BxRAHCOWHLLEWOYNE ^P ^ hm, \ ("KcY^ Monologues \ No. 32 • ■ EDGARS WERNER NEW YORK GEORGE RIDDLE -- Published fay EDGAR S. WERNER & OCX NEW YORK >pyfight, 1904, by Edgar S. Werner — ,,. ... _, USES OF CREPE AND TISSUE PAPER.^w A BOOK For making a great variety of of 93 large pages, P 1 "?."/ and usefuI household containing articles, such as Candle and lamp- 244 illustrations shades, Boxes, Bags, Photograph a directions Cases and Frames, Handkerchief and Glove Sachets, Pen-wipers, Flowers, Blossoms, Curtains, Doll-dresses, Cos- tumes, Fancy and Ball Dresses. Hats, Parasols, Fans, and various other novelties for -home, church-fairs, festivals, etc. Price, 30 CENTS, Postpaid We Sell Crepe-paper, Tissue-paper, and Other Similar Accessories. Write for particulars. TABLEAUX, CHARADES, AND CONUNDRUMS« r *« 5a ^ A BOOK CONTAINING DIRECTIONS FOR TABLEAUX VIVANTS, TABLEAUX PLASTIQUES, TABLEAUX D'ART, TABLEAUX OF LEGEND, ROMANCE AND HISTORY, CHILDREN'S TABLEAUX, LIVING PICTURES, ARTIST'S REVERIE, ART-GALLERY, SONGS IN ACTION, CHARADES OF VARIOUS KINDS, LIST OF WORDS FOR CHARADES, and over8oo CONUNDRUMS Price, 30 CENTS, Postpaid Send orders for either of the above books to EDGAR S. WERNER & CO. U N E | W S&? Werner's Readings and Recitations o. 32 Jttoitalogucs COMPILED AND ARRANGED BY STANLEY SCHEIX u u Enlarged Edition EDGAR S. WERNER & COMPANY NEW YORK. Copyright, 1904, 1912, by Edgar S. Werner. All rights reserved. WHAT MONOLOGUE IS. CHARLES BARNARD. Written expressly for this book. A great variety of meanings appear to be given to the word "monologue." 1. Any long speech or soliloquy given by one character in a story or play. 2. A story related by one person and to certain forms of recita- tions. 3. A performance by one person of any scene or selection from a play in which the performer assumes one or more characters. 4. A "variety sketch" or a confused collection of smart or amus- ing sayings. To-day, the term monologue is applied to a comparatively new form of literary art. The correct definition of this use of the term is a story told in the first person by one character, who assumes that other and invisible characters are present, addressing them, and by appropriate words and actions making all they say and do clear to the audience. This form of monologue differs from the recitation in several particulars. A recitation may tell of past events. A monologue is a complete story of one or more events that take place during the time of the performance. It may only indirectly refer to anything that happened before the story begins. It is a complete fiction of a single transaction or of a connected series of transactions beginning and ending with the performance. It employs only one visible character, and all the other characters of the story are assumed to be present, though unseen. The per- former does not introduce himself or herself or give any previous explanations, but appears as the character, and at the end leaves WERNER'S READINGS AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 3 the stage platform without acknowledging the presence of the audience. In many respects a monologue thus resembles a play. Scenery, costume, properties, and action are used to enhance the effect of the performance. The stage may be set as for a regular play and the curtain may "discern" the performer in the character of the story and may fall at the end on a "picture." It can also be given without a curtain and without scenery, employing only costume, furniture, properties and action. In this case, the performer en- ters and leaves the platform at the beginning and end of the per- formance. All dramatic art is founded on a convention or unspoken but real agreement between the performers and the audience. The audience in a theatre agree to accept the actor as the imaginary character in the play. He may appear as a wholly impossible character, as the Invisible Prince in a fairy story. He is not in- visible, but the audience accept the convention. In an opera house the audience accept the convention that the expiring tenor may die singing at the top of his voice. It is a convention that a painted ship is a real ship and that Macbeth's dagger is real to Macbeth. In like manner, it is a convention that the single character in a monologue should address wholly invisible characters that he as- sumes are present, though unseen by the audience. In effect, it is an appeal to the imagination of the listener, a suggestive pictur- ing of the invisible before the minds of the audience. Once accept the convention and the monologue becomes one of the highest and most artistic forms of entertainment. It is like an impressionist picture. The one character that is seen is clearly defined, the imaginary characters that appear to him are suggested or sketched lightly, as if they stood in a half light while the cen- tral figure of the picture stood in the full sunlight. This method of telling a story is highly imaginative, subtle, delicate and inter- esting. The listener hears the echo of many voices in one voice. He sees the effect of circumstances and events concentrated upon a single character. The interest is centered on the one mind and heart that is laid bare unconsciously, as it were, before the spee- dy 4 WERNER'S READINGS AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. tator. The story is of necessity intensely personal. The experi- ence of the hero or the heroine is vividly portrayed, because there is no other visible character to distract the attention or divide the interest. Naturally enough, the giving of this form of platform story or monologue is far more difficult than any reading or recitation. It is not read or told. It is lived and acted, precisely as a play. It is an impressionist play and yet free from the cost and trouble of a dramatic performance. It is a ^tory acted by one performer, a realistic experience of a human hi?st made visible and enhanced by all the art of modern fczmdlvc literature. CONTENTS PAGE Abbie's Accounts. — Tudor Jenks 110 After the Ball: Her Reflections.— Mel. B. Spurr 126 After the Ball: His Reflections— Mel. B. Spurr 130 Angel Child.— Dorothy Dix 169 As Jimmie Sees It. — Charles C. Jones 182 At the "Boaer" Counter. — J. L. Harbour 178 At the Box-Office. — Elsie Livermore 139 Aunt Sophronia Tabor at the Opera. — Ar. by Elise West 42 Author's Reading in Simpkinville. — Ruth McEnery Stuart 175 Besetting Sin. — Edmund Vance Cooke 167 Betsey. — Ar. by Lucy Hayes MacQueen 54 Betty Botter's Batter 85 "Bill Thay."— Mary Tucker Magill 147 Billy the Hermit. — Ruth Edwards 44 Christmas Greens 35 Christopher Columbus.— Gazzoletti 22 Colored Laundress's Diplomacy. — Alice R. Forsythe 185 Comfortable Corner. — Ar. by Lucy Hayes MacQueen 103 Crushed Tragedian. — Ed. L. McDowell 39 Dawson's Woman. — W. Miller 93 Deceitfulness of Man 98 Deposed 68 Florentine Juliet. — Su?an Coolidge 75 He Wanted Ivory Soap. — Charles Battell Loomis 163 Her First Recital.— Anna M. Philley 17 How Uncle Mose Counts. — Ar. by Stanley Schell 107 I and My Father-in-Law. — Harriet L. Pemberton 64 If I Can Be By Her.— Ben. King ..." 138 I'm Little, but I'm Spunky 125 Introduction. — Anna Warren Story 134 Jack's Second Trial. — Roy Farrell Green 63 Jimmy Brown's Prompt Obedience. — W. L. Alden 28 John's Pajamas. — Stanley Schell 173 Keep A-Goin'. — Frank L. Stanton 115 Laughing and Crying. — G. A. Landrum 73 Little Friend in the Mirror. — Anna M. Philley 90 Little Mother's Trials.— Bessie B. McClure 27 Long Ago 150 Lost and Found 16 Werner's Readings No 32 — page 5 CONTENTS. PAGE Love in Lent 109 Mean Little Torment. — Charles E. Baer . 144 'Member 30 Minister Comes to Tea 143 Mr. Dooley on a Night in the Country. — Finley P. Dunne 171 My Lover Who Loved Me Last Spring. — Dollie Denton 119 Perplexed '. 102 Piano-Tuner. — Ar. by Lucy Hayes MacQueen 116 Pleasure Exertion. — Marietta Holley 155 Postponed. — Charles E. Baer 153 Pressed for Time. — Charles De Sivry 82 Ready for a Kiss 89 Silver Vedding 183 "Studying German." — Sarah E. Pittman 145 Stuttering Lover. — Fred Emerson Brooks 34 Sub Rosa.— Edith F. A. U. Painton 187 Taken by Surprise. — Metta Victoria Victor 86 Taking an Elevator , 123 That Little Dog.— James Whitcomb Riley 161 Tom Fay's Soliloquy. — Fanny Fern 61 Waiter. — Gertrude F. Lynch 11 Welcome 149 What Monologue Is. — Charles Barnard 2 When Dad Enjoyed Himself 69 When Greek Meets Greek 132 When Pa Gets Sick 137 When Pa Was a Boy.— S. E. Kiser 152 When Papa's Sick. — Joe Lincoln 136 When the Minister Came to Tea. — Juliet Wilbor Tompkins 141 Why the Dog's Tail Was Skinned.— Ar. by Stanley Schell 31 Woman's Vengeance. — Thomas F. Wilford 49 "Werner's Readings No. 32 — page 6 INDEX TO AUTHORS PAGE Alden, W. L 28 Baer, Charles E 144, 153 Barnard, Charles 2 Brooks, Fred Emerson ' 34 Cooke, Edmund Vance 167 Coolidge, Susan 75 De Sivry, Charles 82 Denton, Dollie 119 Dix, Dorothy 169 Dunne, Finley P 171 Edwards, Ruth 44 Fern, Fanny 61 Forsythe, Alice R 185 Gazzoletti 22 Green, Roy Farrell 63 Harbour, J. L 178 Holley, Marietta 155 Jenks, Tudor 110 Jones, Charles C 182 King, Ben 138 Riser, S. E 152 Landrum, G. A 73 Lincoln, Joe 136 Livermore, Elsie 139 Loomis, Charles Battell 163 Lynch, Gertrude F 11 McClure, Bessie B 27 McDowell, Ed. L 39 Magill, Mary Tucker 147 Miller, W 93 Painton, Edith F. A. U 187 Pemberton, Harriet L 64 Philley, Anna M 17, 90 Pittman, Sarah E 1-15 Riley, James Whitcomb 161 Schell, Stanley 1 "> Spurr, Mel. B 126, 130 Stanton, Frank L 115 Werner's Readings No. 32 — page 7 INDEX TO AUTHORS. PAGE Story, Anna Warren 134 Stuart, Ruth McEnery 175 Tompkins, Juliet Wilbor 141 Victor, Metta Victoria 86 Wilford, Thomas F 49 Werner's Readings No. 32 — page 8 MONOLOGUES FOR MEN PAGE After the Ball: His Reflections. Acting musical comedy 130 As Jimmie Sees It. Boy comedy country dialect verse recital.... 182 Besetting Sin. Boy corned}' country dialect verse recital 167 "Bill Thay." Boy comedy lisping dialect recital 147 Billy the Hermit. Pathos Yankee dialect recital 44 Christopher Columbus. Dramatic verse 22 Comfortable Corner. Comedy recital 103 Crushed Tragedian. Comedy verse 39 Dawson's Woman. Dramatic pathos Western dialect verse recital 93 He Waited Ivory Soap. Man comedy prose monologue 163 How Uncle Mose Counts. Acting comedy negro dialect 107 If I Can Be by Her. Serio-comic romantic stammering dialect encore verse 1 38 Jimmy Brown's Prompt Obedience. Boy comedy 28 Laughing and Crying. Acting serio-comic recital 73 Long Ago. Acting comedy ISO Lost and Found. Comedy encore 16 Mean Little Torment. Boy comedy recital 144 'Member. Boy serio-comic child dialect verse recital 30 Minister Comes to Tea. Boy comedy encore verse recital 143 Mr. Dooley on a Night in the Country. Man comedy Irish dialect prose monologue 171 Perplexed. Comedy romantic encore verse recital 102 Piano-Tuner. Acting musical comedy • 116 Postponed. Acting pathos country dialect verse 153 Pressed for Time. Acting serio-comic 82 Ready for a Kiss. Boy serio-comic child dialect encore verse recital 89 Silver Vedding. Man comedy German dialect prose monologue.. 