Yes, sir. [ Uncle Z. puts on his glasses, takes some snuff, and begins to read.] Mrs. F. [speaks through the trumpet]. — Will you go to your room ? Uncle Z.— What ! Where ! Ha ? Mrs. F. — Up stairs to your room. Uncle Z. — Oh, don't trouble yourself, I am very com- fortable here. But who's this ? you haven't introduced me 3^et ? Mrs. F.— This is Dor Pedro, Mr. Jones. [Says Mr. Jones in a low tone.] [Don Pedro bows very low. Uncle Z. shakes his hand very Jiard.] Uncle Z — How dy'e do. Your folks all well? Janette. — Oh, I shall faint. Don. — Happy to meet you, Mr. Jones I Uncle Z. — Ha ? Speak a little louder ? Don [speaks through the trumpet]. — Happy to meet you, Mr. Jones ! Are you well, Mr. Jones ? Uncle Z.— Who? Mrs. F. — Do you know Mr. Jones ? Uncle Z. — What do 3^ou mean ? I don't know Jones. Don [out of breath]. — Oh 1 Oh I mon cher 1 He ought to be in the lunatic asylum. Janette. — Don't talk to him any more. Don. — Not if I can avoid it, I do assure you, made- moiselle 1 Mrs. F. — I fear you are exerting yourself too much ? Uncle Z. [to Don]. — How's the crops in your section ? [Don Pedro looks confused.] Jack [aside]. — Every thing's green, I reckon I Uncle Z. — 1 say, young man Mrs. F. — This young gentleman lives in the city. Uncle Z. — Ha ? Speak louder. SCHOOLDA^' DIALOGUKS. 301 Mrs. F. — Don Pedro lives in the city. Uncle Z. — Oh, I understand now! Your name is John, is it ? John Peters ! Well now it appears to me I ought to know your folks ? Don. — They live in a foreign clime. Uncle Z. — Oh, in former times, of course ! I knew toe Peters's down behind old Lancaster, in Pennsyl- vany. [^Boys laugh heartily.^ Janette. — You didn't understand him, sir. Uncle Z. — No, no. I don't pretend to mind the youngsters ; but your father I dar'e say, was as honest a shoemaker as lived in them parts. Do you follow his trade, John ? Don. — I am a foreigner, sir ! Uncle Z. — A farmer I ah yes. What's the price of squashes ? Jack [very loud']. — He can tell you that better after he offers his head for sale, and somebody bids on it ! [Janette faints, Don Pedro snatches his hat and leaves. General confusion. Curtain falls.'] Scene 2d. — Mother and daughter seated by a table. , Janette. — Well, well, something must be done.' I have endured this as long as I can. Three months to- day, since he arrived, and no hope of his leaving yet. No compensation for our trouble either. I liave sub- mitted to mortifications enough. I wont endure it. Mrs. ¥. — Have patience, my child ! Don't be too hasty. I don't like the old clod-hopper any better than you do, but I have an eye on his money; and if j^ou are liot more considerate we shall lose all. Janette. — I think our prospects of having any of it to lose are not very bright at present. Mrs. F. — No; and all on account of 3^our own folly and rashness, I do assure you. If you had acted the part that little pauper Lucy has, you might now stand just as high in the estimation of your uncle as she does. Janette [angrily]. — Don't talk to me about that minx. She is always out of the way when she ought to be in, and in the wa}" when she ought to be out. 802 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mrs. F. — Well, we must make the best of it. To turn her out of the house would be certain death to all our hopes. So you must try and make amends for your past bad conduct toward your uncle, and undermine his confidence in her as far as possible. That's our only hope. now. Janette. — Bad conduct, indeed ! Who has suffered more at his hands than I ? Who has done more to try to please the quarrelsome old bachelor than I? Yes, 1 say who has suffered. Only think of him insulting Don Pedro, so that he never entered the house again. Just as he was about to propose, too. I say I wont stand it. I wish old Zedekiah Fairweather were in the bottom of the Mississippi. Mrs. F. — So do I, I am sure, but I don't want him to take his money with him. I intend to have that, \_Enter Uncle Z. fashionably dressed, with traveling satchel in hand.'\ Uncle Z. — You've taken a poor way to obtain it, I fear. l^Janette and Mrs. F. scream. Enter the whole family. 2 Janette. — Eaves-dropper I Eaves-dropper I Mrs. F. — Hush, Janette. My dear brother — what can be the matter ? Uncle Z. — Hear, madam. I beg of you to listen to me a moment. I am about to take my departure, and have come to bid you farewell. Mrs. F. — What! leave us so soon ? Impossible I Uncle Z. — Yes, madam. My baggage has been sent to the train, and I must soon follow. Janette [_very loud']. — Why did you not tell us ? Uncle Z. — Oh, I can hear verj' well. Don't exert yourself. Mrs. F. — Oh — oh — oh, sir — dear uncle, we — we beg your pardon. Uncle Z. — For your hospitality, accept my sincere thanks ; and when your hopeful sons want to go travel- ing with a hand-organ and monkey, please call on me, and 1 will furnish their outfit. And when they have traveled all the country round, and grown old and bald, [ will recommend the use of " Spaulding's glue." [Boys drop their heads.] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 303 Mrs. F. — Oh, we are undone, we are undone. Uncle Z. po Lucy']. — And to 3'Ou, my faithful little friend, I donate a scholarship in one of our best schools, where you can have every advantage, and become fitted for the station in life which nature intended 3'ou to occup3\ Lucy. — Oh, sir, how can I thank you for your kindness. Uncle Z. — But I must not forget my dear niece, who has been so deeply injured by the loss of John Peters, alias Don Pedro. To compensate her, I give her this package {^presents a box], which is to be opened after m}^ departure. Janette. — Oh, my dear, good uncle, yom: kindness quite overcomes me ! Do stay longer with us. Uncle Z. — No, I can't now. Come, Lucy, get your bonnet, child, we must be going. Good-by, one and all. \_Exit Uncle Z. and Lucy.'] Mrs. F.— We are well rid of both of them. What if he did hear us ! I knew he would not have it in his heart to leave us nothing. The box is quite heavy. Open it, quick ! Boys. — Yes, quick ; you must share with us ? Jack. — I knew our time would come. Who cares if [^Janette, after removing many wrappings, holds up to view the ear-trumpet. Curtain falls.] EGYPTIAN DEBATE. Between Hon. Felix Garrote, and Ebenezer Slabside, Esq. [Subject of Debate — AVho desarves the greatest praise, Kris- terfer Kerlumbus for diskiverin' Amerika, or Mr. Washington for defendin' on't ? Scene. — Lyceum in Egypt, Illinois.] Hon. Felix Garrote arose: — Mr. President, & gentlemens of this here Lyceum : Kerlumbus was born in the year 1492, durin^ the rain of Julius Caesar at Rome, a small town in grease, situated on the banks of the Nile, a small creek 804 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. which takes its rise in the Alps, and flows in a southwest course and emties into the gulf of Mexico. Mr. Ker- lumbuses parients was pore. His pap was a basket ma- ker, and bein' so low in their sarcumstances, they were tetotally unable fur to give their orphant son that edu- cation which his genius and talent demanded. They therefore bound him to a shephurd who sot 1 mi to watchin' swine on the sea-beat shores of the Nile ; and it was thar, Mr. President, it was thar, sir, by the corn- stalk and rush-light lire, that this immortle youth fust larnt to read, write, and syphur, and all the other var- ious and useful accomplishments of English and foren literature. It was thar, sir, by this corn-stalk and rush- light fire, that, readin' the history of Robertson Crusoe, it conspired in his youthful breast the seeds of sympathy and ambition ; sympathy, sir, to rescue that unfortunate hero from his solitary and alone situation on the island of Mr. John Fernandez, and return him once more to the bosom of his family in Jarmany — ambition, sir, to diskiver a island which no white person had ever yit diskivered, (except Crusoe,) and he warn't considered nobody at home. To place upon the mariner's com- pass that island, and tharby render his name immortler. He accordin'ly made immediate application to Julius Caesar for two canoos and a yawl, eight men, and per- visions to last him a two weeks' cruise ; but, sir, he was indignantly refused ! He was took up next day — tried by a court martial for treason — found guilty, and sen- tenced to three months' banishment upon the island of Cuba, a small island in the Mediterranean ocean, a island at present hankered after by the Southern Con- federacy as the seat of government, becase a capital of a rival and jealous Confederacy never can exist on the same continent with ourn. There must be, gentlemen of this here Lyceum, there must be at least a consider- able slice of ocean l)etween our capital city and the throne of a traitor or tyrant, who would dare to destroy the union I lUit to return to the pint. Kerlumbus were far from bein' unintimidated or discouraged, howsumever, by this here mean treatment, but on the contrary, he was inspired witii increased energy and rejiewed hopes and SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 305 ambition — and, sir, I can put into the mouth of my hero, ttie immortle words which Milton put into the mouth of the Duke of Weilingtown at the siege of Bun- ker Hill "Once more into the breeches, dear friends, once more." When the tarm of his banishment had expired, he re- turned to Rome, and found that Caesar had died again, and that Alexander the Great had succeeded him. He made the same demand of EHick that he made to Mr. Caesar, and met with a similar denial — but finally at last, through the intermediation of Cleopatra, (Ellick's fust wife,) he succeeded. It is onneccessary for me to enter into the detail of his outfit and voyage — suffice it to say, as there is no needcessit}^ as I hinted before, for to particzderize on the incidental and numerical sarcumstances of his — a — a — his blockade — I mean of his a — fleet, suffice it to say, as 1 said before, that after having been absent from his own native shores two long weeks, he diskivered, one day, from the mast-head, not the long-sought island of John Fernandez, Esq., but a severe gail! 1 will not tell you how they hove to, and how they hove up, and every thing of that there kind, but after they had been tossed on waves that run raountaings high, he was at last wrecked, and his crew all lost, (except hisself and one other man,) and they was throwed upon a state of insen- sibility. When he come to, he rose up in the majesty of his strength and found he was on a island. So he pulled out his red cotton palmetto handkercher, tied it onto a fish-pole and rared the standard of South Carolina, and took formal possession of the territory in the name of Alexander the Great, and called it San *S'aZ-va(ior, in honor of Cleopatra's only dater. Now Cleopatra was so well pleased with the honor conferred upon her dater, that she migrated to this country for to settle. Hence, sir, the long line of descendants so distinguished in our gelorious country's history, and known as PATriots from the Hebrew varb, Cleopa/^ra. Now, sir, having accomplished the great and para- mount object of his subZmiar3^ career, he was ready for 20 806 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. to die. The natives, therefore, for intrudin' upon their sile, took him prisoner, maltreated him with Carolina tar and goose feathers, and eventually at last rid him on a rail 1 And thus did rails become notorious as the means of carrying contemporary great men of more modern ages, into the most highest orifice within the gift of a gelorious empire, to the terror and dismay of the patriots of the region of swamps and rattlesnakes. And thus perished one of the truly great and good men of the antediluvean period of the middle century, the prince of navigators, who lived and died for mankind, (and that of course includes us Egyptians,) therefore we are doubly indebted to him for gratitude ! One more remark allow me to say, Mr. President, and gentlemen of this here Lyceum, and I am done, and I want to impress it upon your mind. If it had not have been for Keristofer Kerlumbus, Mr. Washington would have never have been born, so he wouldn't — besides all this, Mr. Washington was a coward. With these remarks I leave the floor for abler hands. \_Mr. Slahside rises highly excited.^ Mr. President : — I am dumbfounded — I am tetotal- istically and surrupticiously surprised at the quiet man- ner in which you have listened and liearn the susper- sions of character of that great and good man — my blood's been bilin hot, to think of the audacious propin- quity of the speaker who had the last floor — Mr. Wash- iyigton a coward I — Mr. Washington a coward I His character, sir, is as pure and as spotless as the African snows, thrice bleached by the howling zephyrs of the northern hem — Mr. Washington a coward ! Lock- jawed be the mouth that spoke it 1 Why, sir, look at him at Lundy's Lane — look at him at Tippecanoe — look at him at Waterloo, and, sir, look at him at New h'leansl Did he display cowardice thar, sir, or at any of the thousand similar battles that he font — and Hon. Felix Garrote [interrupting^. — Mr. Wash- ington never fit the battle of New ^rleans — he wasn't thar,' sir ; he'd been dead two years and seving months and thirty-one days afore that battle was fit, so he had. Ue never font that battle ! SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 307 Mr. Slabside. — "Who did fight the battle of Xew ^T-leans ? Hon. Felix G-arrote. — If 3-011 will jist take the trouble to refer to Josephiis, or read Benjamin Frank- ling's History of the Crimean and Black Hawk wars, 30U will thar find, Mr. President, that Gen. Bore-your- gourd fit the battle of New h'leans. Mr. Slabside. — I thank my ver}- larned friend, not only for interruptin' me, but more particularly for his corrections, in which he has showed himself totally io-- norant of history, men and things. I contend, notwithstanding the gentleman's assertion to the contrary, that Mr. Washington not only fit at the battle of New h^leans, but that he is alive now, sir. 1 have only to pint you, Mr. President, and gentlemen of this here Lyceum, to his quiet and retired home at San- doval, on the banks of the Tombigbee river, in the state of Missouri, whar he now resides conscious of his private worth, and of the great and brilliant sarvice he has rendered his country, and in the enjo3'ment of those distinguished honors heaped upon his grateful brow b}^ his aged countrymen ; and allow me to call the attention of my yerj learned opponement, that Gen. Boregard was not at the battle of New h^leans. He couldn't have font that battle. He was dead, sir ! Yes, Mr. President, if 3'ou will have the patience to turn and look over Horace Greeley's History of the Kansas Hymn Book war, ^'■ou will there learn that Gen. Bo-re-gurd and Col. Buchanan, at the head of an army of negroes, made a desperate charge upon Mason's and Dixie's ly'in; and they've been dead ever since ! ! ^Immense sensation among the Egyptians, during which the president pronounced the debate closed, and introduced the speakers to the audience. Great shaking of hands.'} 808 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. THE WIDOW MUGGINS. HER OPINIONS OF COOKS, SUITORS, AND HUSBANDS. DRAMATIS PERSONS. Mrs. Muggins, a widow. Cousin Hannah Jane. Betty, Mrs. Muggins' cook. Scene. — A room in Mrs. Muggins^ house. Cousin Han- nah Jane sewing. Mrs. M. [without]. — Betty, what in the world are you doing ? Why don't you hurry up with your work. I'll declare to gracious, you are the slowest creature I ever saw in all my born days. Betty [without']. — Why, Mrs. Muggins, I'm hurryin' jest as fast as I can. Mrs. M. — Oh, Betty ! yo're very slow, very slow. [Enter Mrs. M., who sits down and commences knitting.] Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, a body has a sight of troulle with the cooks a body has to hire now- a-da3^s. When I was a young worpan, the servant- girls did a great deal better than they do now, cousin Han nail Jane. C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, in our young days, the servants were of some account. Mrs. M. — Yes, that they were, cousin Hannah Jane. They didn't break a bowl or a pitcher every other day, as most of 'cm do now ; and they were not afraid to work. I tell you, the way my mother's servants worked ! oh, it was a sight ! Them was the days when a-body could get the worth of a-body's money out of a hired girl, cousin Hannah Jane C. H, J. — Yes, the servants earned their wages then. Mrs. M. — Cousin Hannah Jane, you don't know how much trouble I have had with the shiftless, trifling cooks I've had this year. Would you believe it, cousin Hannah Jane? I've had as many as eight cooks since the 1st of January. C. H. J. — Sakes a-live I you don't say so ' [Enter Betty.] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 309 Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want them taters baked or biled ? Mrs. M.— Biled, Betty, biled I Betty. — Yes, marm. [_Going out.'] Mrs. M. {calling']. — Betty I Betty [returning]. — Well, Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said hiled ! Betty. — Yes, marm. [Exit.] Mrs. M. — I always am obleeged to tell Betty twice over, before she understands me, cousin Hannah Jane. But Betty does a sight better than most of the other servants I've had, cousin Hannah Jane ; she don't break as many things, and she's a heap neater about her work than most of 'em were, cousin Hannah Jane. Then she's tolerable industrious, only she's so slow ; that's her wust fault, cousin Hannah Jane. Now the fust cook I had, the arl^' part of the year, was the awfulest laziest, sleep3'-headedest thing you ever saw, cousin Hannah Jane. Wh}^ she never had breakfast ready before ten o'clock, cousin Hannah Jane. You know I couldn't put up with that, cousin Hannah Jane. So I sent her away. C. H. J. — That was right. I'd have done so, too, cousin Jemima. Mrs. M.