183 Stuttering Lover. Serio-comic romantic stuttering dialect verse... 34 Sub Rosa. Man serio-comic prose monologue 187 That Little Dog. Man comedy country dialect verse monologue.. 161 Tom Fay's Soliloquy. Acting romantic comedy 61 Waiter. Pathetic French dialect 11 Welcome. Boy serio-comic address 149 When Dad Enjoyed Himself. Boy comedy recital 69 When Greek Meets Greek. Acting comedy Yankee dialect encore verse 133 When Pa Gets Sick. Boy comedy child dialect encore verse recital 137 When Pa Was a Boy. Boy comedy child dialect encore 152 When Papa's Sick. Boy comedy verse recital 136 Why the Dog's Tail Was Skinned. Comedy French-Canadian dialect 31 ■Werner's Readings No. 32 — page 9 MONOLOGUES FOR WOMEN PAGE Abbie's Accounts. Acting comedy 110 After the Ball : Her Reflections. Acting musical comedy 126 Angel Child. Woman comedy prose monologue 169 At the "Boaer" Counter. Girl comedy prose monologue 178 At the Box-Office. Acting comedy 139 Aunt Sophronia Tabor at the Opera. Yankee dialect comedy encore 42 Author's Reading in Simpkinville. Woman comedy country dialect prose monologue 175 Betsey. Acting comedy 54 Christmas Greens. Acting romantic 35 Colored Laundress's Diplomacy. Girl comedy negro dialect prose monologue 185 Deceitfulness of Man. Comedy New England dialect recital 98 Deposed. Girl serio-comic child dialect encore verse recital 68 Florentine Juliet. Pathos romantic verse recital 75 Her First Recital. Acting comedy romantic 17 I and My Father-in-Law. Acting comedy 64 Introduction. Acting comedy 134 Jack's Second Trial. Romantic encore verse recital 63 John's Pajamas. Woman comedy monologue 173 Laughing and Crying. Acting comedy recital 73 Little Friend in the Mirror. Girl acting comedy 90 Little Mother's Trials. Girl serio-comic recital 27 My Lover Who Loved Me Last Spring. Girl acting romantic pathos 119 Pleasure Exertion. Comedy Yankee dialect recital 155 "Studying German." Girl acting comedy German phrases 145 Taken by Surprise. Dramatic acting comedy 86 Taking an Elevator. Comedy Yankee dialect recital 123 When the Minister Came to Tea. Girl serio-comic verse recital.. 141 Woman's Vengeance. Dramatic tragic verse 49 Werner's Headings No. 32 — page 10 Werner's Readings and Recitations No. 32. THE WAITER. Romantic, Pathetic French Dialect Monologue for a Man. GERTRUDE F. LYNCH. Character: French Waiter. Costume: Waiter Costume, with apron and towel. Stage-Setting: Dining-room interior with tables, buffet, etc.; palms for decoration stand about the room. Scene: At rise of curtain waiter is discovered busy setting and arranging table. After a second of work he turns to audience and begins to talk. Throughout his monologue he talks and works and gestures. ZEY say zat we have no heart an' zat all we care for ees ze tip, always ze tip. Eet ees not true. Listen ! You see zose table zere by ze buffet? Eet ees fine lok you get from zere to ze rivair w'ere ze boat go up an' down. Over zere ees ze hill of ze Jersey, an' outside ees ze fountain stock' wiz trout, big ones from ze — what you call ze mountain ? Oh. yes, merci, ze Addyrohndak. Zose are my table an' I have zem now long time. Eet was monz's ago zey came for firs' time. She step out of ze carriage onto ze stone an' shake her dress wiz all ze littl' frills, 12 JVERNER'S READINGS and zen she turn an' look at heem, oh, wiz such a smile ; zen she lok 'round wiz such a smile, an' he, he lok so prou' an' pleas' like at her. I zought at ze commence zey were ze bride and groom, but I know after zey were not. How did I tell? Oh, but you know ze waiter can always tell, an' he don' know how eizer. Zere ees a somezing, a somezing quite different, oh, quite. No, zey were not ze man an' wife at all, zey were jus' frens, w'at you call, ze sweet heart, n'est-ce-pas? She walk so light an' quick, like a bird, to ze balcon', an' she lok about an' aroun', and zen she clap her littl' hands an' she say, wiz her pret' smile, "Let us sit right here," an' she point out zis place an' zat, an' zen she sees the fountain an' she want to run right out an' catch her trout for dinner, an' he let her. She lok so like the pret' girl in my own countree zat my heart warm to her an' I come forward wiz my bes' manner. He say, "How's zis table, Georg' ?" He call me Georg', but zat ees riot my name. "Ees zis table w'at you call engage'?" and I say, "No," an' pull out ze chairs, an' zen he hurr' roun' ze table to help her take off her coat for fear I might do eet firs'. An' of course I stan' back until he han' it to me ; zen I brush eet ver' careful, put eet across ze back of ze chair an' pull up ze sleeve. She smile at me sweet- like w'en I do zat, and zen she smile at heem an' zen she smile all aroun'. He give her ze carte, ze menu, you know, an' she order ze dinner, but he keep order'n more zings an' more zings, an* she try to stop heem, but he won' be stop, an' she laugh an' call heem names in fun like, you know. No, zey were not ze man an' wife, you see. He was so big, an' dark an' handsome, an' wiz such a gentle lok w'en hees eye res' on her. Did he give me big tip? Yes, he give me ver' big tip, c'est vrai, but eet ees not always ze tip, I 'sure you. I like heem ; he so magnifique, you call eet, an' a perfec' gen'leman, an' he zink so much of her. Well, zey come again an' again ; sometime' he telephone me : "Georg'," he say — he call me Georg', but zat ees not my name — "have ze table ready at such time," an' zey always come ze same way, she so smilin' an' he so happy. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 13 Well, one night I rush t'rough ze room zere, an' I see a carriage at ze stone an' she gettin' out from eet. Eet ees not ze usual night zey come, an' he have not telephone me ; an' zere ees someone else at zeir table, an' I don' know w'at ees to do. I lok again an' she ees smilin' at ze someone, but eet ees not ze same one ; eet ees anozer man, an' zis one ees light an' has ze curl' hair all ovair ze head. She lok at me as zough she nevair see me again ; you know ze way a woman lok w'en she come to ze restauran' wiz anozer man an' has ze same waiter. I don't seem to see her eizer, but I have a sort of queer feelin' about my hear', yes, I do ; I tol you, eet ees not always ze tip. Well, she come right up to her ol' table, wiz all her littl' ruffles flyin' an' she say to heem, "I like zis table bes' ; let us sit right here, ze view ees so much ze bettair," an' she point eet out to heem jus' as she pointed out to ze ozer man; an' she laugh an' laugh, but some way ze laugh don't seem to come from ze same place as eet did before. An' he mor' serious zan ze ozer man, an' his smile don' seem to come from ze heart eizer ; an' he lok 'roun' at ze ozer women, w'ich the big, dark man nevair did. Well, ze people who sit at ze table, after she smile at zem, zey say, "We mos' t'rough; jus' a minit;" an' w'ile zey wait she go out to ze fountain an' catch ze trout. You know we keep eet stock so full all you have to do ees jus' to run a line t'rough an' a fly, an' ze fish are so anxious to be caught zat zey jus' jump to ze line, you know. After zey catch ze fish, zey come back an' he order ze dinner; he don' ask her to do eet, but she smile jus' ze same. Did he give me tip, too? Oh, yes, he give me tip, too. No, eet was not quite so big, but I don't like heem anyway. I tol' you eet ees not always ze tip, an' I have to take eet anyway. W'at could I do? : — a poor waiter. He call me Georg', too. Strange how all ze Americains call ze waiter Georg' ! Well, zey come again, an' again, an' again, never have any ozer table ; an' she always smilin', jus' as eef she hadn't been zere ze night before perhaps, wiz ze big, dark, handsome man. You believe in w'at you call ze fate ? I do. Eet got so after ze w'ile zat ze secon' man wiz ze curl' hair, you comprenez, would 14 WERNER'S READINGS tol' me to keep ze table for ze next week ze same night, always ze same, ze Wednesday. So, w'en ze day come, I turn back ze chair. Zen one Wednesday zis ees w'at happen. I was down ze town, way down on an erran' you call eet. I was walkin' long brisk-like w'en I see heem, my tall, fine, handsome fren', ze one she come wiz firs', you recallez? I bows mos' perlite, but he don' recognize me at firs', wiz my hat on an' my apron off, an' he stop an' say, in zat gentle manner of his, "I don' seem to place you, my man. Were have I seen you?" An' I says to heem, "W'y, I'm Georg'. Don' you remem- ber — your waiter?" My name isn't Georg', but I call mysel' so to recall me to hees remember. He laughs an' loks happy-like, jus' as eef seein' me had made heem zink of her, you know. He lok jus' like he lok w'en he lok at her. It is Wednesday, I tol' you zat, you remember? All of a sudden somezing wizin me makes me say to him : "Eef you should come to-night zere are some fresh trout, an' I would lok out for you specially." He stop an' zink an' he say, part to heemself, part to me, "Eet ees too late an' besides she always go to her aunt to-night, ze Wednesdays." Zen he zink again quick an' he speak up : "I'll come, an' be sure to catch me a nice, big fish yourself." Zen he say "Good-bye." Re- tainin' fee ? W'at you call zat ? Oh, a tip ? Yes, he give me a tip, but you zink I keep zat tip. I tol' you, no. I give eet all to a beggar on ze nex' corner. I tol' you he ees a fine man, too fine to be — well, he go along, an' I feel like, like Pontius Pilate, was it, who betrayed hees Master ? Well, some one of zose ol' Bible characters, anyway. He came in an' he walk right to his ordinaire table an' see ze chair turn back. An' he stop an' say, disappoint' like, "Engage', Georg' ?" I says, an' I can feel myself grow w'ite, "Yes, sir, eet ees engage' ev'ry Wednesday." An' he say quick-like, "W'at! Ev'ry Wednesday, Georg', ze same ones?" An' I say, again, slowly, "Yes, sir, ze same ones, for long time now, sir." He don' suspect an' he take ze table facin' ze chair she always sit in ; an' I know from his face zat he's zinkih' of her an' zat eet ees jus' a gladness to lok at ze place an' zink he see her zere, like AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 15 ze nights she come to dine wiz heem. I feel so bad, but w'at could I do? He couldn't go on an' marry girl like zat who smile an' smile an' smile at all alike. He couldn't, could he? a fine man, like zat. I hurried, for I did want to have heem have ze big trout befor zey came, for I felt sure he wouldn't eat anyzin' afterwar. He was jus' finishin' w'en zey came in, she leadin', wiz her pret' littl' ruffles flyin' in ze breeze, an' ze fluf zing roun' her neck an' all her littl' gold curl' flyin', too. She has pink cheeks, like ze apple bloss'm in ze springtime, an' littl' tiny hands all cover' wiz sparkles ; she nevair wear ze glove, but her sleeve lace come down an' near cover' zem. She don' see him for w'ile; she lok out at ze rivair an' she poin' to ze sun w'ich sets ovair ze Jersey shore, an' she laugh right out loud at a littl' tug comin' up ze Hudsohn wiz a great big tow ; she laughs at eet again an' again, an' tell heem it lok like someone zey bot' know — I did not catch ze name but ees no matter. Zen she sit down an' unwrap ze fluf zin from her t'roat, an' she smile at ze man wiz ze curl' hair, an' zen at me, an' zen 'roun' every- w'ere, an' zen — she see heem. She went w'ite all once. I t'ought at ze firs' she was goin' to faint, but she pluck' game zat littl' miss. She rally an' she lok at heem an' bow gravely as eef to some ordinaire acquaintance, an' zen she talk an' laugh wiz ze man wiz ze curl' hair. An' all at once I know zat she don' care a littl' beet for heem, but zat she do care, oh, lots, for ze big, fine man — my f ren'. How I know ? Oh, you can't tell how you know zose zing, you jus' know, zat ees all. How he take eet? Oh, he only give zat one long lok, an' zen he turn his face away a littl' an' he lok out on ze rivair for con- sider'bl' minute. Zen he beckon me an' say, "Georg', get me a bottl' of wine," an' I run to get eet ; an' he sit an' drink one glass after ze ozer, — you know ze way a man does w'en he's makin' hees min' up to somezing zat hurts an' he ain't quite strong enough to do eet wizout some, w'at you call ze Dutch courage. He drink ze bottleful, an' she watch heem out of ze cornair of her littl' eye. 16 WERNER'S READINGS She don' eat — only preten' to ; an' her face don' get back ze color, no, not at all; eet ees jus' pale an' peak like a sick chil'. But ze ozer man, ze man with the curl' hair, he don' notice any- zing but hees dinner. He eat, eat, an' don' see zat she don' hardly touch hers. An' my fren' he don' lok at her again after zat firs' glance, but he lok on ze rivair an' ze Jersey way till ze sun set an' ze hill begin to grow big an' gray an' ze twilight creep ovair to our side of ze Hudsohn and zey turn on ze electric. Zen he get up slow', like an ol' man — I tol' you how quick he used to move — an' he take up his hat, an' he beckon me an' say, "Good-bye, Georg'," an' shake hands wiz me. Zen he go wizout one glance back, proud like, an' eet ees ze las' time. Did he give me tip ? Yes, he give me big tip, a five-dol'r, but do you zink I spen' eet? No, sir, I give eet to my church the nex' Sunday. Oh, she? Yes, zey come a few time more, zen zey marry an' I don' see zem for long time ; zen he come once in w'ile alon', an' once she come wiz heem, but she don' smile no more an' he quite cross to her 'cause she don' care for ze ver' expensive dinner he give her. LOST AND FOUND. Characters : Mr. Smith, Speaker, present ; Mr. Jones sup- posed to be present. Scene: On the street. Enter Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones, Smith apparently in earnest conversation with Mr. Jones. Stops at stage c. and begins his real conversation. YOU remember that very handsome watch I ' lost five or six years ago ? You do ? You remember how I looked high and low for it, and could not find it anywhere ? Was my search diligent — exhaustive ? I should say it was. Well, yesterday, I put on an old waistcoat that I hadn't worn for years, and what do you think I found in the pocket? My watch? I thought you'd say that, No— I found the hole that I must have lost it through, AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 17 HER FIRST RECITAL. Humorous and Romantic Monologue for a Woman. ANNA M. PHILLEY. ^Written expressly for this book. Characters: Dorothy, Speaker present; Mr. Rose, Mr. Harry Rose and Miss Phelps, supposed to be present. Costume : Outdoor costume. Scene : Music room, interior. Enter Dorothy, looking all fagged out. OH, dear me, I never was so tired in all my life ! I'm just dead tired, as papa says, and as hungry as a bear ! I'm going to get off my things and make a bee line for the pantry. Why, what is this ? A note addressed to me ! Why, that looks like Miss Phelps's writing. Oh ! I wonder if she has gotten me that ap- pointment to give a recital ! I'm so excited and nervous I can hardly get the thing open. [Reads.] "My Dear Dorothy:" [Looking at signature.] Yes, Mary B. Phelps, that's she. "I have succeeded in our little scheme. You are to give a recital all by yourself at Highland Park, next Fri- day evening, June 20th, at Music Hall, under the auspices of the High School Club. Mr. Harry Rose, who has come here recently from three years' study abroad, a violinist, will furnish two violin solos to relieve you. Aside from this, you will be responsi- ble for the entire program. They have agreed to pay you five dollars and expenses. Come to my studio this evening at 7 ^o/ and I will tell you more about it. In the meantime practice your strong selection, 'As the Moon Rose,' and the pantomime, 'Comin' thro' the Rye.' In haste vours, "Mary B. Phelps." [Dances about room.] Oh! isn't this glorious! Miss Dorothy Dunlap will give a recital. Ahem ! and I'm going to get five dol- [8 WERNER'S READINGS lars. Well, five dollars is not to be sneezed at. I can get a good many things with five dollars. [Refers to note again.'] Oh! Miss Phelps, you're an old darling! Let me see what she says about that young man. [Reads.] "Mr. Harry Rose, violinist, will fur- nish" — Harry Rose — Harry is rather a common name — wonder why he don't have people call him Henry ; that's more dignified, and I like the name better, too ; and "Rose" sounds girlish. Let's see — what was it Shakespeare said about a name? [Knocks on forehead.] Oh, yes, "What's in a name, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Well, I hope he's a genius and not a dandy dude. Now, what was I to practice? [Reads again.] "Practice your strong selection, 'As the Moon Rose,' and your pantomime, 'Comiri' thro' the Rye.' " But I must tell mamma about the good news first. [Calling tip stairs.] Mamma! Mamma ! I've got my engagement ! Why, over to Highland Park. Yes, I'm to receive five dollars. Next Friday evening. Yes, I'm going to practice . right away. No, I'll practice right here in the library. [To herself.] Well, I must get off my things and work hard now for an hour at least. [Takes off wraps while talking.] My! won't Barbara Burris be jealous? She's been tak- ing lessons of Miss Phelps longer than I have. She'll be as "jealous as a barbary cock pigeon over his hen," as Rosalind said. [Picks up note again mumbling.] Harry Rose — 'Harry Rose — I can't help wondering what sort of a fellow you are, Mr. Harry. I'd give a good deal to know whether you are married or single! Well, I must settle down to biz ! I wonder how Dorothy Dunlap looks, now she's booked for a recital. [Looks in hand-mirror.] Hello ! Miss Dorothy ! same old girl, aren't you ? You must primp up a little, now that you've an engagement as a reader. You're not what folks call pretty, but you have brains, and brains count for more than beauty any day, but I wish I were beautiful, just the same. ''I think a little dash of Mennen's might help you out somewhat. You must make a good impression on young Harry, or maybe he's old Harry — how do I know ? Anyway, first impres- sions are the most enduring, so we'll do our best, won't we, "Dear Daughter Dorothy," as mamma says? AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 19 Now for "As the Moon Rose." [Practices a couple of lines;* then suddenly stops and says:} I wonder how I look when I'm speaking — there's a whole lot in the way one looks. [Thinking.] \ I have it — There ! [Places mirror on chair in front of her, then makes an elaborate bow.] Oh! I've got a stitch in my side, em! how it hurts ! Dear me ! but wouldn't it be awful to get a pain like that right on the stage before a crowd of people? I guess I'll make a more modest bow. I think it looks better, anyway. Let's see, where was I ? Oh, yes. [Goes on with selection. Then stops suddenly.] I don't believe I need as much practice on that as I do on the pantomime. I'm going to practice that awhile. Dear me! but I'm hungry; but I haven't time to eat; I can chew gum, though, and pantomime at the same time. "Kill two birds with one stone." What did I do with my gum last night? [Hunts around edge of table and finally finds gum in handkerchief ; makes great ado getting it limbered up; then hums melody of "Comin thro' the Rye," pantomiming as she hums, and chewing gum rap- idly and audibly. Just as she finishes the chorus the telephone bell rings.] There goes the telephone ! I wonder what's wanted ? [Anszvers 'phone.] Hello! Yes, oh, yes; oh, Miss Phelps, you're a darling! Oh, I thought you wanted me to come to your studio. You've decided 'twould be better to come here instead? All right. Beg pardon. Oh, are you? And you're going to bring the violinist with you ? When will you come ? Oh, right away ; dear me ! Oh, yes, yes, it's all right, certainly, only I'm just a little excited, that's all. Sure, it's all right. Good bye ! Good bye ! [Picks up mirror and talks to herself.] Now, Miss Dorothy, do your best, your level best to make a good impression. [Fixes hair, powders face.] You're going to meet a man, an artist, a genius, maybe your fate, so beware ! [Sadly.] But I don't believe I'll ever love any one as I did — my ! I thought I heard some one coming. I s'pose I may ex- pect them now any minute. Bother ! if I could just make my heart stop thumping so loudly. I wonder if I've got heart disease. I * See bottom o'. pag s fo lines from ' A. the M001- Rose.' 2 o WERNER'S READINGS know it isn't sentiment or fear — I'm just a little nervous, that's all. I'm going to turn down the gas real low and sit here in this window and watch. I'll have the advantage of them then ; I can see