— Well, my next cook wasn't any better than the fust, cousin Hannah Jane. Her name was Jane Short. She was a awful slovenlj", untid}^ critter. She didn't keep herself clean, cousin Hannah Jane. She would often git breakfast without washing her face or combin' her hair, cousin Hannah Jane. [Cousin Hannah Jane holds up her hands in amazement.] C. H. J. — Goodness, mercy, did I ever! Mrs. M. — It's a fact, cousin Hannah Jane, true as my name's Jemima Muggins. Cousin Hannah Jane. Wasn't it awt'ui f [ Cousin Hannah Jane again holds up her hands in amazement.] C. H. J.— Oh, horrid ! Mrs M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Muggins [Enter Betty.] 810 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Betty. — Mrs. Muggins, do you want tliem eggs fried or biled. Mrs. M. — Biled, Betty, biled I Betty [going^. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M.— Betty I Betty [^returning"]. — Well. Mrs. M. — Don't forgit, Betty, biled; recollect Bett}'. Betty. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — My next cook was an awful proud thing, <*ousin Hannah Jane, especially for a servant-girl. Her name was Mary Toots. She would sometimes wash her face in butter-milk to make it white, and then pour the butter-milk in the pitcher, and put it on the table for me and my niece Peggy Ann to drink, cousin Han- nah Jane. C. H. J. [^again raising her hands in wonder and dis- gust']. — Sakes a mercy 1 Did I ever? Mrs. M. — It's as true as my name's Jemima Muggins. \_Enter Betty. '\ Betty. — How many eggs must I use in makin' them pan-cakes ? Mrs. M. — Six, Betty, six! Betty \_going~\. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Betty ! \_BeUy returns.'] Mrs. M. — Mind, Betty, I said six. Betty. — Yes, marm. \^Exit.'] Mrs. M. — My fourth cook was too fond of gaddin' about, cousin Hannah Jane. I soon got rid of her. My fifth cook had the awfulest temper you ever sav/ in your life, cousin Hannah Jane. What do you think, cousin Hannah Jane ; she broke a wliole set of cups and sassers, because I said she had red hair. C. H. J. [_raising her hands']. — Oh, horrid! Mrs. M, — Don't that beat any thing you ever heerd on, cousin Hannah Jane ? C. H. J. — Oh, sakes a' mercy ! it was awful ! Mrs. M. — My sixth cook was too fond of reading books, cousin Hannah Jane. You know it wont do fer a servant-girl to be too fond of readin'. She didn't suit me. M3' seventh [the last one before Betty'], I sent away, because ehe made fun of my church, and you know I wo/ldu't stand that, cousin Hannah Jane. So SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 311 I soon gave her leave of absence, as people sa^^ So you see, Betty is my eighth cook this year. As I said be- fore, she does a heap better than any of the others, but still she has a heap of faults, cousin Hannah Jane ; but the wust one she's got, is she's so slow, so pokin\ Now yoa might think I am hard to please, cousin Hannah Jane, Lnt I aint. Not a bit. If a servant will try and come any ways near doin- right, I am satisfied, cousin Haunah Jane. You know I have a very mild temper, cousin Hannah Jane. C. H. J. — Yes, cousin Jemima, no one has a better disposition than 3'ou have. \_Enter Betty.'] Betty. — How much sugar shall I put in the rice- puddin', Mrs. Muggins ? Mrs. M. — Three ounces of sugar to four ounces of rice, Betty. Put in four eggs, Betty; two ounces of butter, melted in a tea-cup full of cream — put in a piece of lemon peel, Betty. Betty \_going']. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Betty ! iBetty returns.'] Bemembev to put in the lemon peel. Betty. — Yes, marm. ' Mrs. M. — Xow, Betty, aint a bad sort of a girl. She'd do tolerable well, if she wasn't so slow. Betty is very fond of my niece, Peggy Ann ; she'll do almost any thing for her. Wiiat do 3'ou think, cousin Hannah Jane, Jake Stubbins, the tooth doctor, has been comin' to see Peggy Ann every Sunday night for the last six months and yet he has never axed her to have him. Now, I'm a goin' to put a stop to this here kind of work. If he don't ax her to marry him the very next time he comes, I'll give him to understand his company isn't wanted here any longer. What's the use of comin', and comin', and comin' from June to etarnity, and never sayin' nothin' about marryin', cousin Hannah Jane ; besides tliat, he often comes before supper-time, in fact, nearly always. Now, I say it's a shame to be a livin' otf of a bod}'' that way, and then not say a word to the gal a])out marryin'. It's too bad, cousin Hannah Jane, too bad. C. H. J. — Yes, that's so, cousin Jemima. I wouldn't stand it neither. 812 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mrs. M. — "N'ow, Jake Stubbins, jest for all the world puts me in mind of the fellows that used to come to my Uncle Timothy's. Uncle Timothy had eight grown gals; and on Sunday afternoon and Sunday night, it was a sight to see the way) the young men and the old Imchelors and widowers did gather in ! oh, it was awful And what do you think, cousin Hannah Jane, but one out of the eight ever married, although they had more beaus than you could shake a stick at. \_Enter Betty.'] Betty. — What's your way of makin' plum-cakes, Mrs. Muggins ? Mrs. M. — Take two quarts of fine flour, Betty, and a pound of dry loaf sugar. With your plums, use half a pound of raisins, a quarter of an ounce of cloves, half a pound of almonds, a grated nutmeg, twelve eggs, and a little brandy. Betty [^going']. — Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Betty ! IBetty returns.'] Mind to put in the brandy. Betty.-— Yes, marm. Mrs. M. — Well, cousin Hannah Jane, I'm a lone widder, and I sometimes think I had better take a com- panion, but I'm afraid I can never meet with such another dear, good man, as poor Mr. Muggins was ; oh, he was sich a dear, good soul ! He was so keerful of me, cousin Hannah Jane. He was always afraid I would injure my health by hard work, cousin Hannah Jane. He would always want to do his own work and mine too, cousin Hannah Jane. Oh, no ! I will never see a man like my poor husband ! Oh, Obadiah Muggins 1 It's been twelve years since the dear, good soul went to the kingdom, cousin Hannah Jane. [Sighs.] My friends often tell me I ought to take another companion, cousin Hannah Jane, and I have plenty of chances, plenty of 'em, cousin Hannah Jane, but I'm not easily suited, cousin Hannah Jane. Now, I could get old man "Wiggins jest as easy as slippin' on ice ; but the old critter has sort of curious ways that I don't like much. Then there's Uriah Thompson ; I could git him, but he has too many children. Then there's old Deacon I)oo- little; I know I could get him, but he's too sharp and close-listed, he'd want to handle more of my money SCHOOLDAY DIALOflUES. 813 than I'd care about letting him have, and then we'd have to quarrel. Then there's Dan Dempster, he's nearly dyin'^ to marr}' me, but he's sich a rank pisin copperhead, and 1 hate them. Then there's plenty of others I could git, cousin Hannah Jane, but I don't know any one as reminds me of poor Obadiah what's dead and gone to the kingdom. Well, cousin Hannah Jane, suppose we go into Peggy Ann's room and persuade her to play for us on the pyanner. She plays so nice. I do love to hear her sins; that sweet sono- " There's three little kittinsis who have lost their mittins !" \_Singing fieai^d icithout.'] Jest listen, she's a siugin' now; come along, cousin Hannah Jane, come along. \_Exit. Curtain falls.l MARRYmG FOR MONET. CHARACTERS. Harry Brown. Egbert Bruce. Eliza Greklt Scene 1. — A room in Mrs. Whitens boarding-house. Brown [^looting in his pocket-book']. — Onh^ five dollars in my pocket, and ten dollars due for board. Aint I in a pretty fix ? I must raise the wind somehow ; that's certain ; but the query is, how am I to do it ? Beside my board bill I have sundr}^ other little bills that ought to be squared up. I really don't know why it is, but as soon as I get out of money every bod}^ commences duu- ning me. Bruce louiside]. — Hello, Brown ! Brown. — Hello yourself! Bruce. — Will 3^ou let a fellow come in ? Brown. — Come in, of course, and don't stand there hallooing at a fellow when he's in trouble. Come in right away ; I want to talk with you. [Unter Robert Bruce.'] Bruce. — You realh^ want to talk to me, do you ; W'ie^ll, go ahead. You're talking nearly all the time. If y(Mi don't havQ any one to talk to, you talk to yourself 814 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. I think you were indulging in that pastime when 1 came to the door. Brown. — Well, that's nothing. Somebody has said that all great men talk to themselves, and I believe it's a fact. But, Bob, I wish it to be distinctly understood that I do not consider myself a great man, but perhaps I will be a great man some day. There's one thing cer- tain. Bob, I've got a great load of trouble to bear, and the question naturally arises, how am I going to rid my- self of that trouble ; how am I going to pitch the great load from off my shoulders, and stand once more in the free light of day a relieved man, a free man, an untram- meled man — a man who feels that a great load has been jerked from off his shoulders^ — a man that — ah — ahem. [Pauses.'] Bruce. — Well, that's good I go on. Brown. — Bob, are you laughing at me ? Come now, that wont do. Would you laugh at one who was floun- dering in the mud of despondency ? Would you let a smile wreathe your lips when a fellow -being was in trouble? Answer me. Bob. As Shakspeare says, "Let me not burst in ignorance." Bruce. — No, I wouldn't. How could I laugh at a man when his misery makes him so very eloquent ? I couldn't do it, indeed. But, Harry, what's the matter now? What new trouble have you got into ? Brown. — I haven't got into any new trouble. I'm in the same old trouble — want of money. Bruce. — Oh, is that all? I can lend you an X, if that will get you through. Brown. — Bob, you're a good old fellow, but I can't take any thing more from you until, 1 have squared off the old account. You know I owe you a ten now. Bruce. — Yes, I know ; but you needn't trouble your-. self on that score. I can wait. By-the-way, Harry, have you seen the new boarder yet? , Brown. — No ; who is he ? Bruce. — Who is she, you mean. Her name's Eliza Greely. Brown. — A relative of Horace, is she ? Bruce. — Can't say, hideed. Beown. — Well, is she pretty ? SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 815 Bruce. — No, not killingly beautiful. Wont smash many hearts, I judge. Brown. — One more question, Bob. Is she rich ? Bruce. — She is. She told Mrs., White she had a few thousands, and asked her where she had better invest. Brown. — Good ! hurrah I I'll marry her. Bruce. — Ha ! ha ! Wait until you see her before you get excited. And then remember that it takes two to make a bargain. Remember, also, "It's easier far to hke a g-irl, Than to make a girl hke you." Brown. — Well, I'll do my best any how ; but stop, is ehe young ? Bruce. — About your own age, I should say, perhaps younger. Brown. — ^Well, that's good so far. Now let's see, how am I to manage? I'll get an introduction to her to- night, of course. Bruce. — Oh ! of course you will. And then what next ? Will you propose before you go to bed ? Brown. — No, Bob, that would be rushing things. No, no ; I'll take time and work carefully. As old Hopkins used to say, *' I'll make haste slowly." Bruce. — And perhaps in the meantime you'll have the pleasure of seeing the fair lady carried off by some fel- low who makes haste fastly. Brown. — I'll be on the lookout for all such fellows. Bruce. — Perhaps the lady is engaged. Brown. — Well, to be sure. [ With a puzzled air.'\ I never thought of that ; but if she is, I'll find out before I ask the momentous question. I say. Bob, wouldn't you enter the ring yourself if it wasn't for your darling- little Alice ? Bruce. — I might ; I don't know ; wiser men have done more foolish things. Brown. — AVell, it's all arranged ! I'll marry the new boarder, and then with our few thousands in our pockets we'll laugh at poverty. We'll "walk the water like a thing of life," or, rather, like two things of life. We'll live in a big house, and have a coach, and servants, and horses, and every thing we want. In short, we'll be 816 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. as happy as the clay is long. I wish it was night. I am anxious for the introduction. Roll swiftly round ye wheels of time. Make every thing scatter, and bring the night with all possible speed. I'm in haste. I'm all in a shiver of expectation and excitement. Bruce. — Keep cool, Harry ; the night will come soon enough. I must be off now, but before I go allow me to wish 3^ou success in your pursuit of a wife with golden charms. \_Exit Robert.'] Broavn. — I believe I'm going to make a raise at last. Now, if brother Tom was here, and knew all, he would give me a regular scolding for attempting to rush head- long into matrimony. But Tom is too slow and too careful. There's no use in courting a girl a year, nor half a year, nor two months. It's all nonsense ; if a man likes a girl, and the girl likes him, they'll know it before two days. I believe in rushing right ahead, and never stopping to think. This stopping to think has ruined many a man, and spoiled thousands of good matches. Now, if this new boarder isn't engaged, I'll lay a wager she'll be mine before three months ; I'm going to be in a hurry ; I'm going to rush things; she's got the tin, and that's what I'm after. Wont Tom open his eyes wide w)ien he hears that I'm married? But wont he open his eyes very wide when he hears that I'm living in a brown-stone, front ? But I can't sit here ; it's impossible for me to stay hereuntil supper-time ; J must go out and walk the streets until nightfall ; my impatience will not let me be quiet. \^Gets up and takes his hat.'] Good-by poverty, and hur- rah for the new boarder and her thousands of dollars lExit Harry Brown.] \_Curtain Falls.] Scene 2. — A room in Mrs Whitens boarding-house. Harry Brown discovered. Brown. — I'm married, thank fortune, I'm married at last. My wife, although not the most beautiful woman in the world, is, I think, a good sort of a woman. She will be liberal ; I know she will ; she will shell out the dollars as though they were cents ; there's one thing mystifies me a little ; I think she might have bought herself a grander outfit ; her bonnet might have been just SCHOOLDAY 11TAL0GUE5. 817 a little better. But then she looked we 1 In i^, and I sup- pose she understands the mysteries of dressing better than I do. Now, there's some women who look a thou- sand times better in calico than they do in silk, and I have no doubt Eliza is one of that number. I've been married two days now, and I think it is about time I was finding out just exactly how many thousands she has. It's a delicate matter to talk on, but then I neecln t care; the knot is tied and can't be severed. Hello! here comes my wife now. My wife ! how funny that sounds I \_Enter Eliza.'\ Eliza. — "Well, ducky, not gone out yet, I see. Brown. — No, m}?- little darling, I aint gone out yet. Fact is, 'Liza, I don't like to be away very long from 3^ou. Eliza. — Don't you. Brownie dear ? Ah, you'll get over that by and by. Brown. — No, Eliza ; I don't think I will. I may even say I am sure I will not. I am convinced that there is, away down in my heart of hearts, a long, strong, broad, deep flame of love, that will blaze on and blaze on through countless nights of waking and days of woe. There rolls not a billow of sorrow nor salt water that can extinguish that flame. That flame will burn as long as — yes, Eliza, that flame will burn as long as — ahem — yes, Eliza Eliza. — Is there any thing the matter with you, Brownie, dear? Brown. — No, Eliza, nothing ; I was only soaring. But to come to business, wifey tifey, where is your money deposited ? Eliza. — M}^ money ! ha ! ha ! That's good ! Brownie dear, I haven't ten dollars to my name. Brown. — Ah ! I see ; a good joke, Eliza ; a good joke indeed. You want to make me believe for a little while that you haven't any money, and then tell me all at once what an awful pile you have. But don't do it, Eliza ; the news would be too good ; I couldn't bear it; reason might totter and throw herself. Eliza. — Brownie, \'ou are talking kind of shallow this ip-^rning. Is there anything the matter with your head ? Brown.- ^No, ducky, nothing; but do tell me just 318 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. how many thousand dollars you have, and where it is deposited. Eliza. — I told 3^ou before, and I tell you again, T haven't ten dollars to my name. There's my port-mon- nie. \_Hands it.'\ Examine for yourself. It contains every cent of my money. Brown. — Great Constan Eliza. — Stop, Brownie ; don't swear. Did you think I was wealthy ? Brown. — To be sure I did. Didn't you tell Mrs. White you had a few thousand ? Eliza, — I believe I did say something of that kind ; but I meant a few thousand cents. Of course I didn't say it to lead any person to believe I was wealthy. Brown. — Oh, I'm sold. I'm a wretched man I Eliza. — No, you ain't, Brownie, dear. [_Puts her arms around his neck.'] Cheer up ; perhaps you'll find I'm worth more than a few thousand dollars. Brown. — Eliza, I believe you are right. I believe I have found a treasure, but not the kind of a treasure I expected. Anyhow, the knot is tied, and we may as well make the best of a bad arrangement; not saying at all, duckey tifey, that it is a bad arrangement. Ob, no ; not at all. Eliza. — No, no ; it isn't a bad arrangement, Brownie dear. We'll get along swimmingl3^ I know we will. Brown. — Yes, we'll get along swimmingly ; at least I hope we will. But still I think it is a bad arrangement to marry in haste and repent at leisure. [ Curtain falls.] THE CONFLICT. Scene. — William Thoughtful, a young man who is form^ ing new resolutions and plans on New Yearns day, is seated in a room, alone, thinking aloud. Thoughtful. — This day I wish to begin life anew. What is my future destiny? Shall I continue to climb tlie " Hill of Science," as I trust I have begun, till I reach the summit, and all the world reverence the name of Thoughtful ? Or, shall I still remain near my own SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 819 loved home, toiling with willing hands to gain the glit- tering gold ? not for mere show, but that I might minis- ter to the loving ones who have, by example and care, made me what I am ! Oh ! that the future was not a sealed book to me ! If some good fairy would only have the kindness to point out the path which would be the safest for me to pursue ! \_Enter Vanity. A young girl gaily dressed; dis- playing much gold and jewels.Ji Yanity. — Beautiful creature ! Thy brow is clothed with thought. How much more charming in the ej^es of all, must one be, the expression of whose face shows that he thinks and feels, than one whose only expression is love for the world and its pleasures. Listen to me ! You have talents, great talents ; with a little exertion you might gain gold enough to dress with all the pomp and splendor of a prince. The wealthiest would bow to you, and nothing would be lacking to complete your happiness. Your personal beauty, wealth, and towering mind would attract all the world, even from the least to the greatest. Thoughtful.— I think I know who thou art : is not Yanit^'- thy name ? Surely, no honest person is ashamed of nis name ? Yanity. — Oh, no, indeed ! Yanity would advise thee to do nothing that would really benefit thee ; but / would have thee improve thy mind, and attain to great- ness. Oh, follow my advice I Think of the enjoyment to be derived from being one to whom every one will bow and render praise. Thoughtful. — I know theel Yanity ts thy name! Are we to live merely for our own selfish enjoyment ? Thou hast been trying to deceive me ; but I understand thy wiles. Retire from my presence ! I hope I will not harbor Vanity. Yanity [^retires, murmuring']. — I thought he would not know me. Thoughtful. — There, I have vanquished one enem}' ! Oh ! that I might know equally well all who, with their fla.ttering words, would lure me from the path of duty. [^Enter Mammon. A hoy represented as an old man, rather plainly dressed.] 320 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mammon. — Listen to me, and I will give thee advice worth more than that of any other being. Hast thou not heard of me — of my wealth ? M}^ coffers are filled to the brim! It will be well for thee to do as I have done. I will tell thee how to gain this great amount of treasure Only follow my advice, and thou shalt be happy I Thoughtful. — Who art thou that advisest me ? One who really seeks my good, or art tliou trying to deceive me ? But speak on ; 1 would learn more of thy char- acter. Mammon. — I will speak on till thou knowest cer- tainly that I would do thee good. Dost thou not know that gold is a blessing ? See here ! [ Taking a handful of shining metal from his pocket.'] See this gold and silver ! Here is enough to procure comforts for thine aged pa- rents that would last them all their lives ; and yet, this is not a hundredth part of what I possess. Do as I have done, and thou shalt not only gain enough to make thy parents .comfortable and happy, but can aid many poor and stricken ones. I would not have thee restricted to any one particular employment ; choose whatever you like; only remember that it is your duty to gain gold ! For, how could the poor, the benighted, and the suffer- ing sick ones who can not help themselves be benefited if there was not some able as well as willing hand to help them ? Listen to the call of the numerous benevo- lent societies all over our land ! Oli, give us gold ! more gold to send bibles to the heathen who have dwelt in darl^ness all their lives. Or, how could we ol)ey tlie divine command — " Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel," if it were not for gold ? Thou mightest choose to be a minister of the gospel ; but while seeking to do good be careful not to offend your wealtliy par- ishioners ; for, if you should gain their ill-will, they might refuse to part with any of their precious gold ; then your benevolent plans would be thwarted. With- out this valuable treasure, you could not soothe the wailing cry for help, which is being sent np from all over the face of our globe. Or, if you should choose to be a physician, and be called to attend some wealthj^ (»atient for the sake of obtaining gold, with which you SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 321 might minister to the wants of the poor and needy, it would be better not to be in too much haste to have him recover, so that he would no longer need your ser- vices. Or, if 3^ou should choose to be a merchant, be s;ire and let thy motto be gold. Obtain all thou canst 1 n- an article, if the purchaser does not know that he '.an buy it for less at other places ; that is his business, not thine. [ Winking slyly.'] Get all thou canst, for how much good couldst thou do, if thou only possessed » great amount of gold. \_Enter Truth, a hoy with a helmet and shield, hear- ing a hanner wreathed with evergreens, and hav- ing the word. Truth, inscribed upon it.] Truth [waving his hanner]. — Is gold to be bought at the expense of Truth, Justice, or Honesty ? Mammon \_ frowning upon Truth]. — And who art thou ? to intrude upon us, when I have been advising my good friend Thoughtful ? Truth. — -One who loves justice, and will never, no never, see one who loves it as well as I do, deceived by thy flattering words ! [ Turning to Thoughtful.] Friend Thoughtful, didst thou not know him ? Although he would gladly make it seem to thee that it is thy duty to wrench the glittering treasure from thy fellow men, canst thou not see that he would have thee use deceit and fraud in every possible way? Oh, consider! before resolving to follow his advice ! Thoughtful [rising hastily to his feet, and grasping the hand of Truth]. — Oh! my good friend, Truth! Words can not express my thanks to thee, for coming just in time to prevent my following this deceitftil Mammon ! I know him now, and ought to have known him before ; but his seemingly benevolent purpose blinded me. But from henceforth, honesty will be my first motto, and Mammon. — Far be it from me to advise thee to l)e dishonest! But gold is a blessing, and we could never minister to the wants of the poor and needy without it. Truth. — Oh, misguided Mammon! goto your gilded cell, and ponder on the inconsistency of your statement ! What less is it than dishonesty, to receive more than you know an artirle is worth from an unsuspecting cus- 21 322 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. tomer ? .Of, as in the case of a physician, to knowingly and wilfully prevent your patient from recovering ? Nay, worse than that, not only wrongfully obtaining his gold, but depriving him of his health ; and to whom is not health dearer than gold ? Mammon [walks slowly away, muttering']. — I am van- quished I Thoughtful. — Oh, Truth ! wilt thou ever be my champion, and open my eyes to all deceit? Truth. — If thou wilt receive and ever acknowledge me as thy friend, most certainly I will. I would gladly use my weapons to defend all ; but those who will not listen to me, I can not aid. [^Enter Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility ; each hears a banner with her name inscribed upo7i it. Benevolence, a large girl, dressed in a purple or drab dress, and a large cloak of some dark ma- terial thrown over her shoulders, enters first : she is followed by Earnestness, who has on a scarlet dress, trimmed with evergreens, and a wreath of the same about her head. Lastly, Humility, a little girl dressed in white, enters. They take their places upon the stage, and wave their ban- ners.'] Benevolence. — Deceptive Mammon would have thee think that I follow in his footsteps I But true Benevo- lence follows Truth. Thou hast chosen him as thy champion, wilt thou accept my friendship ? [^She smil- ingly extends her hand ; he takes it.] Thoughtful. — Most gladly, I will! Earnestness. — Thou hast chosen Benevolence as thy friend. I would make thee more earnest in every good work I \_Thoughtful clasps her hand.] Thoughtful. — Most thankful am I for thy friendship. Humility. — Thou hast vanquished Vanity, would st thou have Humility instead ? \_He clasps her hand also.] Thoughtful. — Ah, yes 1 With Truth for my cham- pion, Benevolence, Earnestness, and Humility for my friends, I trust I shall conquer all my enemies. How sad if I had chosen Mammon and Yanity instead I I now rejrard them as deadly foes. [ Curtain falls.] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 323 LIFE: A SCHOOL SCENE. CHARACTEES. "Pleasure. Beauty. Wealth. Fame- Pistt, Dress: Plkasure. — White dress, looped with flowers ; covered with butterflies, spangles of gold, etc. Wreath of flowers on her head. Flowers on bosom. Bevuty. — The same as Pleasure, nearly. Wealth. — Rich black silk, with trail. Rings, pins, bracelets, chains, jewels, etc, in profusion. Crown of black silk or velvet, with half moon and stars of gold. Black vail covered with gold stars flowing back from crown. Fame. — Plain dress of some dark stuff. Plain linen collar and cuffs. Collar fastened with a single brilliant gem. Hair done back from forehead. Piety. — Pure white, with a single rose-bud on bosom. Position on Stage. — Pleasure enters first, from left of stage ; speaks ce?i^er; takes place right. Beauty enters W^Ti^, takes place and speaks left. Wealth enters left, speaks ce?;^er, takes place riglit. Fame enters right, takes place and speaks left. Piety enters, takes place and speaks center — thus forming a beautiful tableau. * Pleasure lEnter lightly, trilling a gay song. Stops singing and says :] — Oh, life to me is a thing of pleasure ! For sorrow and care I find no leisure. Like a butterfly gay with gaudy wings — Or like a birdling wild that trills and sings, I'll away from bower to bowser, Tasting the sweets of every flower, Singing my wild, glad measure ; — Ever seeking some new pleasure. My friends shall be All like me, Giddy and gay The live long day. We have but one life to live — so the records say, Let us drink and b^ merry while we may: With rich, red wines our glasses we'll till, W^ith jest and with laugh dall care we'll kill. 324 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Soft, sensuous music causes my bosom to beat, Away, away, to its time, ye restless feet. Time to repent when death draws nigh : — Till then, wild heart, cause me not a sigh. Life to me is a song of pleasure — Keep step, wayward feet, to its changeful measuie. Beauty : — Sister, thou dost live for pleasure: In beauty I find the rarest treasure ; You would live thoughtless and gay ; I would be a beauty fair as the day ; I would have features faultless and fair With no trace of frailty ling'ring there : I would have a form like that of a queen — Yes, far more lovely than mortal has seen, Then I'd be the wonder of all that should see — Oh, that would be pleasure if pleasure there be I Wealth : — Foolish things ! Prate of beauty and pleasure I I would have coffers crammed with treasure. What beauty is there like that of gold ? — E'en though it does make the heart stony and cold I What earthly pleasure like that to feel Hands full of gold, till senses reel? Oh, give me jewels, sparkling and bright. That shame the stars which fill the night. Bring me diamonds from the mine, — Bring me pearls from ocean's brine ; Fill m}^ houses with all that there be Of what's costly and rare from over the sea. Then I'll not care for Old Time as he tlies. When with gold and with jewels I can feast mj eyes. Fame : — Ye groveling earth-worms with wishes vain ! I seek for that which few may obtain. What pleasure i^ there in a cup of wine ? Who years from now will care for that form divine ? And none but a sordid, soulless mind In the chink of gold would a pleasure find. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 325 Care ye not for something more high ? That something which your gold can nevtr buy? Have ye no longings in 3'onr inmost self Other than those for pleasure and pelf? I would have mine a proud, immortal name, Which shall for ever live in Fame ! I'lETY: — I would have life to me Just what our Father designed it should be. True wisdom 111 seek Ever to guide me when I'm weak. In doing His will my pleasure I'll find ; To what seemeth Him good, I'll be resigned. My treasure I'll seek to la}- up above, In the Better-land, where God dwells, who is l(yve. [^Music, while the curtain slowly falls.'] BEN, THE ORPHAN BOY; OR, "HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY" CHARACTERS. Ben Wilson, Martha Raymond. Mr. Holland. Mrs. Holland. Servant. Scene 1. — A street, Martha Raymond, a keeper of a fruit stand, and Ben Wilson discovered. Ben. — How nice the windows look this evening ; I wish I was rich and could buy some of the pretty things I see. But if I could but get enough to eat and a good fire to stay by at night, I would be satisfied. But I can not. I am compelled to wander through the streets and can get nothing but what I beg from the passers-by. Martha. — Are you hungry now, Ben ? Ben. — Yes, very hungry ; I have had nothing to eat to-day. Dave sent me out this morning without a 826 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. mouthful to eat before I started, and would have whipped me, too, if 1 had not run away. And now I am afraid to go back again. Martha. — Here, Ben [hands cakes'\, you shall not want for something to eat as long as I have any thing to give 3'ou. I have very hard getting along, but am a little better off than you. I have stood here all this cold, dreary day, and have only sold a half dollar's Avorth yet. My poor mother is sick at home, and if things do not turn out better, I shall soon be as badly off as you. Ben. — Oh, how good that cake is ! Martha. — Here's a couple more, Ben. I know you are hungry. We are poor, but God will provide for us if we but trust in him and are honest and upright. Ben {looking off~\. — Do you see that fine lady and gentleman getting into that carriage? Arn't they grand ? Martha, why is it that some people are allowed to be so rich and comfortable, while others are so poor and miserable ? Martha. — I can not tell, Ben. God's ways are dark and past finding out. It seems hard that it should be so, but if it were not right it would not be. We must trust in the Lord and bear all without murmuring. {Ben darts out and returns bearing a large pocket-book. 1^ Ben. — Look, Martha! See ! I've found a great big pocket-book, and I guess it's chuck full of money. {Opens it.2 Oh, see what a lot of gold pieces ! Martha. — Put it in your pocket — quick, Ben I It is not safe for you to be displaying it on the street. {Ben puts it away."] Come here, Ben. Do you know who lost the pocket-book ? Ben. — I guess it was that fine lady or gentleman who came out of the store and got into the carriage. Martha. — Do 3^ou know who they are ? Ben.— No I Martha. — It is Mr. Holland and his wife ; they are very wealthy. But what are you going to do with the money ? Ben.— Going to keep it, of course, and buy lots of good things to eat. But, I'm going to give you half of it, so that you can get the medicine for your mother and buy a whole heap of coal. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 827 Martha. — Is the money 3^onrs, Ben ? Ben. — Yes — well — I don't know. I found it and those people are rich folks, and, you know, they don't need it. Martha. — Ben, you would be doing very wrong to keep this money. It would be as bad to keep the mone}^ belonging, as it does, to a rich man, as it would be to keep it, if it belonged to a poor man. It would not be honest to keep it ; and let me advise you to return it immediately. Ben. — Oh, how can I ? Just think how I am suffering every day for something to eat and for clothes to wear ; and think of your mother, who is lying sick and in need of assistance. The man is rich and will never miss the money. Oughtn't I to keep it ? Martha. — IS'o, Ben ; you ought not. I know you suffer for want of bread and clothes and a comfortable home ; but trust in the Lord and be honest, and all will yet be well. Ben. — Well, I felt like a rich man a few minutes ago, but it is all gone now. I will take your advice, Martha, for 3^ou have always been kind to me, and I know you always do right. If you will tell me where the gentle- man lives, I will take the money to him right away. Martha. — He lives at No. 28 Seventh street, in the large brown-stone front. Remember the number — 28. Ben. — Yes. May I go home with you to-night, when I come back ? I am afraid to go back to my home ; I know old Dave will beat me if I do. Martha. — Yes, come back here and I will take you with me. \_Exit Ben.'] Scene 2. — Mr. Holland's parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Holland discovered. Mrs. Holland. — I am rather tired. It certainly was a long ride for me after m}^ illness, but I know it will do me good, and I will feel a great deal better after I become rested a little. [Putting her hand into her pocket.'] Oh, dear ! I've lost my pocket-book 1 Or, perhaps, m}^ pocket was picked while I was in the store. No, it couldn't have been. It must have dropped as I was getting into the carriage. It contained something over a hundred dollars. 328 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mr. Holl.