them but they can't see me. Ah, ha, Master Harry, I'll catch the first glimpse. [Sits near window straining eyes, still chewing gum.] Dear me ! I must hide this gum, or Miss Phelps will be shocked ; she thinks it unladylike to chew gum. I believe they are now coming down the walk. Yes, that's Miss Phelps ; I know her gait. My, but he's tall and handsome ! Oh, they're going on. Oh, now I see ; it's Dr. Mayfair and his mother. I never thought she and Miss Phelps were a bit alike before. Well, if I've got to wait I'll im- prove the time. [Chews gum nervously; then calls tip stairs.] Yes, mother, I'm practicing. [Aside.] Practicing chewing. [Looks out again.] There ! that is surely Miss Phelps. Yes, it is, and they're com- ing right up the steps. Why, he walks a little lame. Oh, dear, I must get rid of this gum. [Dashes round room, turns on gas, and stands in front of door.] Now, ring the bell. Why don't you ring ? I'll peep through the key-hole. [Just as she does this the bell rings"] Whee ! but that's hard on ear-drums. [Opens door.] Good morning, Miss Phelps, and this is Mr. Rose? [Aside.] My! what an old duffer! Old enough to be my grand- father. I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Rose. [Aside.] But would have been more delighted were you forty years younger. Here, have this chair, Mr. Rose ; and Miss Phelps, please make ^yourself at home. Where is your violin, Mr. Rose? Oh! I sup- posed you were the gentleman who was to play for me. Indeed ! Your son — Oh, I'm so glad — I mean — or — a Beg pardon ? No, Miss Phelps, my mother is not well; she is suffering with a sprained ankle. Oh, certainly you may see her if you like ; she is up stairs in the sitting-room. Oh, Mr. Rose desires to see her ? You and my mother old school-mates ? Is it possible ? Why, how very funny. [Calling up stairs.] Mamma! an old friend of yours is coming up to see you — an old school-mate. He knew you in England. le c AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. Wait till he comes, and see if you know him. Go right up, Mr. Rose; it will be all right. [Pantomime watching Mr. Rose de- part. ] Say, Miss Phelps, when is the young man coming? Why, that must be he now. You answer the bell ; I'm so excited and ner- vous. I'll slip into, the back parlor until I get my breath. [Picks up mirror and pozvder as she goes.] Now, Dorothy Dunlap, be- have yourself. You are acting like a great simpleton, and here you are a young woman almost nineteen, and booked for a re- cital ! I'm ashamed of you. There he comes, now. Why, how familiar his step sounds. I could almost swear it was Henry St. Clair's step. Til just peep through these curtains and see what sort of a looking fellow he is. [Dashing out in great surprise.] Why, Henry St. Clair! What are you doing here ? I thought you were in Europe ! Let me go, sir; don't you remember how we parted just three years ago? I said then I'd never speak to you again, and I wouldn't if— well, if I had not been so excited. Besides, I'm expecting a Mr. Harry Rose here any minute to You are Harry Rose? I don't be- lieve it. Well, explain yourself, if you can. Oh, I see ; how sad, how very sad ; and your parents both died within a month, and this Mr. Rose adopted you, and educated you in music? And what brought you here? A visit to the homeland, and with me? Can we be friends again ? Well, Henry, since you've come so far, and confessed so much, we will be friends — until, well, until after the recital, at any rate. Miss Phelps! [Calling.] Why, where has she gone ? I presume she thought war was declared and she'd better get out of the way of the shots. Oh, Miss Phelps ! come back ! The war is over and the coast is clear. Yes, we've made up and it's time for our rehearsal now. Come on.* *"Now upon this June day in the year of our Lord 1780, the patriots were gathered outside the tavern door — the witch-girl Judith apart from the rest, her black horse 'Fonso tugging impatiently at her arm — and Grandame Pettibone's voice rose shrilly above the babble. 'Hiram won't be back to-night, I guess, and he's already three days overdue. It's pretty dangerous work, carrying Washington's messages, but he's bound to get along in the world, Hiram is ; and that witch-girl Judith fools herself id thinking the lad cares for her. Why, I know he's another sweetheart in Boston town.' The girl took a step forward to answer back hotly, then" 2a WERNER'S READINGS CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. Dramatic Monologue in Verse for a Man. TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GAZZOLETTI BY ADAM RONDEL. [The original of the following poem was recited before crowded audi- ences by the elder Salvini on several occasions during his American tour. Attired in the costume of this "hero of two worlds," his powerful form bent as though with the weight of years and of the heavy chains that bound his feet and hands, the great tragedian moved his hearers to the highest pitch of enthusiasm. The poem was given to the translator by Salvini's private secretary and prompter, who venerates the worn little pamphlet for the many associations it enfolds of this great master of "the greatest of all arts." — A. R.] Character : Columbus. Costume: Half-worn costume following style pictured in all illustrations of Columbus. Scene: Interior of a cell. Columbus standing weighted with chains. FORLORN, alone and old— I die. Alas ! My life, in hardships passed, in sorrow ends. But heaven vouchsafed to me 'midst all my woes One joy so great, that every grief because Of it seemed a delight; for sending forth A ray of His eternal light upon The world, God turned to Italy and spoke In graciousness to me : "O fearless one, Go find a pathway toward the setting sun." And opening my eyes upon the West, I saw what seemed a new world rising up From out the waves. Wide-reaching forest lands Of trees unknown ; great rivers ; plains immense ; And various beasts; and birds of plumage rare; AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 23 And all the luscious fruits that India yields, The envy and desire of Northern lands; The seas were rich with pearl, the hills with gold. "Go forth, return and tell what thou hast seen," I heard the voice speak in my ear. Alas ! I have no wealth ; no sail spreads out at my Command — and nothing have I but a thought. I brought my heavenly inspiration to The crowned ones of the earth and asked of them A little of their wealth. Alas ! alas ! Through long and weary years I plead with them, But they derided me, misunderstood. I hardly understood myself — I saw. Pray bring me closer to the casement there. Take not from my unhappy, hung'ring eyes The sight of the bright sea — the sea, a short While since, so infinite ; no longer so, Since I with new-found shores have shut it in. The sea, the sea, my kingdom and my friend, My glory and the hope of my best years ! Once more let me salute it, then unfurl The sails : I'll voyage on to find that shore Uncertain and unknown, more distant far, Of which no tidings may I bring to you. So smooth it was, so joyous and so blue, When fearless first I cast myself upon Its open, sunlit, pulsing breast, and saw What eye of man had never seen. With dire And fearful terrors and with monsters dread Man's superstition filled it. / feared not — Nor hesitated long. Fly on, my bark! And if my heart beat high, it was with dread Lest they, my tim'rous men should courage lack To bear our purpose to its perfecting. 24 WERNER'S READINGS Fly on, my bark ! No hostile omens shall Thy winged course arrest: land lies beyond — I see it in my swift, out-running thought. Faint-hearted ones, take courage! Land is near! And soon our bark will touch the beauteous shore. Heaven aids our daring enterprise with winds Propitious and with soft, caressing waves. Day follows weary day till months are gone And still no trace of land is visible; But sky and sea around us and above, While pallid faces tell all hope is lost. And I, what can I do? Must I with my Sparse gold their dull souls bribe? They'll heed naught else, New stars are leading me on unknown seas. "Give me but three days more, and then, if still 'Tis vain we hope — I'll yield me up to you." Behold from out the west great clouds of birds In rapid flight. Sea-weed and curious leaves and plants adrift From stranger shores. Breaks through the eternal silence of the sky A fervent cry : "The land! the land!" — Oh, who can tell my joy? The land at last ! A light descried across the misty night Confirms our hope : And hands, are strong and hearts are light once more As on we go. The bright day comes and crimson is the sea. Was it a dream ? Ah, no, it lies within our sight at last — The longed-for land ! A beauteous maid bedecked in green and gold On billowy couch, AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 2$ Sparkling and fair to see, a guerdon paid To valorous knight; A bride as fair as hope — more fair than I Had dared conceive. The sun creeps up — the lurking shadows flee — And lo ! she laughs From very joy of life. Now furl the sail — let down the boats, O land ! At length I kiss thy longed-for shores ; at last, O heavenly inspiration not in vain Believed in, I my greeting bring to thee ! The great work is completed. Am not I Lord of my lands and of the sea ? But where My subjects and my palaces, my gems, My laurels, and, O king, thy promises? Within thy palace, the Alhambra, throned—* Granada, vanquished, lying at thy feet — A wandering Italian came to thee, A man oppressed beneath the burden of His thoughts and gray before his time. A tirecl And sickly child clung to his hand. Grandees And princes high in rank and captains brave Stood there 'mid all the splendor ancient Spain Could boast. What said to thee, O Ferdinand, The unknown Genoese? "O Sire," he said, Nor was there quiver of his lip — "O Sire, Fate gave thee Aragon and love Castile, And war the kingdom of the Moors. But I Would give thee more than fate, or love, or war, Than Aragon, Granada or Castile — Far more — a world ! I went and I returned. Unlooked for I returned, O king, with gems And gold from thy new kingdom, won without 26 WERNER'S READINGS The shedding of a drop of blood or sound Of battle cry. And when I proudly showed The proofs of my discovery to thee, Thy haughty councillors and learned men, Thou saidst to these, thy courtiers : "Genius is A spark of the Divine — above all kings ! Uncover in its presence, O Grandees Of Spain!" Can I this same Columbus be, Forgotten, poor, and driven from place to place? Without a home, where he may even die, — Is he discov'rer of the world, while all Of Europe feasts and revels in the gold Whose sources he made known? Oh, do not tell Posterity this infamy, nor say That these old arms the impress bear of chains, Nor that I lived imprisoned where I once Had walked a conqueror. O cruel Fate, If it was written in thy book that such A service should be paid in coin so poor, Then God be thanked that such reward came not From Italy. Ah, well ! 