^nd. — Oh, well ; don't worry about it. You are not likely to get it again, but 'tis no difference. I hope some poor person will find it and use the money to make himself comfortable. [_Enter servant.'] Servant. — Mr. Holland, here is a little bo}^ who says he must see you. \_Exit servant.'] \_Enter Ben.] Ben. — Here, sir, is a pocket-book you or the lady here dropped about half an hour ago in front of Mason's store. I have not disturbed the contents. Good even- ing, sir [about to retire]. Mr. Holland. — Come back ; come back ; I want to talk to you. Be seated, my little man. Ben [yoith cap in hand]. — If you please, sir, I'd rather not. My clothes are ragged and dirty, and your chairs are grand. I will stand. Mr. Holland. — Pooh! You shant stand! Don't mind your clothes and the chairs — sit down — sit down ! The chairs have been occupied by persons who hadn't hs.if your honesty. Sit down, my honest little fellow — sit down ! Don't be afraid. \_Ben sits.] And you say you found this in front of Mason's store ? Ben. — Yes, sir. Mr. Holland. — Do you know how much money it contains ? Ben. — No, sir ; I opened it and looked in, but did not touch the money. Mr. Holland. — Here, Alice ; this is the pocket-book you dropped, isn't it ? Reward the honest little fellow as you see fit. Mrs. Holland. — Such honesty isn't often seen or heard of in this great wicked city, and I propose to reward him liberally. Here, my little friend, is the pocket-book as you found it. It contains something over one hundred dollars. Take it all and spend it as you choose. I know you will not spend it foolishly. Ben.— What I All ? Oh, ma'am ! I couldn't do that I I will be very glad to have a few dollars, though, as I have no home and can hardly get enough bread to keep .me alive. Mrs. Holland. — Have you no father or mother ? Ben. — No, ma'am. I have been living with across SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 329 man, who says he is my uncle. His name is Dave Han- son. He was going to beat me this morning, because I wouhi not steal a package he told me to steal. I ran off, and do not like to go back again. Mr. Holland. — How would you like to stay with us ? Ben. — Oh, sir ; I would be delighted 1 I would do any thing for you if you would only give me a good home. Mr. Holland. — Well, it is settled ; you shall stay. • Ben [yoith demonstrations of joy"]. — Oh, sir; how kind you are I I thank you very much and will do any thing for 3^ou. Mrs. Holland. — What is your name, my honest little friend ? Ben. — Ben Wilson, ma'am. I have no friends in the city except Martha Raymond, who keeps a cake and apple stand on North street. I was talking to her to- night at her stand, when I saw your pocket-book. She knew you, and told me where to find you. And — oh, I forgot ! I promised to go back there to-night, and she said she would take me home with her, as I had no place to stay. She is far honester than I am, for I wanted to keep the money, but she said it would be wrong, and talked so good to me about doing right and trusting in God, that I couldn't keep the pocket-book. She is very poor and has a sick mother, and she says she needs medicine and refreshments. Mr. Holland. — Very well ; we will go to see them to-morrow morning and make them both comfortable. They shan't want for any thing. Ben. — Thanks, kind sir ; and now how happy I am, and ^turning to audience^ how happy I will be, if the fair ladies and gentlemen before us will agree, tfiat " Honesty is the best policy^^ and approve the coursi <>f Ben, the Orphan Boy. [ Curtain falls. 1 330 SC'.HOOLDAY DIALOGUES. THE CONVICT'S SOLILOQUY THE NIGHT BEFORE EXECUTION. [The convict should have on striped clothes — a shirt and pants — to represent a criminal; his face pale, eyes hollow, hair uncombed and matted. He should represent a person of about thirty years of age ; his feet fastened to the floor by a long, heavy chain ; his hands confined by handcuffs. The light should be very dim, which will add to the effect. The piece requires a good actor and speaker ; one who has a good control of his voice.] Scene. — A prison cell, containing a low mattrass of straw, a table, and a pitcher. Curtain rises, and discovers him sleeping uneasily. He awakes with a wild start. As he gets deeply into the subject he rises and walks the ' floor. I have just dreamed a dream. Yes, with dreams m}'- nights of sleepless horror are filled. Those half unreal, yet so terrible ; so full of horrid phantasy ; but 'tis not of those. No! I have dreamed a dream. I dreamed that / was a boy again and had not here this gnawing pain. I was still by m}^ mother's side. Oh, my God ! my mo- ther/ Why do /call on Godf But that dream, oh, that dream. That it might be real again. Yes, I knelt at her knee in prayer. In prayer ? Yes, in prayer, for I prayed then. And if I had been told that /should some time see this, feel this, this, all this, and this but my just part, I would have said and thought he lied who told me of it. But I was in prayer, at my mother's knee, my little hands, then innocent of guilt — my God ! how guilty now I by every crime they're stained — were clasped within her own, hers so loving, while her eyes of blue were hid from sight by those veined lids the while ; and there she prayed for her only child, for her boy, for me ; and such a prayer as touched my heart ; and such a prayer as might cause angels to weep and fiends to cower. I have noheart ; I cast it from me long, long ago, in the dim past ; dimmed by the sins and crimes that rise up be- tween that time and this — the da3's of happy youth. Happy, did I say ? happiness is a word forgotten and unknown to me. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 831 And then I saw her anguish when she heard of my first sin. How pale she looked ! With what anguish unspeakable she looked on me, once her pride, now so fallen. Yet she loved me ; tried to woo me ba,ck to the paths of rectitude ; but in Tain ; I was hardened ; I would not listen ; there was no hope, I said : I spurned her love ; I was cold and cruel, though it broke my heart, for it was not stone then. At last she died. Oh ! such a death ! Her last breath of agony a prayer for me, her hoy. And then that bright-eyed, merry girl ! Ha ! ha ! I'll take to myself the bitter pleasure of thinking of her now for the last time. I loved her so well. How true, how good she was 1 how like an angel ! Yes, with all my soul I loved her, and she returned my love two-fold. She would not believe that I had sinned ; she said they lied ; but the proof came all too strong ; it dazed her brain, and she luas mad ! Oh God ! How fast I went down — down to the mouth of hell ! Oh ! those fiends in angel form that first led me to drink wine ; those fiends that the world calls women — fiends ! How she held the red wine to my lips ! I drank ; I was lost — lost for ever. Ah ! how Avell do I remember the first time that I took the bright coin, that burned into my soul like a thing ac- cursed — took it from my employer's drawer to pay for the drink that m}^ insatiable thirst demanded. It soon got to be an old story to me. Then I was found out. I fled. Oh God ! accursed, accursed ! My home gone, li-iends gone, soul ruined. I got money then; ha! ha I and that game was soon stopped. I was pursued too closely. The fiends of darkness that gather round me begone ! begone for a time ! There, what a fool I How I quake with fear ; for oh, I see his eyes — those eyes I Oh! 'Twas in the dim wood at nightfall that I turned at bay. Ah ! they'd better have let me alone. The tiger, when it feels the pangs of hunger, is more merci- ful than was I — maddened with the liquid fires of hell — RUM ! They became scattered ; I heard them searching; I crouched down under the bushes, down in the thicl^:, black darkness that choked me ; he was close upon me ; I clutched the knife ; one step more ; with a spring I was upon him. Staggered for a moment he sprang back ; 332 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. with my wild strength I clutched him ; I drove the knife into his bosom ; the hot blood squirted full in my face ; with a groan he fell on the ground. Again I was npon him ; this time, with truer aim, I drove the knife- blade to his heart's core ; there, in the ghostly moon- light, with his wild, startled gaze full upon me, and that terrible rattle in his throat — I fell back like one dead — it was my brother ! 1 was his murderer ! How that white face stares out at me now ! those eyes ! I knew no more until I found myself here. They took me out for the eager rabble to gaze upon ; and I thought how many of you, fine folks, are yourselves making murderers with your accursed, demoniac, hellish drink ? They condemned me to death — that jury of stern men — without leaving the room they returned their verdict. 'Twas but a mockery, a mere form, though I asked not for pity. I got none. When that murmur of applause went through the room, I sprang to my feet ; he who had returned the verdict guilty — the foreman — was the damnable wretch who had sold me the poison which had brought me there ; he who had made me what I was ; he whose vile stuff had fired my brain when I did the deed, stood there before heaven and the world — pronounced me unfit to live ; he I and he to live and curse the world yet longer with his hellish traffic — his traffic in souls ; he ! There in the gallery among the crowd of women who had come to hear the words which sealed my doom, was she who Jirst held the wine cup to my lips ! She who scoflTed when I scrupled to take it. I drank it. The serpent has stung me sore — aye, poisoned my soul to its death for all eternity. How I gave vent to the surging, fiery waves within I They thought me mad. He, the vile wretch, sank down as if he had received his death blow. And well had it been for the world had it been so, and with all such as he. Pale and panting he cried for them to take me out; they dared not touch me, though my hands were fet- tered ; she, with a wild shriek, swooned, and they bore her away; well they might shrink as from the voice of doom. Oh 1 my lost spirit shall take keen pleasure, to which the joys of heaven were feeble, in haunting them. At last I sank back exhausted ;' they led me passive out, while il^e crowd opened right and left, and stared as SCIIOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 833 on an awful something — they knew not what. . . And to-morrow I die ! For the last time have I seen the sun set ; but once more am I to see the blue sky of heaven ; and then only to be suspended between it and the earth, in which my body is to lie. Hark I the clock tolls the hour. \_A clock slowly and distinctly strikes twelve.'] Soon they will be at work on the— gallows. Listen I yes, there is the sound of the saw and hammer. [_Sound of car- penter^s tools heard at work outside, and continue until cur- tain falls.'] Oh God ! can it be for me ? am I to die ? To die — so soon ? God of mercy hear me ! Visit those who tempted me to fall as they deserve/ And /am lost! Pro- bation ended — lacking six short hours. And I am lost! My mother I oh I my mother I Never more to meet I my God! MY MOTHER I [^Curtain slowly falls, while a dirge is played.] JOHN JONES'S FORTUNE. CHARACTERS. John Jones, a tailor. Sally Jones, his Avife. David Aiken, a neighbor. Scene. — A room scantily furnished. John Jones seated cross-legs on a table, sewing. Sally preparing dinner. John. — Well, Sally, we are getting along swimmingly now, aint we ? We are poor, very poor, but I think you will agree with me that we are happy. I think you will agree with me that we are the happiest couple in the county. Sally. — Yes, John, I agree with you; I believe I always agree witli you, and you always agree with me, and that's the way we happen to get along so well to- gether. John. — That's so, Sally ! Now there's the Smiths that live in the big brick house up on the hill yonder, they don't get along very well. They say the old man and the old woman arc continnall}^ fighting, and the boys have taken to drink and are fast becoming drunk- 334 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. ards. Tom was carried home the other night by two of his companions. He had been at a carousal in the village, and got so beastly drunk he couldn't ride. Sally. — I pity his parents, but, perhaps, they do not deserve pity, because if they had brought up their chil- dren properly they would not have turned out so. I'm glad we are not rich. If we were, something would go wrong. I might become lazy or you might become lazy, or — well, I don't know what might happen, but I'm sure we wouldn't be as happy as we are now. John. — That's so, Sally ; but I don't think you need feel uneasy about it. It will be a long time before we are rich. But, you know, we are out of debt, and I think, if I work hard, I can make as much as we can eat and wear • and, perhaps, in a year or two I can lay up a few dollars. \_Sally proceeds with her work, John sings a verse of the Star Spangled Banner.^ *' Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light. What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. Oh, say, does that star spangled banner yet wave, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ?" [ Whistles the same tune a minute or two.^ John. — I say, Sally, hav'n't you got dinner ready ? I'm as hungry as an ox. Sally. — Yes, it is nearly ready ; but, you see, we hav'n't very much to eat to-day. I don't care for my- self, but I would like to bave something better for you when you have to work so hard. John. — Oh, never mind me, Sally, I'll get along. But you work as hard as I do, Sally — you know you do. I'll get a nice cut of beef this evening and some fresh fish, and we'll dine like kings to-morrow ; wont we, Sally ? Sally. — I'm sure, I'm satisfied with what we have, I have no complaints to make so long as we have no sick- ness nor trouble. You know it is better to have a table scantily spread and be happy, than to have a table loaded with the richest viands and be unhappy. But come, now ; dinner is rcidy for you. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 335 John.' — And I'm ready for dinner. \^Puts doion his sewing, and gets off the table.'] It's a glorious thing to have a good appetite, even if it does cost a little more than to have a poor one. \_Knock at the door — opened by John. David Aiken discovered.'] Hallo, Dave I How do you do ? Come in ! David — No ; havn't time. John. — Oh, j^es, come in, and have a bite of dinner ; we havn't much, but you know you are welcome. David [fumbling in his coat pocket]. — I know, but I can't stop. I've got a letter for you, but it has got mixed up with some of my papers, and I can't find it. Here it is. It came in this morning's mail, and as I was coming past I thought I'd bring it to you. John. — Thank ye, Dave, thank ye ! [Exit David.] Sally, I guess we'll let the dinner cool a few minutes till we read this letter — wonder who it can be from. [Opens letter.] It is dated from Bently. [Beads.] " Sir: — This is to inform you that your mother's uncle is dead, and has left you the sum of forty thousand dol- lars." [Stops reading, and shouts.] Hurrah! hurrah! Isn't that grand news, Sally ? Sally. — It is. Oh ! John, I'm so glad ! But I never heard you speak of the old gentleman who has left you the fortune. John. — Well, to tell the truth, I didn't know much about him. I knew mj^ mother used to have an uncle out there somewhere, but I thought the old fellow was dead long ago. Sally.— Well, we are rich people now. We can buy that house and farm that is for sale down in Magoffin valley. John. — I guess we wont squander our money buying such poor land as that ! We'll go to the city and live, and I'll set up an extensive clothing store. Sally. — -Yes, and squander all your money before two years. John. — Sally, you'd better be careful ! You don't mean to say that I would go to drinking and gambling? Sally. — No, that wasn't what I meant, but that's what it will come to. Lots of people have tried to keep store in the city, and it has always ended in their break- 336 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. ing up ; and that's the way it will be with you ; and then after you have squandered all j^our money that way you'll take to drink, and leave your poor wife and chil- dren to starve, and John. — Sally, shut up I You are making a fool of yourself. I reckon I know something about buying and selling, and can take care of my money. [^Sharply.'] Put the potatoes on the fire again ; I aint going to eat cold potatoes. Sally. — Well, if you don't like cold potatoes, you can put them on the fire yourself I I aint going to run after you and be your nigger any longer. You're get- ting mighty big all at once ! John.— Sall}^ if you don't keep quiet I'll strap you I Here, if you wont warm the potatoes I'll give them to the pigs. They are little bits of things an3^how, and you didn't half wash them. [ Throws the potatoes out of the window.'] You always were a dirty thing, and you never could wash potatoes. Sally. — There! take that, you low-lifed tailor I [ Throws a plate at him.'] And that ! and that ! [ Throws cups and sa,ucers.] You are the ugliest, hatefulest man in the world, and you ought to be John. — Sal., you old hag, I'll trounce you — I willl I John raises a stick to strike her — she slaps him in the face, and screa7ns.] \_Enter David.] David [seizing John]. — Hello ! John ! what are you about? I'm ashamed of you I Here, I've run back to give you jowv letter. I gave you the wrong one. John. — Did you? And I never looked at the en- velope. \_Picks up the envelope.] Why, it's for John Jacobs. Tell him I opened it in a mistake. David. — Here's your letter. The envelopes arn so much alike, and the names, too, that I very naturally made the mistake. Good-by, John; and let me tell you if I see you trying to whip your wife, the next time I come, I'll take you in hands mj'self, and give you a sound thrashing. John. — I'm ashamed of myself, Dave. Please say nothing about it. David. — All right. I'mmum. Good-by. [Exit David. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 837 tTcust. - TTonV, StiTiy. well read another letter, [Beads.'] ' fJiR: — Tlie cloth wUi be ready for 3'ou next Saturday, Yours, etc., Hanley k Anderson." So, you sec, our fortune ot forty thousand has vanished. Well, I can't say laat I am sorry. Are you, Sail}' ? SiiLiiir. — '^t'ruly, I am not. Let us forget our little trouble, and be happy again. As soon as we became rich Vb eommenced to ilgut ; now that we know we are poor again, we will be happy as in days gone by. John. — Yes, that we will ; and 1 sincerely hope that the letter will not raise the rumpus in John Jacobs' famil}^ that it did here. But I'm as hungry as a half-starved hip- popotamus. We can't have potatoes for dinner, that's certain; but let's eat something. And just before we go to dinner, I would say to our friends here before us, that riches do not alwa}- s bring happiness ; and in proof of this I would refer you to the Fortune of John Jones, the Tailor. [_Curfain falls. 1 11^ WANT OF A SERVANT. CHARACTEKS. Mr. Marshall and Wife. Snowdrop Washington, Margaret O'Flanagan. Mrs. Bunker. Katrina Van Follenstein. Freddie. Scene 1. — The breakfast-room of Mr. and 3Irs. 3Iar- shall. Mr. Marshall smoking a cigar and enjoying the morning paper, with his heels on the mantel. Mrs. Marshall [in a complaining tone']. — Oh, dear, Charles, how sick and tired I am of housework ! I do euA-y people who are able to keep help. Here I am tied up to the little hot kUchen from morning till night — stewing, and baking, and fiying, and scrubbing, and washing floors, till I am ready to sink! One thing right over and over again. I wonder why Hood, when he wrote the " Song of the Shirt," had not kept on and written the Song of the Basement Story. 22 338 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. . ' Mr. M. ^revfiomng Ms cigar']. — Is it so verji-biid, Lilly? Why, I always thought it must be nice work to cook — and washing dishes is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is pour a little hot water on 'em and give 'em a flirt over with a towel. Mrs. M. — That's all you men know about it ; it is the hardest work in the world ! I always hated it. I remem- ber, when I was a little girl, I always used to be taken with the headaclie when mother wanted me to wash the dishes. And then she'd dose me with rhubarb. Ugh 1 how bitter it was ; but not half so bitter as washing dishes in boil- ing water in a hot kitchen in the middle of August 1 Mr. M. [meditatively taking his feet from the mantel']. — I made a lucky sale this morning, and saved a cool three hundred. I had intended giving you a new silk, but I'll do better — I'll hire you a girl. How will that suit? Mrs. M. — Oh, what a darling I I would kiss ,you if 3^ou hadn't been smoking, and my collar weren't quite so fresh. 1 am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a good soul, Charlie ; and I shall be so happy. Do you really mean it ? Mr. M. — To be sure. Mrs. M. — Wont Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy ? She puts her washing out, and she's always flinging that in my face. I guess the boot will be on the other foot now I I wonder what she'll say when she runs in of a morning to see what I'm cooking, and finds me in the parlor hem- stitching a handkerchief, and my 7naid attending to things in the kitchen ? But where is a girl to be had ? Will you go to the intelligence office ? Mr. M. — No; I don't approve of intelligence oflices. I will advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lilly. Mrs. M. [bringing the articles]. — You wont say that to me any more, Charles. It will be, ' Biddy, my good girl, bring me the writing implements,' Wont it be nice ? Just like a novel. They always have servants, you know. % Mr. M. — What, the novels ? Mrs. M. — No ; the people in them. Are you writing the advertisement ? 13e sure and say that no one need SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 339 apply except experienced persons. I want no green hands about my kitchen. Mr. M. [^^-eads from the paper luJiat he has been writing']. — " Wanted, by A quiet family, a girl to do gen- eral housework. None but those having had experience need apply. Call at No. 116 B • street, between the hours of ten and two." How^ will that answ^er ? Mrs. M. — Admirably ! Charles, you'd ought to have been an editor. You express your ideas so clearly ! Mr. M. — Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believ« 1 have some talent for expressing my meaning. But i am going down town now, and will have this advertise- ment inserted in the Herald, and by to-morrow you can hold yourself in readiness to receive applicants. By- bye. l^Goes out.'] Mrs. M. ^alone]. — If it isn't the most charming thing ! Wont the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving? Mrs. Smith has got a bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out her washing ; but I am to have a regular servant ! I shall get a chance to practice my music some now. Dear me — how red my hands are ! \^Looks at them.] I must get some cold cream for them ; one's hands show so on the white keys of a piano ! I'll go and open that piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of tune. But I'll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that girl fairly initiated into my way of doing work. ^Goes out.] Scene 2. — Mrs. Marshall awaiting the coming of " appli- cants.^^ A furious ring at the front-door bell. Mrs. M. [^peeping through the blinds]. — Dear me ! I wonder who's coming ! A person applying for the situation of servant would not be likely to come to the front door. I can just see the edge of a blue-silk flounce, and a streamer of red ribbon on the bonnet. I'll go and see who it is. [" Opens the door, and a stout Irish girl, gaudily dressed, with an eye-glass, and, a waterfall of enormous dimensions, pushes by her, and entering the parlor seats herself in the rocking-chair.] Mrs. M. — To what am I indebted for this visit ? 340 SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Irish Girl. — It looks well for the like of yees to ask I It's the leddy what's wanting a young leddy to help f.u the wurrk that I'm after seeing. Mrs. M. [ivith dignity']. — I fem that person, if yon please. What may I call your name ? Irish Girl. — Me name's Margaret O'Flanagan, though some people has the impudence to call me Peggy ; but if ever the likes of it happens agin I'll make the daylight shine into 'em where it never dramed of shining before. What may your name be, mum ? Mrs. M. — My name is Marshall. I am in want of a servant. Margaret. — Sarvint, is it ? Never a bit of a sarvint will I be for anybodj^ !' The blud of me forefathy would cry out against it. But I might have ixpected it from the apearance of 3'ees. Shure, and I'd no other thought but ye was the chambermaid. Marshall, is it ? Holy St. Patrick ! why that was the name of the man that was hung in county Cork for the murthering of Dennis McMurpliy, and he had a nose exactly like the one fore- ninst your own face. [A second ring at the door. Mrs. Marshall ushers in a stolid-faced German girl, and an over-dressed colored lady. They take seats on the sofa."] German Girl. — Ish dis the place mit the woman what wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper day pefore to-morrow ? Mrs. M. — Yes, I am the woman. What is your name ? German Girl. — Katarina Van FoUenstein. I can do leetlo of most every thing. I can bake all myself, and bile, and fry ; and makes sour-krout — oh, sphlendid ! And I sphanks the children as well as their own m udders. Margaret. — If ye'U condescend to lave that dirty Dutchman, young leddy, I'll be afther asking ye a i\)\v questions ; and then if ye don't shute me I can l)e laving. Me time is precious. Is them the best cheers in ^er noiise ? Mrs. M. — They are. Margaret. — Holy Vargin ! Why, mum, I've been ased to having better cheers than them in me own room. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 841 and a sofy in me kitchen to lay me bones on when thev ^re took aching. Have ye got a wine cella^i' ? Mrs. M. [indignaatly']. — No! We are temperance people. Margaret. — Oh, botheration ! Then ye'll nirer do for me, at all at all! It's wine I must have ivery day to keep me stummach in tune, and if Barne}^ O'Grath comes in of an avening I should die of the mortifications if I didn't have a drop of something to U'ate him on. And about the peanny. It's taking lessons I am, me- self. and if it's out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at once. I never could think of playing on a instrument that was ontuned. It might spile me A'oice. Mrs. M. — I want no servants in my house who are taking music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work — not to dictate to me, and sit in the parlor. Margaret. — Ye don't hire me. No mum! Not Dy a lono^ walk. It's not Mars^aret 0'Flanio;an that'll be hosted round by an old sharp-nosed crayter like yeself, wid a mole on yer left cheek, and yer waterfall made oat of other folks' hair ! The saints be blessed, me own is an illegant one — and never a dead head was robbed for to make it ! 'Twas the tail of me cousin Jimmy's red horse — rest his soul ! Mrs. M. [pointing to the dooi'^- — You can leave the house, Miss 'Flanagan. You wont suit me. Margaret. — And you wont shute me! I w^ouldn't work with ye for a thousand dollars a week ! It's not low vulgar people that Margaret 'Flanagan associates with. Good-by to ye ! I pity the girl ye gets. May the saints presarve her — and not a drop of wine in the house ! [Margaret goes out.'] Mrs. M. —Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a few questions ? Katrina. — Yah. I is. Mrs. M. — Are you acquainted with general house- work ? Katrina. — Nix. I never have seen that shinneral. 1 know Shinneral Shackson, and Shinneral Grant, but not that one to speak of! Mrs. M. — 1 intended to ask if you are used to doing »fork in the kitchen ? 542 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Katrina. — Yaw. I sees. Dat ish my thrade. Mrs. M. — Can you cook ? Katrina. — Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a cook. Mrs. M. — I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can yon wash ? Katrina.^ — Beeples what ish in de upper-crust puis their washing out. Mrs. M. — Can 3^on make beds, and sweep ? Katrina. — The dust of the fedders sthuffs up my head, what has got one leetle ^iutar into it. Most beeples keeps a chamber-maid. Now, I wants to ask you some tings. You gits up in the morning, and gits breakfast, of course ? It makes mine head aclie to git up early. And you'll dust all the furnitures, and schrub the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors, and pump the water, and make the fires, and Mrs. M. — We shall do no such thing. What an inso- lent wretch ! You can go at once. I've no further use for you. You won't suit. Katrina [^retreating']. — Mine krout I what a particular vomans. Colored Lady. — Wall, missis, specks here's jest de chile for ye. What wages does jou gib ? and what is yer poUyticks ? Mrs. M. — What is your name — and what wages do you expect ? Colored Lady. — My name is Snowdrop Washington, and I specks five dollars a week if I do my ovvn wash- ing, but if it is put out to de washerwoman's wide de rest of de tings, den I takes off a quarter. And it's best to have a fair understanding now, in de beginning, I'm very perticular about my afternoons. Tuesda3\s I studies my cataplasin and can't be 'sturbed ; Wednes- days I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what's got de spine of de back ; Thursdays 1 allers takes a dose of lobeel}' for me stummuch, and has to lay abed ; and Fri days 1 ginei'ally walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren of mine — and in none of dem casins can I be 'sturbed. And 1 shall spect you to" find gloves f')r me to do de work in ; don't like to sile my hands. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 343 Mrs. M. — I want to hire a giii to work — ererj' day — and every hoar in the day. Snowdrop. — The laws-a-massy ! what a missis ! Why, in dat case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash ! Ketch Snowdrop Washington setting in dat pew ! Not dis nigger ! I wish j'ou a berry lubly morning ! [Goes out, and a icoman clad in icidoy:''s iceeds, and a little hoy, enter.'] Woman [m a brisk tone]. — Are you the person that wants to hire help ? Dear me, don't I smell onions ? I detest onions ! Only vulgar people eat 'em ! Have your children had the measles ? Because I never could think of taking Freddie where he might be exposed to that dreadful disease. Freddie, my love, put down that vase. If you should break it, you might cut yourself with the pieces. Have you a dog about the house, marm ? Mrs. M. — Yes, we have. Woman in black. — Good gracious ! he must be killed tben ! I shouldn't see a bit of comfort if Freddie was where there was a dog. The last words my dear la- mented husband said to me were these : " Mrs. Bunker, take care of Freddie.'' Bunker's m}' name, marm. Have 3'ou a cow ? Mrs. M, — We have not. Mrs. Bunker. — How unfortunate ! Well, I suppose j'ou can buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new milk : and so do I. How manj' children have vou ? Mrs. M.— Three. Mrs. Bunker. — Good gracious ! what a host ! I hope none of them have bad tempers, or use profane lan- guage. I wouldn't have Freddie associate with them for the world if thej' did. He's a perfect cherub in temper. My darling, don't pull the cat's tail 1 she may scratch you. Mrs. M. — You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bun- ker. I do not wish to emplo}' a maid with a child. Mrs. Bunker. — Good heavens [indignantly'] ! Who- ever saw such a hard-hearted wretch! Object to my dailing Freddie ! Did I ever expect to live to see the clay when the offspring of my beloved Jeremiah would be treated in this way ! I'll not stay another moment in the house with such an unfeeling monster I Come, 344 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Freddie. \_Goes out. Mrs. Marshall closes the door and locks it.'] Mrs. M. — Gracious ! if this is the way of having a servant, I am satisfied. I '11 do my own work to the end of the chapter ! There 's another ring ; but I wont answer it — not I. I'll make believe I'm not at home. Ring away, if it 's any satisfaction to you ! It doesn't hurt me. HOW THEY KEPT A SECRET. CHAEACTEES. HOBBS. Julia Dick, Mrs. Webster. Mrs. Hobbs. Tk-^^ ' !■ Her children. DjCK, ) Miss Prince. Mrs. BlxVisdell. James, her son. Mrs. Parker. Scene 1. — Mrs. Hohhs' sitting-room. Mrs. Hobbs darn- ing stockings. Julia Ann crocheting. Dick whittling. Mrs. Hobbs [glancing from the window']. — Goodness airth! Julia Ann! who's that 'ere a-coming up street? I '11 declare if it haint Mis' Webster ! Yes, I should know that red-and-blue shawl, if I should see it in Canady ! She's allers etarnally upon the go! No weather stops her ! Yer father sed, the other day, that the town ort to pay her for brushing out the roads ! And in this awful snow-storm, too, wdien it 's too bad for any mortal critter to be out of doors — who 'd a-thought of her turning out ? I declare ! I must say she 's hard drove ! Got something or ruther to tell of about somebody, I'll be bound ! Take them clothes out of that , cheer ! Brush up the hearth ! quick! and hand me my t'other specks! There, she's a-rapping ; go to the door ! [Julia ushers in Mrs. Webster, a middle-aged lady in spectacles.] Mrs. H. [rising]. — Why, goodness airth ! Mis' Web- ster! Wall, if I haint l)eat! Why, who'd a-thought of seeing you? I was jest a-telling Julia Ann that I didn't believe but what you was sick abed, I hadn't seen you out for so long ! I was a-saying to Ebeu this morning, SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 345 that I must try and git a chance to go over to your house to-day — and Eben, he — Mrs. Webster.— It snows a little, to be sure, and I s'pose I hadn't ort to have come out in it; but I'd got tired to death a-stayiug in the house. I told Uncle Thomas this morning, that I must walk.out somewhere and get the air, or I should have the rickets. And Uncle Thomas he sed, " Most assured^^■' But I'm one of that kind that can't live without the air, no how! I don't think I should survive a month, if I was shot up in a place where I couldn't git no air! Mrs. H. — Xo, I reckon not. We couldn't take no comfort, at all, without it ! It 's dreadful nice to set a body up ! Bracing like ! Mrs. W. — Wonderful ! La! here's Julia Ann. I was so snow-blinded, when I come in, that I didn't notice it was her ! How do you do, Julia Ann ? Julia. — Very well, thank you. Mrs. W. — Law ! how perlite you have got to be, sence you went to the academy. It 's stuck you right up, haint it? Julia, is that all your own hair on yer head? or is it false? Julia. — It is my own. Mrs. W.— Law! is it? Wall, I declare! I didn't know you had such a mop of hair ; should think it would make yer head ache ! 'Taint wholesome to have so much hair ! I should think you 'd feel top-hea\^. Why, I Avouldn 't have my hair done up so for all the world ! Dick. — Didn 't know you had any hair, Mrs. Webster. Thought you wore a wig. Tom Smith said so. Mrs. W. \_indignantly']. — Tom Smith is a — very bad boy I \ Dick. — Well, he said he looked through the window, one night, and saw you peel your head till it looked just like a boiled turnip, any how. Mrs. H. — Dick, keep quiet, or leave the room ! Dick — Yes, marm. Mrs. W. — Children are dreadful nuisances, Mrs. Hobbs. I declare I can't feel sufficiently grateful to Providence for my freedom from the little torments. I trust I shall always be spared in that way ! Dick laside]. — Guess you needn't worry. 346 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mrs. H. — Do take off' your bonnit, Mis' Webster. Haint you got your knitting along ? Mrs. W. — No. I mustn't stop long. Have yon heern from Deacon Skinner's wife lately ? Mrs. H. — No. Not sence day afore yesterday. Pritty sick, aint she? Mrs. W. — Law, yes ! Wall, poor soul ! 'taint no won- der ! ah me ! no wonder at all. Mrs. H.— Why, how you talk. Mis' Webster ! What do you mean ? Mrs. W, [with a mysterious shake of the head}. — Ah, it's no matter what I mean ! Poor woman ! Poor Ruth Abby ! Well may she look forward with rejoicing to the time when she will shovel off" this mortal coil ! Mrs. H. — What on airth do you mean ? Do tell ! Mrs. W. — Oh, it's no consequence what I mean ! None at all ! I wouldn 't breathe a word of it to anybody, for the world ! No, not for the world ! I'd cut my tongue out first ! Mrs. H. — Goodness airth! It must be something dreadful! Do tell me. Mis' Webster! I'll be jest as secret as a gravestone ! I wont never breathe a syllable of it to nobody ! never ! Don 't be afeard to trust me ! Mrs. W. — Oh, don 't ask me, Mrs. Hobbs. I mustn 't let out a whisper of it ! I declare, I felt so about it after I heerd of it, that I never slept a wink last night ! I laid and tossed, and turned, and heerd the clock strike every time! And if there's anything tejus, it's laying awake nights. Mrs. H. — That 's so. Now, whar I lived up to Harry Wrough, I got into jest such a fix. I didn't sleep nights any more than as if I'd been into the fire ! It's awful to git in that way ! Mrs. W. — Dreadful ! especially when your narves is as distractioned as mine is ! I haint been so slim in health for years as I am now. I went to Durham the other day, to see that new doctor ; and he skairt me nigh about to death. He says I 've got the information of the brong- key, and that it will bring on the brown creeters, and likely enuff* the new money. And he said that I 'd got symptoms of catechisms growing over my eyes, and my disgustin organs is in an awful condition. Such a state SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. '347 of decease he says he 's seldom seen in one person ! And my stomach is out of order, and my liver ; and he says I 'm the most rebellious of any body he ever seed ! Mrs. H. — Goodness airth ! Wall, that's dreadful! Wall, now, when I lived up to Harry Wrough, I got jest so. Dr. Smith he ixaminated me, and said if I didn't take some cally-mill, I should be in danger of going into the hydrostatick fits without delay ! He sed my stomach hadn't got any grass-stick juice into it. Mrs. W. — A little thing upsets me. And when I heerd this about Deacon Skinner, I thought I should have swoonded! He, a deacon, and a pillow of the church ! and his wife still alive ! Oh, it 's awful ! awful ! Mrs. H.— Do tell, Mis' Webster ! do, dear ! I'll never whisper it — not even to Eben ! no, never ! Mrs. W. — I know I hadn't ort to lisp it to a single creeter ! But I have so much confidence in you, Mrs. Hobbs. Send them children out, though. Mrs. H. — Julia Ann, you and Dick go out in t'other room ! [ They go ouf] There, Mis' Webster, there 's nobody in hearing now. Let's hear it. Mrs. W. — Wall, Deacon Skinner was seen to kiss a woman, night afore last, in his own front entry ! a woman that come in the last train ; and wore curls, and had a black satchel, and cheeks red as your Julia Ann's. And what's more, that woman is there now! !■ Mrs. H. — Gracious airth ! How awful ! how dreadful ! Dear, deary me ! And he a going to prayer-meeting, and talking like an angel ! Why, only last Sunday night, his talk was so affecting, that the tears fairly run down over my nose, and I felt so weak you might have knocked me down with a feather ! Wall ! wall ! what is the world a-coming to ? If Deacon Skinner has fell, J:hen the Lord presarve us all ! Mrs. W. — Wall, there haint no mistake about this 'ere; for Seth Holmes that works to our 'us, seed the sight with his own eyes, and is ready to swear to it ! But, I declare, it's eleven o'clock, and I must be a-gwine! Do come over, Mrs. Hobbs. Mrs. H. — Why need you hurry. Mis' Webster? It is such a treat to see you ! Do come over often, do ! Why can 't you stop and git some dinner ? .348 SCHOOLDAY DIAI.OGUES. Mrs. W. — I can't, to-day; you come and see me. Good-day. Mrs. H. — Good-day, Mis' Webster. IMrs. Webster goes ouf] Wall, of all things ! Deacon Skinner onfaith- ful ! Wall, I allers thought there was an evil look about his eyes ! The heart is deceitful and desprit wicked, the Scripture says, and it's the truth ! I must run over and see if Mis' Blaisdell has heern it ! If she haint, I guess she'll stare some, for she thinks there haiut nobody on the footstool but Deacon Skinner's folks. [ Calls.'] Julia ! Julia! come in here, and keep this pot a-biling! I'm a-biling some corned beef for your father to kerry into the woods for his dinner to-morrow. I 've got to go over to Mis' Blaisdell's, to get her reseet for making hop yeast. Shan't be gone long. [ Curtain falls.'] Scene 2. — The kitchen of Mrs. Blaisdell. Present, Mrs. Blaisdell and her son James. Enter Mrs. Hohhs. Mrs. Blaisdell. — Ah, good morning, Mrs. Hobbs ! Good morning. Snowy, isn't it? Sit up by the fire, and warm, do. Mrs. Hobbs. — Thank ye, I haint cold. And I mustn 't stop long. Thought I'd jest run over a miunit, and see if you was dead, or alive. Health good, this winter ? "Mrs. B. — Tolerable. The rheumatism troubles me some. How are you ? Mrs. H. — Very well, for me. James, how does the world use you ? James. — Kindly, thank you. Mrs. H. — Skate any ? James. — Yes, when there is any ice. Mrs. H.— -Vou must come over and learn Julia Ann. She's jest beginning, and it comes rather hard for her, not having no grown up brother. James — I sliall be very happy to come any time. Mrs. B. — What's the news, Mrs. Hobbs? General time of health, isn 't it ? Mrs. H. — Yes, I believe everybody is well except Mis' Deacon Skinner. By the way, have you heern from her lately? SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 349 Mrs. B. — Yes, James was over there last niglit, and she — dear me ! if here ain 't Miss Prince, and Mis' Parker ! \_Enter two ladies.'] Why, how do you do ? What stran- gers you are ! Miss Prince. — Dear sake! Why, here's Mis' Hobbs ! Quite a tea party, Mis' Bhiisdell ! Mrs. Parker. — And I with this old hood on ! If I 'd a-thought of seeing anybody, I 'd a-dressed up a little. Mrs. H. — We was jest speaking of Mis' Deacon Skin- ner. Have you heern anything about her ? Miss Prince. — We've heern enuff about him! Oh, dear me ! Mis' Blaisdell, have you heerd that dreadful story about Deacon Skinner ? Mrs. H.— Then, it's got out? j\[rs. Parker. — Got out ! it's all over town! And it ort to git out ! I, for one, don 't feel under no obligations to keep it ! though I promised Mis' Webster I would. Miss Prince. — It ort to be put into the newspapers, and be telegraphed from one end of the country to the other ! Such conduct is shameful in such a man as Dea- con Skinner perfesses to be ! Mrs. Parker. — A man that sets hisself up as a model ! and a Deacon, too ! Mrs. H. — And a pillow of the church ! Mrs. B. — For pity's sake, good people, what has Dea- con Skinner done ? Miss Prince. — Is it possible you haven 't heard ! Mrs. Parker. — I thought everybody knowed it ! Poor Mis' Skinner ! my heart aches for her ! If it was my hus- band, I know I 'd scald him ! He 'd ort to be hung, and then kept on bread and water for a fortnight ! Miss Prince. — Hanging is too good for him ! Thank fortune ! I 've never had nothing to do with none of the men sect. Mrs. B. — Do explain yourselves. Mrs. H.— He 's unfaithful ! He— Mrs. Parker. — He 's got a woman there that he — Miss Prince. — Was seen to kiss twice or three times, in his front entry, night afore last ; and — Mrs. H. — She 's young, and wears curls ! and come in the last train — Miss Prince. — And had a black satchel, and a gilt 350 S'CHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. fandangle on her bonnit, and black eyes, and cheeks that was altogether too red to be nat'ral ! Thank goodness ! everybody knows I don't paint ! \_Looks in the glass, and gives her cheeks a sly pinch.'] Mrs. H. — Such doings is dreadful ! James, what are you laffing at ? Mrs. Parker. — You 'd better cry than laff. Mrs. B. — Ladies, you are laboring under a mistake — Mrs. H. — No, it come correct. Seth Holmes seed him kiss her, with his own eyes ! James — He did, did he? Well, I hope it did him good. And I don't blame the deacon for kissing her. I'd try the operation myself, if I had a chance. Mrs. H. — Why, James Blaisdell ! I allers thought you was a moral young man ! If them's your principles, you needn 't take the trouble to come over to go skating with my Julia Ann. Mrs. B. — Ladies, allow me to explain. The lady who came night before last in the cars, was Lucy Skinner, the deacon's youngest sister, and she came to take care of Mrs. Skinner, who, I am happy to say, is a great deal better. I don't see anything wrong in a man's kissing his own sister. Mrs. H. — Wall, I declare ! how folks will git up stories ! I didn't railly believe it, when I heerd it ! Deacon Skin- ner is such a nice man, and has been so long a pillow of the church. Miss Prince. — Mis' Webster is a dreadful gossip! Thank goodness, I never talk scandal ! Mrs. Parker. — People ort to be keerful how they re- port such stories. I, for one, never make a practice of going about, talking about my neighbors ; I have some- thing else to attend to. \_Curtain falls.'] • SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 351 STEALING APPLES. CH-IEACTEES. Squtre Pit^ian. JA3IES S3IITH, U^eighbors. Thomas Geet, \ g^^^ ^^ ^^^ nei-liborhood. FeA^-K (jrEEES". J • = Syeyestee, Squire Pitman's Servant. SCE>?E. — Squire Pitman in his Library, reading a nexus- paper. A noise at the door. Enter Iteuben and James, each with a boy. James. — ^Here they are, sir I Reubex. — We've caught the little rascals at last, sir. We told YOU they Tvere stealing all vour apples. Sqeiee Pitman, — Bless my soul ! and what are their names ? James. — This one is Tom Grey, and the other one is Frank Green. Reuben". — Squire, just you give us the word, and we'll lay this new cowhide on their little ragged backs, till they are satisfied to let the apples alone. [ShaJdng the boys, and flourishing the whip.'] Squire P. — I shall give no such command, . . . You may leave them here with me, Reuben. — ^You are not going to let them 2:0, are you ? for now 's your time to licJ: them, since the little thieves have been caught. Squire P. — Very well, you may go and leave the young gentlemen with me ; I will attend to them. Reuben. — Bat you will want this whip, wont you? [cautiously letting go of the boys.'] Squire P. — Xo, I shall have no need of it ; you may take it away. [Exit James and Beuben. Thomas and Frank shy off, as Squire Pitman approaches them.] Boys, you needn't be afraid, — I am very happy to see you, I like to receive visits from young people, though I think it better, in such cases, for them to come through the gate and not get over the fence, as they are liable to tear their 352 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. clothes. \^Franh looks at his torn trowsers.^ Pi'ay, sit down. [ They sit down on the corners of two chairs.~\ How old are you, Thomas ? I believe that is your name ? Thomas. — Twelve, sir. Squire P. — And you, Frank ? Frank. — I am twelve, too. Squire P. — And I am seventy ! It is really kind of you to call upon an old gentleman like me. But the evenings are short; you ought to have come earlier. [ Waiting a moment.'] Are you fond of fruit, Thomas ? Thomas ^hesitatingly']. — Y-e-e-s, sir. Squire P. — Do you like it, too, Frank ? Frank. — Pretty well. Squire P. — So I suppose ; .most boys do. [Mings a bell. Enter Sylvester.] Sylvester. — I am at your eervice, sir. Squire P. — You may bring in some knives and plates, and lay them on the table here. Sylvester. — Yes, sir. [ Goes out] Squire P. [to boys]. — I suppose you could eat a few apples to-night, couldn 't you ? Thomas and Frank together. — Yes, sir. Squire P. — I generally keep a little fruit to treat the friends who are kind enough to call upon me. [ The knives and plates are brought in, and Squire Pit- man brings a basket of apples from a closet.] Squire P. — Help you rsel ves. [Boys, apparently ashamed, commence to eat.] Do you like them ? Thomas. — Yes, sir ; they 're tip-top. Squire P. — I'm glad you think so. I have several apple-trees in my garden. James, the gardener, was tell- ing me that there was some danger of boys getting in, and robbing the trees ; but I don 't have any fears on that score. [Thomas and Frank exchange glances.] If any of the boys want fruit, I know they would prefer to come an/i ask me for it, or drop in and make a friendly call, as you are doing. By the way, wouldn 't you like to carry home a few apples with you ? Thomas and Frank [hesitatingly]. — Yes, sir. Squire P. — If you had something to put them in? Thomas. — I 've a handkerchief SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 353 Frank. — And I 've got a bag. [Holding up one."] Squike p. — Bless my soul, how thoughtful you were, to bring a bag I It will be just the thing. You're welcome to the apples in that basket, if you can stow them away. Thomas. — We are very much obliged to you. Squire P. — Oh, don't say a word. It is a mere trifle, and I like to make some acknowledgment for your kind call. Will you call and see me again ? Frank. — Yes, sir, if you would like it. Squire P. — I should be most happy to have you come. I get lonesome sometimes, and young company cheers me up. Perhaps, however, you 'd better come to the door, as it is a little dangerous climbing over fences. Now, you can go. [Taking the boys by the hand and leading them to the door.^ Good-bye, — you will remember to come and see me again, wont you ? [Exit Squire PitmanJ] Frank. — Aint he a trump ? Thomas. — That 's so ! I felt awful mean, to have him treat me so, when I had come after his apples. Frank. — So did I. When he told about tearing clothes, climbiug over fences, how he looked at mine ! Thomas. — Yes, and how he called us gentlemen ! Oh, I felt so mean, when he was telling what the gardener said about the boys stealing the apples, and he looked at us so slyly, that I didn 't know what to do. Frank. — If those two men had whipped us as they wanted to, [doubling up his fist,'] I would have stolen all the fruit he had ; but I wont now. Thomas. — Neither will I. You '11 never catch me in such a scrape again. Frank [to the audience']. — Thomas. — Speak gently to the erring one ! Oh, let us ne'er forget, However darkly stained by sin, He is our brother yet! Forget not, brother, thou hast sinned, And sinful yet mayst be ; Deal gently with the erring heart, As God hath dealt with thee. Frank and Thomas together. Love is the golden chain that binds The happy souls above; And he 's an heir of heaven that finds His bosom filled with love. 23 354 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. PLAYING FOUKTH OP JULY. CHAKACTEKS. Maby, Frank, Sam, Lucy, Cora, \p;,:i/i^„ Willie, Kate, Harry, John, Hattie, / ^^^^'®°* Scene 1. — Sitting-room^ with chairSy table, etc. Mary and Kate sewing ; Cora and Hattie playing with dolls in one comer ; Imcy standing at the window ; Frank and John playing checkers; Sam reading; Willie playing with blocks ; Harry rummaging Kate's vjork-basket. Lucy. — I do wish it would quit raining. John. — So do I ; it 's tiresome staying in the house. Harry. — I don 't know what to do with myself. Kate [fo Harry']. — Let my work-basket alone, and behave yourself ! Harry. — Can 't I [ Tickles Kate^s ear with a straw."] Willie. — ^I wish 'twould twit rainin'. Kate pa TFi^/ie].— Why, you little pet! [To :Barry.] Harry, da let me alone ! Willie. — 'Cause mother would turn home *en. Frank. — Let's play something. Cora. — ^We've played everything. Harry. — Let's play something new! Kate. — How do you play it ? Harry. — Oh, how sharp ! You Ve been visiting the grindstone lately, haven 't you ? Willie. — ^Let 's pay Kismas. Lucy. — Christmas doesn 't come in the summer. Willie. — T'anksgivin' 'en. Lucy. — ^Thanksgiving doesn 't, either. Cora. — Willie is thinking about the cakes and goodies. Mary. — You needn 't think of goodies, until mother gets back ; I 'm cook now. Harry [pointing at Mary]. — Wouldn't she make a good step-mother ? John. — She would starve the poor little young ones to death. Sam. — Let 's play Fourth-of- July I All {jumping up]. — Good ! good ! SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 355 Hattie. — How will we play it ? Sam. — ^ye'll have music, aud march around, and have the Declaration of Independence read, and an oration, and a dinner, &c. Mary. — You seem determined to have eating going on ; but I warn you that the pantry key is lost, and the windows fastened. John. — AYhew ! isn't she savage? Cora. — We can pretend to eat, like Hattie and I do at our doll dinners. Sam. — Come, let's begin. Kate. — Yes, Sam 's in a hurry to make a speech. We'll appoint him orator of the day. All. — Agreed ! Mary. — And Harry reader of the Declaration. John. — The Declaration is a dry old thing. Frank \_doubling up his fists']. — How dare you say so ? You ought to be thrashed ! Why, the Declaration of In- dependence is the guarantee of personal liberty, the cradle of American freedom, the — Harry. — The velocipede of politicians. John. — Don't care, it's stupid. We'll all be snoring before he 's half through. Frank. — How do you know, you 've never read it ? Lucy. — It 's too long, and I don 't know where one is. Frank. — Do you mean to insinuate that we, a family of American citizens, haven 't a Declaration of Indepen- dence in the house ? Harry. — Oh, fudge! I'll make one. LucY". — Capital ! make one better than the original. Cora.— W^hat else? Sam. — You and Hattie shall be committee on table arrangements, since you understand the rare art of getting up splendid dinners out of nothing. Frank. — And Kate shall be marshal, and John and I musicians. Hattie. — And W^illie flag-bearer. Willie. — S'ant we have torpedoes ? Frank. — Yes, you youngster, all we can find. Mary. — Come, let's get ready. [ Curtain falls.'] 