'tis done, 'tis done ! Behold the fair land reeks and smokes with blood ! Oh, horrid crimes ! Lo ! swords are buried deep In brothers' hearts defenceless. . . . Such was not Columbus' thought when he became your guide, Beneath the banner of the Holy Cross Which ye have so defiled with massacres And made the very pretext for your sin. What passion moves you, men, that gold does not Suffice — that ye must have the warm life-blood Of brother men ? If this be valor, what AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 27 Is cowardice ? Oh, hide the vision dread — The pain that all unwittingly I've caused. I am resigned. O sea ! the sight of thee Brings to my heart remorse : both innocent, And yet accomplices in all these great Misfortunes. Time will come when all the crime Beneath the dust of centuries will rest, And from this new-found world will come at last As much of good as evil came at first. And then my name by unborn races will Be blest — the praise more glorious because So late. I die content. Columbus will Be known in every clime and men rise up To do him reverence. A LITTLE MOTHER'S TRIALS. BESSIE B. McCLURE. [A little girl with infant doll in her lap, one in a cradle and others seated on chairs or couch.] OH, dear ! I'm in such trouble — Sophia's sick abed, And Rosalind is dreadful cross Because she bumped her head; Belle's torn her nice new apron, The naughty, careless child ! And Rob is so mischievous He nearly sets me wild : The baby, too, is teething, And so, of course, he cries ; Dear me ! It's hard to manage A familv of this size. 28 WERNER'S READINGS JIMMY BROWN'S PROMPT OBEDIENCE. Comedy Monologue , for a Small Boy. W. L. ALDEN. [Enter Jimmy Brown in hesitating fashion, shuffles along, stops and looks at fingers, then talks direct to audience.] I HAVEN'T been able to write anything for some time. I don't mean that there has been anything the matter with my fingers so that I couldn't hold a pen ; but I haven't had the heart to write of my troubles. Besides, I have been locked up for a whole week in the spare bedroom on bread and water, and just a little hash or something like that, except when Sue used to smuggle in cake and pie and such things, and I haven't had any penanink. I was going to write a novel while I was locked up by pricking my finger and writing in blood with a pin on my shirt ; but you can't write hardly anything that way, and I don't believe all those stories of conspirators who wrote dreadful promises to do all sorts of things in their blood. Before I could write two little words my finger stopped bleeding, and I wasn't going to keep on pricking myself every few minutes ; besides, it won't do to use all your blood up that way. There was once a boy who cut him- self awful in the leg with a knife, and he bled to death for five or six hours, and when he got through he wasn't any thicker than a newspaper, and rattled when his friends picked him up just like the morning newspaper does when father turns it inside out. Mr. Travers told me about him, and said this was a warning against bleeding to death. Of course you'll say I must have been doing something dread- fully wrong, but I don't think I have ; and even if I had, I'll leave it to anybody if Aunt Eliza isn't enough to provoke a whole com- pany of saints. The truth is, I got into trouble this time just through obeying promptly as soon as I was spoken to. I'd like AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 29 to know if that was anything wrong. Oh, I'm not a bit sulky, and I am always ready to admit I've done wrong when I really have; but this time I tried to do my very best and obey my dear mother promptly, and the consequence was that I was shut up for a week, besides other things too painful to mention. This world is a fleeting show, as our minister says, and I sometimes feel that it isn't worth the price of admission. Aunt Eliza is one of those women that always know everything, and know that nobody else knows anything, particularly us men. She was visiting us, and finding fault with everybody, and con- stantly saying that men were a nuisance in a house and why didn't mother make father mend chairs and whitewash the ceiling and what do you let that great lazy boy waste all his time for ? There was a little spot in the roof where it leaked when it rained, and Aunt Eliza said to father, "Why don't you have energy enough to get up on the roof and see where that leak is? I would if I was a man — thank goodness I ain't." So father said, "You'd better do it yourself, Eliza." And she said, "I will this very day." So after breakfast Aunt Eliza asked me to show her where the scuttle was. We always kept it open for fresh air, except when it rained, and she crawled up through it and got on the roof. Just then mother called me, and said it was going to rain, and I must close the scuttle. I began to tell her that Aunt Eliza was on the roof, but she wouldn't listen, and said, "Do as I tell you this in- stant, without any words; why can't you obey promptly?" So I obeyed as prompt as I could, and shut the scuttle and fastened it, and then went down-stairs, and looked out to see the shower come up. It was a tremendous shower, and it struck us in about ten minutes ; and didn't it pour ! The wind blew, and it lightened and thundered every minute, and the street looked just like a river. I got tired of looking at it after a while, and sat down to read, and in about an hour, when it was beginning to rain a little easier, mother came where I was, and said, "I wonder where sister Eliza is ; do you know, Jimmy ?" And I said I supposed she was on the 30 WERNER'S READINGS roof, for I left her there when I fastened the scuttle just before it began to rain. Nothing was done to me until after they had got two men to bring Aunt Eliza down and wring the water out of her, and the doctor had come, and she had been put to bed, and the house was quiet again. By that time father had come home, and when he heard what had happened But, there ! it is over now, and let us say no more about it. Aunt Eliza is as well as ever, but nobody has said a word to me about prompt obedience since the thunder-shower. 'MEMBER. J Af\ EMBER, awful long ago — IVl 'Most a million weeks or so — How we tried to run away. An' was gone for 'most a day? Your Pa found us bofe — an' nen Asked if we'd be bad again — An' we promised, by-um-by, Do you 'member? So d' I. 'Member when I tried to crawl Frough vat hole beneaf your wall, An' I stuck, becuz my head Was too big? Your Muvver said, When she came to pull me frough, S'prised you didn't try it, too. An' you did it, by-um-by. 'Member? Do yuh? So d' I. 'Member when your Muvver said 'At she wisht I'd run an' do All ve mischief in my head All at once, an' get it frough? S'pose we did, why, maybe ven We could do it all again ! Guess we could if we should try — Will y', sometime? So'll I. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 31 WHY THE DOG'S TAIL WAS SKINNED. French Canadian Dialect Comedy Monologue for a Man. Arranged as a monologue expressly for this book by Stanley Schell. Characters Represented : The French Canadian, owner of the dog, Speaker, present; Campers, supposed to> be present. Costume : Rough camper's costume. Stage-Setting : Camp fire scene. Scene : Campers supposed to be lying about camp fire near stage center. [Enter The French Canadian with a supposed dog follow- ing at his heels. He occasionally glances at the dog as he slowly crosses stage from R. rear to front center, apparently moving around several men. He sits quietly, lights his old pipe, smiles a little as he seems to be listening to what they are talking about, nods head and smiles again, takes a long puff as if deeply think- ing; then, as if satisfied with the result of his reflections, settles back comfortably, motioning to his dog to lie at his feet. Then takes another long puff at pipe and watches the smoke go off as he slowly begins to talk.] YOU men's bin ask me w'at for ah'm skeen ze dog's tail. Ah'm tell you. [Another long puff at pipe and the same slow process of watching the smoke curl aivay.] Ah'm skeen heem for money, skeen heem fer cinque dollar, fer ev'ry hair een heem tail, an' more, too. Let me tell. Ze dog heem bin no good, jes' lay 'roun' camp in ze sun an' bite, bite, bite fer ze flea. Heem geet dir-ty, an' heem eye bin geet red, lak heem bin on beeg, long, booze. Ze boss heem com' 'long one day an' heem say : "Eh, Eli, you lazy Frenchman, you tak' Carlo down stream behin' ze bateau an' w'en you bin geet heem clean you tak' heem ashore an' keel heem dead, an' deeg hoi' an' & WERNER'S READINGS hide heem from ze eyes of me. Eef you don't do eet, Ah'm keek you out ze place." 