356 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Scene 2. — Same room. Two barrels, with a stool on each, at one end of the room; chairs, arranged in two rows, in front of the barrels. Enter Kate, with scarlet sash knotted about her waist, a boy's cap with three feathers stuck in it on her head, and a rolling-pin in her right hand. Kate. — All clear ! Forward, march ! [The procession marches in, headed by Willie, carrying a flag, and John and Frank trying to play Yankee Doodle on a tin pan and a whistle. The others follow, two by two, and march around several times. ~\ Kate. — Halt ! Speakers will take their places on the platform ; audience, be seated ; flag-bearers and musicians, up front ! \_T hey follow directions, Harry mounting one barrel, and Sam the other.'] Kate [unfolds a large sheet of brown paper, and reads ;] Attention ! Order of exercises : First, Martial music, Hail Columbia, by the famous Newport band. Second, Reading of the Declaration of Independence, by the won- derful elocutionist, the Honorable Henry Moore, M. D. Frank. — Mud Digger ! Kate [reads:']. — Third, Song, Star Spangled Banner, by the celebrated Prima Donna, Lucina D'Ane. Fourth, Oration, by the world-renowned orator, Professor Samuel Deane, LL. D. John. — Long-Legged Dunce ! [Hail Columbia is played.] Harry [rising and bowing]. — Beloved brethren and sisters — Willie. — He's a-goin' to preach. Harry. — Most talented hearers. I call your attention to the most remarkable document of modern times, the Declaration of Independence, [unrolls a piece of wall- paper or a window-shade, and reads :] We hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, except the " heathen Chinee," that — Sam. — Hold on ! that wont do. It conflicts with my oration. By virtue of that Declaration, America wel- comes to her shores the down-trodden of every nation. Frank. — It's just right. A Chinaman run to pig-tail isn 't half as good as I am. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 357 Sam. — He 's a sight better. Harry.— What shall I do ? Sam. — Say all men. Harry. — Well, then ; [reads ;] We hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men are created equal, that — Mary. — I wont stand that. You've got to say some- thing about the women. Harry. — The word men, here, means women too. Mary. — Oh, yes ! but when you get a little further along, to the voting and holding office, you say it means men only. Frank. — Ho, ho ! woman rightist ! Harry. — Anything to please the crown. [Reads ;] We hold this to be a geometrical axiom, that all men, women and children are created equal ; that they have the right to earn their bread and molasses, to pay for their ice-cream, to go hunting, to play base ball, and to stand on their heads. The man, at present perched on the British throne, having meddled with these rights, oppressed us in various ways, insulted and abused us, and acted like a tyrant, we hereby declare ourselves out of the clutches of the British lion, and determined to whale any fellow who dares hint that we are not a little ahead of everybody else. [ Cheers.'] [Lucy sings Star Spangled Banner.'] Sam. — Ladles [hows] and gentlemen, [hows,] fellow- citizens [601^6'] and countrymen [6016'-:?] : This is an occa- sion that thrills every American heart with flaming patri- otism. AVe have met here to-day for the purpose of cele- brating the anniversary of one of the most thrilling events of history, the escape from the jaws of the British lion. We also meet to perpetuate the infinite, immutable doc- trine of universal liberty promulgated in the bewildering document just vocalized. Frank. — He's swallowed a dictionary! Sam. — It is fitting, on this day of days, to remember our fore-fathers, who planted their bare feet on the ice- bound Plymouth rock, and made the howling wilderness blossom like a delightful rose of Sharon. John. — He got that out of an almanac. Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-fathers, who rebelled and took up arms against oppressive tyranny ; who fit, bled and died. 358 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Kate. — What did our fore-mothers do ? Sam. — Let us not forget our fore-mothers, who cooked, spun and cried. Fellow-citizens, I am celestially proud to stand under the waving American flag. Frank. — You 're not, you 're before it. Sam. "Flag of the /ree heart's only home I By angel hands to valor given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were bom in heaven." John. — Stolen thunder ! Sam. — I am proud of the American eagle, that glorious bird who stands with one foot on the shores of the Atlantic, and the other on the shores of the Pacific, with his stately head lost in the illimitable blue above, and who gathereth the people of all nationalities — French, Dutch, Irish, Afri- can, China, and Camanche — under his wings, as a hen gathereth her chickens. \_Immense opplause.'] My friends, the United States government is a magnificent engine, with a train of Pullman cars. Ere long, we shall hitch on San Domingo, Cuba, Mexico, Central and South America, Canada, Labrador, and Greenland, and then take a grand excursion around the Avorld. John. — How^ that eagle will have to stretch ! Sam. — Be patient, my verdant friends. The power of the American eagle is unmeasured. The principles of universal freedom shall become more universal. For you, ray dear hearers, a new day is dawning. To you, ladies, I repeat what Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson, " Every tub must soon stand on its own bottom." Kate. — Ben Franklin said to Anna Dickinson ? Frank. — He's crazy, away vv^ith him ! Sam. — Curb your noble rage, dear friends ; I am not mad, but a boot-black by trade, and an orator by pro- fession. Yes! the grand doctrine of universal freedom shall go on and on, sounding from brush-heap to brush- heap, from pig-pen to pig-pen, from ocean to ocean ; and the sun, moon and stars, sailing in all their primeval glory, shall catch up the bewildering strain, and — and — and — my friends, my emotions overwhelm me! Thanking you for your attention, I close. [^JJses a red handkerchief vigorously. Applause, explosion of torpedoes, music.'] Kate. — Form into procession, and march out to din- ner ! \_All march ouW] [Curtain falls.] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 359 GOOD FOR EVIL. CHARACTEES, Mr. Durant. Mrs. Durant* LiLLiE, ^ Eddie, ^ their Children, Charlie, J A Beggar. A Rich Lady. Scene 1. — A Parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Durant, Eddie and Charlie^ seated, Mr. Durant sits engaged in reading. Mrs. Durant. — Oh! how the wind blows; how cold it is ! I fear winter has come in earnest now. God help the poor ! Mr. Durant. — There you are again, wife, talking about the poor. There is work for them in the city, if they would only go at it. You gave that beggar some clothes yester- day, didn 't you ? Mrs. D. — Yes, husband, I did. I pitied him so ; he looked so pale and wan. Mr. D. — I want no more such work ; if we give every beggar something, we would soon have a host at the door. They'll not get another thing at John Darant's. Mrs. D. — Oh, John, remember how rich we are. You are worth your tens of thousands, and yet refuse to give to God's poor. In heaven, He will make no distinction. There, all shall be alike, the rich and the poor. Mr. D. [somewhat angry"]. — Don't preach to me, Sarah. I know what I am about. I know I 'm rich ; but not a cent of my money goes to feed vagabonds. Not a cent, I tell you ! Mrs. D. [wiping her eyes']. — John, I fear you will rue those words. But listen, here comes Lillie, and some one is with her. Mr. D. — One of those beggars, I guess. She must love them. But I will tame her. 360 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. [^Enter Lillie, accompanied by a girl dressed in rags, shoe- less and honnetless.'] Mr. D. [angrily']. — What did you bring that vagabond in here for, Lillie ? Lillie. — She is a poor girl, papa, without any parents. Me. D.— She told you that, eh ? Well, it is the old tale. Beggar. — Kind people, I am very poor ; so poor, that I am forced to beg for a living. Mr. D. — Why don 't you work ? Beggar. — The folks will not hire me, I look too bad ; if I had better clothes, I could find work, I know. Mr. D. — Yes, no doubt, you could. You came here to tell me that story, I reckon. You'll get nothing from me. Lillie, take her out ! Mrs. D. — Oh, do not send her away so! She needs clothes. Lillie. — Yes, mamma. She shall have my shawl, and warm hood. Charlie. — And my shoes. Eddie. — And the silver dollar that's in my bank. Beggar. — You are very kind, children. You are very kind. Mr. D. — Children, you shall give her nothing! If she wants clothes and money, let her steal them, if she likes. She has done the like before, I dare say. Lillie, lead her to the door, I say ! Lillie. — Oh, papa, don't drive her away. Mr. D. [rising to his feef]. — Lillie, dare you disobey me? Take her away, this minute ! [Exit Lillie, followed by Beggar.] Mr. D. — There, wife, is one of your poor, as you choose to term them. Mrs. D. — One of His poor, husband. How dared you refuse to give her something ? Mr. D. — Oh, easily enough. I must not tell you the secret of it. I go to the store, now; but mind you, wife, allow no more vagabonds to step over our threshold. [F/xit Mr. Duranf] Mrs. D. — If any come, they shall be fed. [Ourtain falls.] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 361 Scene 2. — 3Ir. Durant, seated in an arm-chair, his head resting upon his hand. Mk. D. — Well, thus is life ! Five years ago, I was a millionaire, admired by a large circle of friends. But where am I now? Upon the brink of ruin ! Already men point to me, and say, " bankrupt ! " My wife, Charlie, and Eddie, have gone to the far-otf better land, and none is left to me but Liliie. It almost drives me mad, when I think about her. If I cannot raise ten thousand dollars to-morrow, I will be a bankrupt, and Liliie will be a beggar. Where that amount is to come from, I know not ! Oh, Thou who feedest the ravens, take care of my Liliie ; for before another sun shines, my body will be — . Oh, must this be the end of John Durant ? — the death of a suicide ? \_Enter Liliie, luho merrily climbs upon her father's lap, and raises his head.'] LiLLiE. — What is the matter with you, papa? you are sad. Mr. D. — Sad ! Yes, darling Liliie ; to-morrow, your papa will be a beggar, if — LiLLiE. — If what, papa ? Mk. D. — If I cannot command ten thousand dollars. LiLLiE. — That is a large sum ; but can 't we sell our costly furniture ? Mr. D. — Alas, no, Liliie ! It is under the auctioneer's hammer ! We are lost, Liliie ! I hoped to leave you to ' buffet the world, with gold ; but I must leave you a beggar. What will become of you, then ? [Kissing her.] LiLLiE. — God will take care of me. I will wait till He comes for me. He has said, "Suffer little children to come unto me." Mr. D. — He has, Liliie. But, hush ! a carriage is stopping before our door. Run and see who it is ! [Exit Liliie, in a hurry.'] Who can it be ? A creditor, no doubt. One who wants money; but it cannot be had. Every person I meet is a creditor, who duns me. There is but one refuge from them, and that is in — [Enter Liliie, hurriedly.] LiLLiE. — Oh, papa, tlierc is such a nice lady coming here ! She is so nicelv dressed ! Who can it be ? 362 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Mr. D. — I know not, daughter ; but we shall soon see. [JL knock at the door. Lillie opens it. A richly-dressed lady enters, and seats her self. ]^ Lady [to Mr. Duranf], — Have I the honor of address- ing John Durant ? Mr. D. — You have, madam. Lady. — I see, you do not recognise me, Mr. Durant. Mr. D. — I do not, madam ; but, I suppose, you are a creditor. Lady. — I am Mrs. Chalpin ; and thank God, John Durant, I am not your creditor ; but you are mine. Mr. D. [rising']. — What ! Mrs. Chalpin, the wife of the millionaire, a debtor of mine ? Impossible ! Please explain. Lady. — With pleasure, sir. Years ago, when you rev- eled in wealth, a beggar came to your house, and asked for food and raiment. You refused her, and even forbade your children to help her. You drove her from your home. Your Lillie followed her to the door, and placed in her hand a ten-dollar gold piece. With that money the little beggar managed to keep from starving, until a kind rich man took, her to his house and supplied all her wants. She lived with her benefactor, and, not long since, was married, and is now wealthy. Mr. Durant, I am that beggar girl, whom you drove from your house. Mr. D. \_grasping her hands']. — I have repented of that act. AVill you forgive me ? Lady. — Forgive you ? Yes ; and I now wish to repay you ; to return good for evil. I hear that you stand on the verge of bankruptcy. Mr. D. — It is too true, madam. I am utterly unable to meet my liabilities. Lady. — What would save you ? Mr. D. — Ten thousand dollars. Lady [takes out paper and writes]. — Here, then, is a check on my bank for that amount ; take it, it is yours. [Hands check to Mr. Durant.] Mr. D. — Oh ! you are too kind. I do not deserve this kindness at your hands. Lady. — Say not so, though you yourself do not, your name docs. It was this little child, who saved me. [Stoops down and kisses Lillie.] SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 363 LiLLiE. — Oh ! I am SO glad that you saved papa. God has heard my prayers. Lady. — And answered them, Lillie. \_Then to Mr. Durant ;] I go now, Mr. Durant. I am happy, for I have repaid a great debt. Let me admonish you to remember the golden rule : " Do unto others, as ye would that others should do unto you." Good-bye. \_Exit Lady.'] Lillie. — Oh, papa, you are saved now ! Mr. D. — Yes, I am saved, Lillie. For your sake, God has saved me ! and ever, henceforth, my motto will be, " Kemember the poor." [ Curtain falls.] LITTLE PIECES FOR LITTLE FOLKS. NOT SO EASY. Now you may think it very nice, And very easy, too, For a little boy to stand up here, With little else to do. But make his bow, and say a piece — To speak up loud and plain, — Then make another bow to close, And take his seat again. "O' But I can tell you, one and all, Which ever way you view it, — To face this crowd of gentle folks, It takes some pluck to do it. The saying is as true as old, *' Who gets a name must bwj it ; " If you don't credit what I say, Just walk up here and try it I WHAT I LIKE. [for two little boys.] George. — All the seasons I like, as they pass along, But winter 1 hjve the best, For it brings a joy, To the glad school boy, More pleaaing than all the rest. 364 • SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 8G5 I like to ride o'er the fleecy snow, When the air is crisp and clear ; For the jingle, jingle, jing, Of the sleigh-bells' ring. Sounds sweet to m}^ own little ear. Then I like to skate on the ice so smooth, — Ah, me ! how swiftly I go ; All the boys must look out, AYhen I am about, Or beat them I surely will do. But m}^ hand sleigh I must not forget, For my Monitor carries the day ; Tlien tell me each one, Since my piece is nigh done, If this ian't the season for frolic and play ? ClIiRLES. — / love the winter, too, and hail Its coming with rare joy ; I love m}' skates and sled, as well As any other boy. Like George, I like to find myself In the robes so snug and nice, Behind a fleet, black, pon}" team. Gliding o'er snow and ice. Ah, 3^es ! for winter and its joys, A word I'll ever speak. For it makes me strong and vigorous, And gives color to my cheek, I love its cold and bracing air, I love the fleecy snow, And just for fun and exercise, A snow ball like to throw. But there are other things I love, Which must not be forgot. More to be prized than skates or sled, Or a two-forty trot. I mean my pleasant, happy school. My books and studies too, — This cheerful room — these teachers kind, To whom my love is due. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. My sports and plays are only means To nerve me for my work ; In the first I'll heartily engage, While the last I'll never shirk. FRED'S FIRST SPEECH. You've heard the fable, " Mouse and Pussy," And know it all by heart, no doubt — How Mouse's pains gave Pussy pleasure. As she tossed the little thing about ; And how Mouse said to cruel Pussy, With quivering lip and panting breath, " Though this, to you, may seem quite funny, To me 'tis only certain death." Now we're not mice, nor you tormentors ; Yet the fable, here, its moral brings ; For though these scenes to you give pleasure, They're aught but fun to us, poor things ! For if you deem it very easy For such as we to mount this place, And do the duties here assigned us. And meet these people face to face, Then let me tell you, you're mistaken ; And if you doubt my word, my friends, Just walk up here by me and try it, And you'll see how the matter ends. If you don't feel the color rising, And your strong voice begin to shake, And a misty cloud come o'er your vision. Why then— 2/ow may the premium take. WANT TO BE A SOLDIER. A PARODY. I want to be a soldier, And with the soldiers stand, A knapsack on my shoulder, A musket in my hand ; And with m^^ bayonet gleaming. So glorious and so bright, I'd join the gallant army. And for my country fight. 1 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 367 Though I should oft be wounded, I would not shed a tear ; Though in the midst of danger, I ne'er would feel a fear : But brave f,nd patriotic, Like our braver sires I'd fight, And with ten thousand soldiers Put rebels all to flight. Then let me be a soldier, And with the soldiers stand, A knapsack on my shoulder, A musket in my hand ; And with my bayonet gleaming. So glorious and so bright, I'd join the gallant army, And for my country fight. I know I'm young and tender. But, mother, dry your tears. For many young as I am Have joined the volunteers; And mother, should I perish, And for my country die, — I'd think of you and sister, And meet you in the sky. BLUE. As I was going up the street one day, I passed a wagon new, — I put my hand upon its side, And it was painted blue. I saw a maiden bright and fair, (For she was passing, too,) I put my hand upon her cheek. And it was painted blue. Her cheeks changed color very soon- Were variegated, too, — For while one side of them was red The other side was blue. 368 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Her anger very soon arose, Which very soon I knew; And all because her rosy cheek Had just been painted blue. And now she will not me forgive ; Dear me I what shall I do ? And all the wrong that I have done, Her cheek I painted blue. "Well, well I it can not now be helped- I can not it undo ; But then / will not after this Young maiden's cheeks paint blue. WALTER'S FIRST SPEECH. While other boys have had their say Upon this platform here, Have stood up firm before you all, W^ithout a blush or fear, /"come with trembling heart and lips To make m}^ little bow, And make my first attempt to speak Before an audience now. And should I falter in my speech. You'll pardon me, I know. Since greater folks have done the same, Who could not make their speeches go. But if I do the best I can Here to fulfill my task, The best could not do more, you know, And 'tis all that you can ask. These boys have talked and sung to-day, Of our country and its cause ; I, too, must testify my love For her before I pause. I'm a Union boy from head to foot. This fact just bear in mind ; True to my country and its flag, No copper here^ you'll find I * Pointing to his head. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 369 EXAMINATION-DAY. Examination-day I How many little hearts Within these walls, have shuddered at that word. And do you wonder much, that timid boys, And modest misses, such as these you see, Should shrink from being marshaled out Before this gazing crowd, to sing, declaim, And answer all the questions, plain and right, The teachers choose to ask, though it require To ransack through their knowledge-box, from top To bottom, ere they find the answers clear, And all these people looking on, to see If we should chance to fail ? I wonder what these wise committee-men Would think, if they were yearly marshaled out, And made to stand up here, like us, and tell This audience all they knew about the world. Its countries and their products, — all they knew About the people, and their modes of life. And then to tell us about this " house we live in," Its bones and muscles, v«ins, and brains, and nerves. (I guess they'd find they had the nerves.) ' And then to think of all these puzzling sums In Stoddard, to say nothing of the work Of Thompson's written ones. How would they like To stand up here, with chalk in hand, and add, Subtract, divide, and multiply in fractions. Simple, compound, proper, and improper ? (By the way, / think they're all improper.) And then I'd like to know how you would feel, To stand up in this place and bear your part In dialogue, or declamation, while Every eye and ear was watching you — Was watching every word and motion. And you, poor soul, a-trembling in your shoes. I think you'd say, ns did the mouse of old, To pussy cat, " This may be fun to you, But it is death to me." ^ ^ * Say, then, do you not pity us ? I know The ladies do. I see it in their eyes : Our wise committee, too, look kindly on us, And from our very hearts we thank you all. 24 370 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. CLOSE OF SCHOOL. Kind Friends — Within our school-room walls we gladly see you meeting, And haste to bid you welcome ; pray receive our heartfelt greeting. You've come to listen to our songs, orations and discourses. Pray look not for broad rivers, friends, so near their tiny sources. We'll gladly do our best for you, and kindly you'll remember. The April of our lives can't yield the rich fruits of September; But if our offering you'll accept — the early leaves of Spring — We'll make no more apologies, but will read, converse and sing. We schoolboys, honored friends, are like a hive of busy bees, As they their waxen cells do store, so we store our memories. As they enjoy the bright sunshine, and oft wing their way aloft, So love we well the summer shine, and we wish for wings full oft? They sip the honey from the flowers ; we have what's no less sweet, For candy of molasses made doth yield us many a treat I Troubles they have, and so, friends, we have some troubles of our own ; Some big ones have they that wont work, — ive are not without a drone. Yet differ we in some respects, for we must obey our rule ; They buzz at work ; 'tis very hard I but we may not buzz in school. They have a queen, and hard they work to win her approba- tion ; We have no queen, but teachers kind, and love their commen- dation. And happy are the hours, dear friends, which we spend within these walls. Attentive to Instruction's voice, obedient to her calls. And to our God we raise our hearts in most loving, grateful praise, That in this land of Public Schools we may spend our youth- ful days. Where knowledge free as sunshine is, and as plentiful as dew. And learnihg's precious stores wide-spread, like flowers of va- ried hue 1 And not for us alone the good of public education. For girls and boys the blessing will endure while we're a nation. SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 371 EXHIBITION^ DAY. Youth and childhood are the seasons, We are told, for mirth and joy, Sighs and cares were not intended For a lassie or a boy. But if not, we see not wherefore Were invented days like these, When each boy and girl's expected To astonish and to please Such a crowd of goodl}^ persons As before us now appear — Such a crowd as ever greet us, In this place from year to year. Now, we ask you — here we ask you, Think you. that this costs us naught? If so, you are quite mistaken, Days like these are dearly bought; Bought with anxious fear and trembling, With some thought and study, too ; Eor it takes not much, to puzzle Smaller brains, whate'er they do. Tho' we are not wise or learned, Let me tell you, every one Who to-day appears before you, Thinks this any thing hut fun. Now and here again we ask you. Would 3^ou, could you, stand up here — Take our place and face these people. Without trembling, care, or fear ? If not, then you will not blame us. Or expect too much to-day, But look kind]y on our errors. And with smiles cheer on our way. CHARLIE'S SPEECH. Brother Will has said his piece, I'll try my little hand, Although I own it's pretty hard Before so many folks to stand. 373 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Little folks should not be heard Only seen, some people say, So I will end my little speech, Since you have all seen me to-day. THE FOUR -YEAR -OLD. If you expect great things of me, I fear you'll be mistaken, Though it is something great, I own, Which I have undertaken, To let my little voice be heard In such a place as this, And all these people here to see How wondrous hard it is. But I will brave it like a man In hopes some day to stand In a larger place than this. Within our noble land. And let my voice be heard once more, In stirring: tones, the nation o'er. WILLIE'S SPEECH. X am sure you can't expect great thingj From one so young as I, And yet, to do my very best, I here, and now, will try. The greatest men who ever lived, Were once but little boys ; They had their sports as well as we, And played with tops and toys. They had to learn first lessons, too — To read, and write, and spell ; To speak their lessons on the stage, And try to do them well. I doubt if Everett or Webster, Or even Henry Clay, Didn't tremble in his shoes, when first He tried his piece to say. So you must not expect too much Nor criticise us here, While we appear before you all With trembling and with fear. BEST THINGS FROM BEST AUTHORS. BY J. W. SHOEMAKER, A.M., PKOFESSOR OF ELOCUTION. The Elocutionist's Annual has been prepared to supply a growing demand for a fresh, cheap book of Selections, Dialogues, Tableaux, etc., and the price has been placed so low that it is within the reach of all. Each book contains nearly 200 large 12mo. pages, on heavy, strong paper, in clear, open-faced type, easy to read, and com- 1 irises pieces suitable for >Ctg^Tlie Holidays, Scliool Exliibitions, l-y- ceiims and. Literary Societies, A."iiniversaries, CliiircJi and Snnday Scliool Gatherings, E^ducational, Tempei'ance, and Political Meetin§^s, and a lax-^e and -varied list of Selections for Public and Professional E^ntertainmeuts. NUMBERS 1 and 2 NOW READY! AND A NEW VOLUME WILL BE ISSUED REGULARLY EACH YEAR, TJiey are Pronounced the Best, Cheapest, and most Popular Collections of Readings, Declamations, Dialogues, Tableaux, etc., ever published. Prices, post-paid: Paper edition, 35 cents; Cloth edition, 75 cents; Green and Gold edition, 81.00. A liberal discount made when ordered by the dozen or hundred. J. W. DAUGHADAT & CO., Publishers, Nos. 434 and 436 Walnut Street, PHILADELPHIA, PA. A. GRE/kT SUCCESS! 'Wholly free from anything ohjectionable, and covers so -wide a range of subject and style that all tastes can be suited." — Chicago Advance. ■ii&:i^^B.Mm'Em A NEW, CHDICc, AND VARIED COLLECTION OF OEIGINAL DIALOGUES, TABLEAUX, ETC., ETC., Arhipterl to the ivanfs of School Exhibitions', I,iterary Societifs, T,y re- nins, TliG Iloliddi/.s, JjOilijfH, Ckurcli, Swiulai/ School and Sociable Gatherings, Tenn>erance Meetinys, Parlor .Entertainments, etc. COMPILED BY WILLIAM M. CLAEK, Editor of the Schoolday Magazine. No similar book has ever been published which has provided so wide a range of 'subjects, or such a variety of style. It contains between seventy and eighty pieces, written expressly for the work by more than thirty prominent American writers, in which is represented almost every imaginable phase of sentiment and emotion. Every Dialogue is full of life and nature. The subjects are well chosen, practical, and suggestive. It is adapted to all ar/ea, to all times, and to all localities. The ma- terials have been wrought together with a distinct object in view, and nothing has been used to " fill up." The pages are compact with the best work of the best hands, and one can not look through the book without seeing its adaptability to the purposes designed. The rehearsal and acting of its pieces will make voices more musical and language more eloquent, while the lessons inculcated will not only make homes more attractive, but promote good manners and pure conversation. In the prei>aration of Model Dialogues, preference has generally been given to pictures of the cheerful or humorous side of life, rather than to those of the melan- choly, tlie Pharisaical, or the sentimental ; while in many cases a bit of ridicule has been so ingeniously put, that it will enable certain ^classes of folks to see themselves as others see them, more effectually than by any other means. The book contains 371 pages, the size of this, well and handsomely bound in cloth. Price, post paid, $1.50. "After a careful examination of Model Dialogues, we have no hesitation in pro- nouncing it the best work of the sort we ever saw." — lledrtli. and Home "This book will be much in demand. The Dialogues all read well, and have a good moral. Tliey will cause much laughter and some tears. If we must have Exhibi- tions, we are glad to have such good material provided for use." — Rural New Yorker. "It would be hard to get together such another variety, with so little ex- ceptionable in morals. We can give it a hearty word of commendation." — Neiv York School Journal "A very excellent collection of Dialogues, etc. Of speech- making we have more than enough; but in our social intercourse, conversation is becoming one of the 'lost arts.' The rehearsal of these Dialogues may tend to bring about a new order of things." — I'lnla. New Age " While the vein of humor in many pieces is rich, we find none of them sacrificing sense to nonsense. They are instructive without being heavy." — Sunday School Times "Every page bears the impi'ess of a genius in this department of work." — Methodist Home .Journal "It has a rich variety of style and sentiment, adapted to a??, og'fjs, to all times, and to all localities. It will wear well within and m ithout." — Methodist Recorder "We know of no one book from which so much matter of a good character may bo taken as from Model Dialogues." — Christian Inslructor (U. P.). J. W. DAUGHADAY & CO., Publishers, 434 and 436 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. ELEVENTH EDITION, M®M©®lfl[a: EDITED BY ALEXANDER CLARK, A. M. There is no species of recitation in which both young and old can take more dehght, or evince more enthusiasm, than in dialogue; and there is no better medium for the cultivation of a beautiful and effective style of el- ocution. Although this book is composed, for the most part, of substantial subject matter, yet there \vill be found quite a number of humorous pieces. We feel sure that all will enjoy this book, and be aided thereby in discov- ering wrong habits and dangerous tendencies in themselves and in others, for here they will feel the words and enjoy the utterances as their own. It has received the highest encomiums of the newspaper press in all parts of the country, and we can heartily recommend it to every teacher, and its introduction into every household. CONTENTS. True Manhness. The Tobacco Pledge. The New Muff and Col- lar. Choose Your Words. Effects of War. The Two Interpreters of Dreams. The Four Seasons. School Affairs in River- head District. Novel Reading. Demons of the Glass. The Twelve Months, The New Preacher, The Seasons, Little Angels, The Young Statesman, Two Ways of Life, Too Good to Attend Common School, Fireside Colloquy, Pocahontas, Beauty of Face and Beauty of Soul, Uncle Zeke's Opinion, SpelUng Class, The Two Teachers, Memory and Hope, A Contentious Commu- nity, Lost and Found, The Tri-Colors, Annie's Party, The Reclaimed Brother; or,The Chain of Roses Reformation, Seeing a Ghost, The Motto or Example, Choosing a Trade or Profession, Child-Philosophy, The Noblest Hero, Woman's Rights, The Orphan's Trust, Mrs. Smith's Boarder, La Teune Malade, Night and Morning, Scandal on the Brain, The Common Bond, Phrenology, Correct Habits, The Secret, The Two Friends, Killed with Kindness, The Sisters, Management ; or. The Folly of Fashion, Columbus at the Court of Spain, The Silver Dollar, Oil on the Brain, Going to be an Orator, Two Faults, Grumbling over Lessons Behind the Scenes, The Test, Thanksgiving, Matrimonial Advertise- ments, Changing Servants, The Rehearsal, Deaf Uncle Zed. Egyptian Debate, Widow Muggins — Her Opinion, Marrying for Money, The Conflict, Life : — A School Scene, Ben, the Orphan Boy, Convict's Soliloquy; or, the Night before Exe- cution, John Jones' Fortune, In Want of a Servant, Not so Easy, What I Like, I Want to be a Soldier, Blue, Examination Day, Close of School, Walter's First Speech, Exhibition Day, Charlie's Speech, Four- Year-Old. Quackery i2mo. 352 pages, in substantial cloth binding, sent, post-paid, for ^i.Sa J. W. DAUGHADAY & CO., Publishers, 434 and 436 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. The Schooldat Magazine is the oldest, and pronounced by the Press and people to be the best and cheapest Young People's Monthly published in this country. It was established in 1856, and will continue to be a safe and entertaining periodical FOR ALL HOMES AND SCHOOLS. The Schoolday Magazine is a large, double-column octavo, well illustrated, and has as regular contributors some of the very best writers in this country. It has been so long and favorably known that its name has become a household word, almost wherever we go, and its monthly visits are hailed with joy throughout • every State and Territory of the whole Union, w.hile it has won the proud title of Our Young Polk's Favorite, among all the numerous magazines and periodicals which have followed it. Its list of contents consists of Good Siories and Sketches, brief Historical and Bio- graphical Papers, Letters, Notes of Travel, Familiar Tllusiraiinns of Scientific Sub- jects, Dialogues, Readings and Recitations, with special instructions in the fascinating art of Elocution, Problems, Puzzles, Rebuses, Humorous Articles, Music, etc., from which something can be found to please the taste and "tickle the fancy" of all. OuE LITTLE FOLKS have always a special corner set apai-t expressly for themselves in UNCLE CHARLIE'S LETTER BOX, which has become not only immensely popular with tens of thousands of little ones from the Atlantic to the Pacific, but looked for with almost equal anxiety by the fathers and mothers themselves. A series of articles upon " How to Say Things," by J. W. Shoemaker, A. M., Pro- fessor of Elocution, one of our most cultured and successful Elocutionists, besides the many articles published adapted for readings, recitations, declamations, etc., etc., have made the Magazine so popular that teachers in all sections of the country are using it as . .A. SOXIOOIL. I^EA^IDEE.- A large and beautiful picture is given free to every subscriber. Subscriptions received or clubs can be formed at any time. Back numbers can always be supplied* imeore: .agents iata-nted. Send a three-cent stamp for terms and full instructions to Agents. Address, J. W. DAUGHADAT & CO., Publishers, Nos. 434 and 436 Walnut Street, PHILADELPHIA, PA. 118 ^xJ>U^ ^o Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Nov. 2007 » * • «, "^o " * o"^ 5 • • . '^i. * " PreservationTechnologies ^o ► .^^ • *i^ ."^ V^M^^**" V A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION > 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 Vh-. 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