'Fraid? Yes, he one, big, strong man. So, Ah kem down. Carlo heem com' 'long 'hind ze bateau an' splash, splash, like zis [makes movements with his hands to show how Carlo did] in ze water, lak heem bin tickle 'most 'ter bin die. [From now on he grows more and more earnest, gesticidating frequently, occasion- ally looking closely into the men's faces.] Yas, heem stay in 'long time. Heem hav' fin' bully time. An' Ah'm say to heem: "Carlo, you bin goin' geet yourself keeled pretty kveek. Look lak you was sad, Carlo; eet was you' las' chance, sure." An' ze dog wag heem tail more fas' an' laugh out heem eyes an' say ha-ha in heem t'roat, jes' sam' heem go on ze peekneck w'at ze Yankee folks tak' w'en zey want geet drunk. •Understand? Heem un'stand ev'ry zing. Bimeby, w'en Ah'm bin tow heem two mile, an' t'ink heem geet sam' ez clean, Ah tak' heem ashor' an' geet ready fer keel heem. Dog look ? Heem look sad al' time. Heem seemed to know. Soon we go by ze shore. Ze sun bin shin' in ze sky lak' heem hav' good tarn', ze water seeng on ze rocks, lak' heem glad, Carlo wag heem tail — weef, weef, weef — sam' heem bin leef mos' all ze tam'. Some'ow, Ah hear ze noise on ze racks an' bin theenk w'at mak' ze chunk-chunk. Ah look, an' sure ez you leef, sure ez Ah'm tell you, Carlo, heem tail bin all boonched an' broke een ze clam shells, w'at grab on ze hair heem tail w'en Ah tow heem enn Ripogenus Rips — twenty, t'irty, er hun'er' clams all grab fas' ter Carlo — heem tail — an' all hoi' on lak they bin goin' tak er ride. Preety beeg clam story ? Een coorse eet is. W'at you t'ink ? W'at Ah'm do now, you bin t'ink? W'at you do, you bin in ze place Ah vas bin? You don't know? Carlo heem bin good dog, lazy, lak any dog, lak you an' Ah'm bin eef you an' Ah'm bin dog. But heem no bad dog 'nuf make heem die 'long ze clams. So Ah'm bin t'ink, an Ah tak' ze knif an' Ah'm bin whe-e-tle ze clams away, takin' some ze hair erlong AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 33 ze clams, but hav ze tail all sleek, lak eet bin new. Carlo heem stan' steel an' wait fer ze clams fall off, lak er horse w'en you bin tak' off ze mucl. Kveek ez Ah'm bin done Carlo heem joomp all over mah he'd an' leek mah face, sam' heem bin tickled mos' ready ter die. * Ah do? Ah'm hav' spell ter t'ink right now. Eef Ah keel Carlo, heem bin dead all tarn. No more chase ze rabbit, no more tree ze 'coon. Ez Ah'm bin theenk Ah open ze clams — cut, cut ev'ry tarn lak eet cut ze heart. — Ze firs' clam heem bin beeg — heem shell ho' seex fingers ze wheesky, an' w'en Ah'm bin cut heem two doors open, Ah fin' ze leetle shine gravel een heem. Eet bin sam' size ze bean w'at ze cook geev ze mans in ze camp, an' eet bin hard an' shine lak ze oil lamp, w'en Ah'm bin touch ze match ter heem. Ah see w'at heem vas ze firs' tarn Ah look. Vat eet vas ? Heem bin ze beeg pearl w'at ze Yankeemans buy, an' Ah say eef Ah'm bin fin' more pearl, Ah'm buy Carlo an' keep heem sam's heem bin my dog. Did Ah fin' any? Nex' shell hoi' no pearl — jes' lak clam, no more. W'en Ah'm open seex clam Ah'm bin fin' two more pearl, an' keep on, so w'en Ah'm bin done Ah hav' ze wheesky glass full ze pearl. Pearl story all right? You no b'live? Go on ? Yas, zat's w'at Ah deed. Ah runned back ze camp an' say ze boss : "W'at heem tak' for Carlo heem skeen ?" An' ze boss say : "Skeen heem eef you want to, an' hurry back to work eef you don' want to lose you' own skeen." Nex' day w'en Ah see ze boss, heem say : "Eli, you black Can- nucker, w'at for you no keel ze dog?" An' Ah say : "Ah'm bin buy ze skeen w'at Carlo wear. You sell heem ?" "Oui, you may hav' heem now — tak' heem," ze boss say, but ze skeen is no good till you bin tak' heem off. "Ah'm bin lak' Carlo bes' w'en heem skeen iss on heem," say me. An' Ah zen show ze boss ze pearl an' bin tell heem ze story, 34 WARNER'S READINGS an' ze boss heem laugh an' say Ah'm bin ze mos' rascalous scoun- derl heem bin see een seex year. Na, heem keep his bargain. He no tak Carlo. He mine. So Ah, Carlo an' Ah go to ze river an' geet ze pearls — beeg, beeg, beeg ones. He do better ev'ry day an' zat ees why Ah skeen hees tail. [Rises and starts toward exit. Stops.] How much I mak' ? No, Ah canno' say dat. An' Ah see Carlo now an' so Ah mus' go fin' ze pearls — an' mak' my Carlo sinks he's gettin' cleaned once more. [Exits, waving hand.] THE STUTTERING LOVER. FRED EMERSON BROOKS. Ilu-love you very well, Much mu-more than I can tell, With a lu-lu-lu-lu-love I cannot utter; I kn-know just what to say But my tongue gets in the way, And af-fe-fe-fe-fe-fection's bound to stutter! When a wooer wu-wu-woos, And a cooer cu-cu-coos, Till his face is re-re-red as a tomato, Take his heart in bi-bi-bits, Every portion n-fi-fits, Though his love song su-su-seem somewhat staccato! I'll wu-worship you, of course, And nu-never get divorce, Though you stu-stu-stu'-stu-storm in angry weather; For whu-when you're in a pique, So mu-mad you cannot speak, We'll be du-du-du-du-dumb then both together. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. * 35 CHRISTMAS GREENS. Romantic Monologue for a Woman. Character : Miss Nell Hetherton, Leading Woman of the Comedy Theatre, New York, and the idol of the town. Scene : The drawing-room of Miss Hetherton's pretty apart- ment in Gramercy Park. A fire burns in the grate, and a lux- urious neglige gown and slippers are over a chair before it. Table, with shaded lamp, boxes, letters, flowers. Time : Near midnight on Christmas Eve. [There is the sound of a cab-door slammed, the rumble of wheels, and in another moment Miss Hetherton enters with her arms full of red roses. She zvears an opera cloak over her even- ing dress, and she tosses the roses on a conch, turns up the light, walks back to the door, and speaks:] THAT will do, Celeste; take all those other flowers and put them where they will keep cool and fresh till morning. To- morrow you and I will arrange them in the vases. Yes, I'll keep these here with me. [Takes up one of the roses and touches it to her lips and zvhispers.] They remind me of home — and here, Celeste, you may take my cloak [drops it off shoulders, as though giving it to maid] , and good-night and a Merry Christmas to you ! — and oh ! Celeste [takes up a parcel from the corner], here's something for you — a new silk gown, Celeste — and I bought it for you myself! [Laughs.] Yes — thank you, Celeste — you spoil me [laughingly] . "Oui — oui — mademoiselle — merci — merci !" [Botvs the maid out laughingly, then throzvs herself in the chair before the fire and clasps her hands above her head.] Well, there is no place like my own little snuggery, and yet I am here like a veritable old maid, alone on Christmas Eve [looks around], and not a bit of Christmas green; but the roses will do. What a delightful little supper that was they gave me to-night on the stage after the play — and such a lot of notables ! Dear me ! And all presented to poor little Nell Hetherton, two years ago a prim schoolma'am in a Western mining town ! Ah, me ! [Looks 36 , WERNER'S READINGS at bracelet on her arm.] That was nice of them to give me this bracelet. I value it more than all the rest. [Takes it from her arm and reads inscription.] "To Miss Nell Hetherton, from the Company." Well, I wonder now, if I had never been seized with that wild desire for the stage, and if I had not worked and saved and strug- gled to get to New York — and if I had married Jack — where I should be to-night. [Leans her head on her hand and looks in the fire.] I can see a little Western home, the logs blazing on the hearth, the table spread for supper, the Christmas greens upon the wall — and Jack — and I — heigh-ho ! — I in a gingham apron, I suppose, mixing biscuit — instead of being Miss Nell Hetherton, whose name is all over the town in letters as big as I am, and all the men running after me, and the women copying my bonnets, and a real live prince at my feet. [Laughs.] I know he will ask me to marry him ! Since he came to the city fresh from his Newport adulation and attention, he has been my most devoted admirer. And no diamond bracelets or supper invi- tations or coroneted cabs, but only the most kind and courteous attentions : his morning call and bunch of roses, as though I were a debutante in my first season ! It makes me almost love him. And yet — he hasn't spoken ; but if he does — well, he is not so bad. Old, of course, but distingue, unassuming, with Old- World manners and a great old name, and an estate that half the mothers in New York have been angling for. Princess ! Princess ! How fine it sounds. [Muses.] And Jack has not sent me even a word-^-for Christmas. An- other sweetheart, I suppose. [Hums.] "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever." [Talks to the rose.] Would he be even a little bit jealous, do you think, if he knew I had all of you beautiful roses sent me by the Prince — American Beauties — instead of the wild roses he used to gather for me on the mountain? [Takes photograph from mantel and gazes at it.] What did I ever see in. dear old Jack to make me love him as I used to? — square chin [squares her chin], AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 37 mouth with just a little sarcastic laugh always at the corners of it, straight nose, mine turned up, he always said. He doesn't know what a howling beauty I have become — and eyes — well, his eyes are good — yes — it must have been the eyes ! [ Throws the picture suddenly from her.] And Jack has never sent me even one little word. What will he say, I wonder, when he hears that I am a princess? And, of course, I'll have a coronet — yes, indeed, the very latest kind. How shall I look in a coronet, I wonder? [Playfully unfastens her necklace and places it about her hair, looks in the mirror, rises from her chair and curtseys as though receiving someone.] He will be introduced, of course, and I shall put up my lorgn- ette — so, and turning the full light of my coronet upon him — so — I'll say : "Ah, quite so. I remember you so well, Lord Ran- dolph. At Baden it was we met, was it not? And how is dear Lady Randolph ?" [Suddenly sinks into chair, as though tired of the jesting mood.] After all, the prince has not asked me yet ; but I know what his eyes said to-night when he kissed my hand at the carriage-door. "And to-morrow, mademoiselle," he said, "may I send you a white rose?" That is so like a Frenchman — he had just sent me all these beautiful red ones. [Rises'.] Perhaps Jack has written. [Looks through notes and boxes on table; tosses them aside zvithout open- ing.] Dear me, what a time I shall have writing acknowledgments of all these pretty things. What beautiful perfume is that? [Sniffs.] Why — why — it's like PINE — from the old tree — near the school-house — where Jack and I [Catches sight of the large box, which she lifts on chair, cuts string, and removes cover.] Oh! how beautiful! [Lifts a mass of the green, sweet- smelling pine branches to her bosom, with her arms clasped about them and face upraised, pale and smiling.] Why — it — must be — from Jack ! Thank God !* [Picks letter from among ih& branches in box, opens, and reads:] * The monologue can be ended here if desire.4,. 38 WERNER'S READINGS "Nell Dear : Of course, I have heard of all your social triumphs of the last few months, and your final coup, the capture of the Prince Ver- ronneiux. Every New York paper that has reached here contains accounts of your engagement to him. I do not believe them, but I am forced to think that even your true heart must be turned with all this adulation. I do not care to hear this from you, but I send you word that I prefer to have our promise as though it had never been made. This for your sake. You know how much I love you. But I know that I will have to give more than another year before I can realize the success which my work here is sure to bring. I hope to have wealth in a few years sufficient to take care of you, Nell, and make a home for you ; but until then can I ask you to give up such brilliant chances as are offered to you ? It would be selfish and ungenerous of me to expect anything of the kind. Let your own heart tell you what to do, not any fancied duty to a promise that I shall never hold you to unless you choose to have it so. God bless you, Nell. I send you a box of pine from the old tree, which you may like to have for Christmas greens — just as you used at home — you remember, Nell—" [She drops her head upon her hands for a moment, as though weeping silently. A knock at the door. Hastily takes the neck- lace from her head, turns down the light.] Well! Ah, Celeste!' Well, Celeste? [Goes to the door.] Ah, it is Christmas morning — impossible! I must have been dream- ing by the fire, and these beautiful white roses ! For me ! — and a letter! [Comes back with large basket of white roses, tied with tvhite satin ribbon; places them on floor. Christmas chimes sound faintly from without. She opens large white envelope, takes out letter, and reads.] "Mademoiselle : "You know you have my heart. I lay it at your feet with these blos- soms. . I ask you, mademoiselle, if you will be my wife? I will not say more. Yesterday I sent you red roses, which spoke of my love. This Christmas morning, I send you bride roses, for my princess that is' to be, I fondly hope. I shall be proud, mademoiselle, if you will but send me one little rose by my messenger, who will wait. Send me no cruel letter, but the rose or nothing. • ■' "Allow me, mademoiselle, to sign myself "Your most devoted admirer, ,. TT Verronneiux. [The letter flutters from her hands to the ground. She stands as though frightened for a moment. Falls dazed into the chair. Then, she takes a spray of pine from the box, places it upon her hair where the crown has been, rises to her feet, and looks in the mirror over the mantel with a smile, then she turns to the door.] Celeste, tell him — there is no answer ! AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 3 g A CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN. Comedy Monologue in Verse for a Man. ed. l. Mcdowell. Written expressly for this book. Character: Actor, Speaker present. Costume :' Shabby, genteel suit. Scene : Enter Actor, gazes about and then addresses audience. OH, why do the critics insist that I Am not an actor born? Why do the "gallery gods," forsooth, Laugh all my powers to scorn ? I feel great fires within my frame Which high should mount From my soul's fount And set the world aflame. Then why am I here in this No Man's Land, So far from the marts of trade? Collect thyself, mind — ah, yes, last week I enacted the great Jack Cade. Yes, I lived Cade's life through every scene And showed Jack's hopes and fears ; Next morn the New York critics proved That I played a Jack — with ears ! [Illustrating a donkey's ear-Haps, etc.] The theatre was crowded from pit to dome To see me enact the hero of Rome. Forth I rushed on the stage midst the wildest applause, And my very first speech won a storm of huzzas — Too stormy methought. Yet it flattered my pride, And resolved me the more. So with grand tragic stride 40 WERNER'S READINGS And Delsartian sweep of my eloquent arms, I proceeded to paralyze the house with my charms — When something hit me in the neck Which aroused my dramatic ire, "The man that threw that egg," says I, "Is a — a — parabolical, diabolical liar." He apologized and said that far From theatrical infracting, That he'd paid his money to see me act And intended to be exacting. [Egsacting.] Oh, then awoke the hopes that slept within my manly breast, An exacting audience now must needs to see me act my best. But alas ! the perfume of that venerable egg Had my memory so unfixed That the lines of every play I knew Got most confoundedly mixed. "To be or not to be," I shrieked — The audience thought I'd better not; Advised me to go and soak my head, Or seek some breezy spot, Where the wind might through my whiskers blow, Ere I turned up my toes to the daisies. "Oh, Cruel critics," I cried, "you shall hear me yet ; Richard's himself again, you bet." They applauded, then hooted, then crushed my hopes With bouquets tied to the ends of ropes. They guyed me, yes and they bouquets plied — Of a vegetable kind — till I could have died. Yet, "On with the play though it rain cats and dogs," I yelled, while showers of eggs bespattered my "togs." AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 41 Fiercely I acted till a big potato caught me Somewhere in the ribs, and suddenly brought me — Well, nearer to death than I care to be brought. But ha— ha ! my second wind came, I called for my "cue." Zounds ! the prompter had skipped with my cue and watch, too. Yes, manager, scene-shifters, dizzy actors — all gone — Had left me to play out Jack Cade all alone. Still my soul was resolved that my genius should win, So, grandly in monologue I again did begin, When a twenty-pound cabbage found its way to my head, And all my ambition immediately fled. That's why I am here in this No Man's Land, Far away from the marts of trade, And here I'll abide, for I understand That a "return engagement" would occasion a raid. Thank heaven ! I still live ! Alack, my poor poll, Thou hast brought naught but shame to my ambitious soul. Alack, poor Yorick ! Great Kraut ! when that huge cabbage fell, Methought 'twere a summons to heaven or to — sheol ! No more will the hair on my dizzy skull grow — 'Tis cabbaged for good ; well, well, let it go, heigh-ho, heigh-ho ! No more on the stage as a target I'll stand ; Henceforth I'll scratch gravel in No Man's Land. Perhaps as a farmer kind nature may find Some chance for the genius which cankers my mind. So farewell to tragedy ; welcome, thrice welcome the plow. Come farm-fruit, come hen-fruit, I'll cabbage you now. But I'd let a wilderness of monkeys all my farm prospects ravage Just to "plug" the propeller of that twenty-pound cabbage, 42 WERNER'S READINGS AUNT SOPHRONIA TABOR AT THE OPERA. Yankee Dialect Comedy Monologue for a Woman. Arranged as monologue expressly for this book by Elise West. Characters Represented: Aunt Sophronia, Speaker, pres- ent; Louisa, her niece, supposed to be present. Costume : Old-fashioned black alpaca or black silk costume, etc. [Enter Aunt Sophronia looking at orchestra as she moves along, and talks then at audience and whole building.] SO this is the uproar? Well, isn't this a monster big building? And that Chanticleer ! It's got a thousand candles, if it has one. I wish that your Uncle Peleg was here. You're sure, Louisa, that this is a perfectly proper place? Somehow, you city folks look upon such things differently than we do who live in the country. Dear suz ! Louisa, do look way up there in the tiptop of the house ! Did you ever see such a sight of people ! Why, excursion trains must have run from all over the State. Massy, child! There's a woman forgot her bonnet! My Eliza Ann cut just such a caper as that one Sunday last summer, — got clean into the meeting house, and half way down the middle aisle, before she discovered it, and the whole congregation a-giggling and a-titter- ing. Your cousin Woodman Harrison shook the whole pew. Just speak to that poor creature, Louisa. She'll feel awfully cut up when she finds it out. Come' bareheaded a-purpose ! Well, I do declare! But, Louisa, where's the horse-chestnut? You said something or other about a horse-chestnut playing a voluntary. Them men with the fiddles and the bass-viols ? I want to know ! Belong to the first families, I suppose. They are an uncommon good-looking set of men. Is Mrs. Patte a furrener ? There goes the curtain. Louisa, oughtn't we to stand up during prayer-time ? Dear suz ! I wish your Uncle Peleg was here. Somehow, it seems kinder un-Christian to be play-acting worship. La sakes, child, what is the matter ? Is the theatre on fire ? It's only the people AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 43 applauding because Patte is on the stage ? Sakes alive ! Is that it? I thought we was all afire, or Wiggins flood had come. So that is Mrs. Patte. Well, I declare for it ! she's as spry as a cricket, and no mistake. Why, she looks scarcely out of her teens. How old is she, Louisa? Over forty? Is it possible? There, they're at it again. What is the matter now? What, that dapper little fellow a-bowing and a-scraping and a-smirking ! Is that Mr. Scalchi ? Madame Scalchi? Louisa, are you sure that this is a perfectly proper place? I only wish Peleg was here, for then I shouldn't feel so sort a-skerry like and .guilty. Listen to that music, listen, Louisa. Hip, hip, hooray! Well, I never! The sweat's just a-rolling off me, and I am as weak as a rag-baby. I wish I had my turkey-tail. This mite of a fan of yours don't give wind enough to cool a mouse. Didn't that sound like an angel choir? I'm so glad I came; and if Peleg was only along! But, there, I hain't going to speak again till the uproar is over. Louisa Allen, what are them half-nude statutes a-standing up in the back there ? Don't they realize that the whole congregation can see them ? and haven't they any modesty ? The bally ? Louisa Sophronia Tabor Allen, just you pick up your regimentals, and follow me ; and that quick, too. You needn't auntie me. Just get your duds together, and we'll travel. Thank goodness your Uncle Peleg Josiah Tabor is not here ! Don't let me see you give as much as a glance to where those graceless nudities are, or, big as you are, I'll box your ears. Louisa, I only wish I had my thick- est veil, for I am positively ashamed to be caught in this un-Chris- tian scrape. Come, and don't raise your eyes. There, thank good- ness, we're in pure air at last ! I have nothing to say agin the uproar. Them voices would grace a celestial choir. This I say with all reverence. But that side show ! I wouldn't have had my Eliza Ann nor my Woodman Harrison a-witnessed what we've come near a-witnessing for a thousand-dollar bill. No, not for- a ten-thousand-dollar bill. And I am so thankful that your Uncle Peleg was not here ! Somehow, Louisa, I feel as if I'd fallen like the blessed Lucifer out of the moon. 44 WERNER'S READINGS BILLY THE HERMIT. Pathetic Yankee Dialect Monologue for a Man. RUTH EDWARDS. Arranged as monologue expressly for this book by Grace B. Faxon. [Suitable for any occasion, but especially suitable for Hunting, or Camp, Bird-Day, Children of Mercy Day, Sunday Schools.] Characters Represented: Billy the Hermit, Speaker, pres- ent; Sonny, a small favorite of the Hermit, and several chil- dren, all supposed to be present. Costumes: Billy the Hermit wears an old-fashioned brown cloth suit, large-rimmed soft felt hat, heavy looking boots. He should be made up as an old and wrinkled man. Stage-Setting : Outdoor scene, — trees, grass, etc. Near stage front R. should stand a part of an old trunk of a tree (about two feet high), and near it lying down the trunk of another tree. Scene : Enter from L. C side entrance and walk slowly across stage, acting as if interested and looking at the small people walking with you. Talk as you cross stage and finish first para- graph of monologue by the time you have reached the tree- trunk. After all are seated, seat yourself, cross your legs, set- tle down with thoughtful attitude and go on with the mono- logue. DID I ever shoot anything? Wal, yes, sonny, I did once. I dunno why I done it — nor never did. But I know this much — I hain't never touched a gun since and don't never want to! Tell you about it? Wal, 'tain't much of a story. Dunno as you 'd be much int'rested in it. But seein' as you asked, I guess I may as well tell you. But fust, all set down on thet are log. Thet's right. Naow I'll set down. Be you all comfortable? You be? Thet's right. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 45 You see it was like this — happened a long time ago when I was a boy. Seems kinder cur'ous sometimes when I think I was ever a little boy, young as you be, sonrty. Dunno as you'd care to hear about my mother, but she somehow comes into the story. Hain't talked about her to any one for years. She warn't never very strong and she used to have to work too hard — cookin' and sewin' and washin, and ironin'. Terrible pretty she was, too ! What was she like? Wal, she was kinder little and slender and her hair was all waves and crinkles and just the color of the inside of a chestnut burr and nigh about as soft and silky ; and her eyes were jest like them little still dark places in the brook where the grass grows right down to the water and every once in a while the sun shines down and makes a sparkle. You know them places — jest the places to catch penny fish, you know. Wal, mother was awful good to me. She used to take me walkin' in the woods Sunday afternoons and tell me 'bout the birds and the flowers and a whole lot of things that she seemed to know more about than anybody did. Dunno how she ever learned it all, but somehow she'd found out. Guess 'twas 'cause she loved all them outdoor things so. "Don't you ever hurt anything, Billy," she used to say to me, "leastwise don't you never hurt anything littler than you be. Ain't nuthin' in the world so bad as bein' cruel. And don't you never think jest because you're a man that God made this world jest so you could have a good time, and that nuthin' ain't got no rights except you. Everything on the face of this earth's got jest as much right to be happy as you have and jest as much right to live." She set more store by the Spring than any other time of year. You ought to have seen her when the first dandelions came out! She was jest like a little girl — making curls out of their stems and stickin' them behind her ears, and holdin' the blossoms under my chin to see if I liked butter. You know them little furry blue flow- ers that come the earliest of anything 'cept chickweed ? — how she jest used to love 'em ! She used to* say that the little Quaker ladies was noddin' and sayin', "How do you do ?" to each other, and that 46 WERNER'S READINGS it had been snowin' violets when the meadows were all purple with 'em. And you know them little maple trees that come up every year and never seem to amount to nothin', jest pokin' their heads through the ground under the big trees — she thought it was right cute the way they kept that old brown seed-wing on their heads for the time bein' before they shook it off and went bare- headed. "The weather ain't quite warm enough yet, Billy," she used to say. "They're afraid of ketchin' cold." And I don't never see them baby fern leaves all curled up and sleepy-lookin' that I don't think how she used to say, "See 'em, Billy, see 'em stretchin' their necks and bendin' backwards to see if there ain't no chance of their gettin' to be as tall as the trees some day ! Better take care you don't get a crick in those backs of yours, little babies," she used to say, strokin' 'em as tender as though they could feel it! And the way she'd stand and listen to them song-birds! jest as still with her hand sorter raised and her lips all a-tremblin' and a-smilin'. "Ain't goin' to be no sweeter sounds than that in heaven, Billy," she'd say to me. I can see them brown eyes of hern with the little sparkle in 'em this minute. Any of you know what a flicker is? 'Bout as han'some a bird as they is, to my thinkin'. Some folks calls 'em golden-winged woodpeckers, and they've got a lot of other names, too; but mother always called 'em flickers — somethin' 'bout the name seems to make me see the way their wings sorter flash and turn all goldie when you see 'em flyin'. They've got mighty strong-lookin' bodies, and long bills, and big, bright eyes, and right on top of their heads is jest the prettiest red batch of feathers you ever see, kinder in the shape of a new moon. Wal, a pair of them flickers made a nest in an old elm tree right by our kitchen door. Mother most went wild over it. She loved to hear them tap-tap-tappin' at the tree trunks, a-borin' and a-borin' and jest makin' the sawdust fly, I can tell you. Wal, we watched 'em every day and they got to be jest like friends and didn't 'pear to be much frightened at anything mother nor me done. Makes me 'shamed now to think how trustin' and unsus- AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 47 pectin' they was. Kinder hate to tell you children how mean I was, but sorter serve me right to let you know, p'rhaps. You see it was like this : 'Twas one of them cold, cloudy days that come along in the Springtime. Kind of a day that jest chills you to the bone more than Winter will, p'rhaps, and the trees jest creak and kinder scold on account of the weather puttin' back their leaves from unfoldin'. Jest the kind of a day when a boy feels all upset and nuthin' seems to go right. 'Bout noontime, when mother was busy gettin' dinner, a man with a gun comes up to the kitchen door and asks if we'll let him stay an' eat with us. Said he hadn't brought no provisions with him and was mighty hungry. He was a good-lookin', city kind of chap, and he took off his hat to mother, polite as you please, as he stood lookin' in at her. "Sure, you're welcome, sir, to anything we've got," mother said. "You'd be more welcome, though, without that gun of yourn. Hope you ain't shot anything to-day." "No, I ain't," said he, kinder sheepish. "Guess I ain't a very good shot." "Oughter be ashamed of yourself to try," said mother, her cheeks all reddenin' up. "Don't s'pose you have to go huntin' to make your livin'. You don't looks though you did:" "No," seys he, "I don't have to do it." "Do it jest for fun, I s'pose?" seys mother. "Wal, yes, sport, you know," seys he. "Sport!" seys mother with the sparkle in them brown eyes of hern flashin' out at him. "Wonder what right you think you got to git sport from takin' what you can't never give again — the life of them poor little birds and squirrels ! Think the Lord made 'em so you could enjoy yourself murderin' of 'em? Must think the Lord sets a powerful lot of store by you, givin' you live things to play with and break jest for the fun of it! I ain't got no pa- tience with such ideas. Them birds and squirrels are my friends and it hurts me worse than anything to have 'em killed jest for sport !" The city chap looked at her kinder wonderin' like, and seys he : 48 WERNER'S READINGS "Wal, if you'll let me have something to eat, I promise you I won't do no more shootin' to-day. Come, is it a bargain ?" Mother was mighty tickled. I could see that she'd got this much out of him, and she flew 'round right lively gettin' dinner for him, I can tell you. He kep' a-gazin' at her as though he liked her looks. Mother was terrible pretty ! Wal, when he went in to dinner he stood his gun up beside the door, and seys he, "Don't you touch it, boy, 'cause it's loaded and you might hurt yourself." Hadn't thought of touchin' it before, but when he said that so high and mighty, I jest made up my mind I would anyway. So when he'd gone in, I up and took his gun and made believe I was aimin' at something jest as I'd seen men do before. Wal, while I was a-aimin', one of those flickers that mother thought such a heap of flew down from that old elm tree and set facin' me on a stump with his big black eyes a-shinin' and the red feathers on his head lookin' mighty pert and cheerful. Dunno why I done it, dunno whether I really meant to do it — might have been an accident, might not — all happened so quick I can't say. But first I knew there was a bang, and then I see that flicker tumble off the stump, and the red feathers on his head warn't half so bright as the -blood that kinder trickled down his breast. Yes, I killed him. I ran and picked him up all warm and bleedin' and flutterin' and the white film comin' over his eyes. Then he gave one little flutter, as though he wanted to git away from me, and then he didn't flutter no more, jest lay still in my hand. Mother came runnin' out and the city chap with her, all scared and tremblin', 'spectin' to see me dead, I s'pose. But when mother saw how 'twas she took that flicker out of my hand and gave me such a look as I never had seen before. She didn't say a word to me, but smoothed his feathers, and kinder cuddled him up against her cheek and kep' a-sayin', "Oh, you poor little birdie." And that city chap stood and looked at her and couldn't say a word. Wal, I ain't never touched a gun since that day, children, and I don't never want to. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 49 A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE. Dramatic and Tragic Monologue in Verse for a Woman. THOMAS F. WILFORD. Written expressly for this book. Character : Wronged Wife, Speaker, present. Directs her conversation to the audience. Scene : Cell interior. I THANK you for your sympathy, But help ! No, there is none for me, For what I've done I feel no sting Of penitence, nor can time bring One pang of sorrow. Penalty ! For what they now may do with me I care but little. He is dead — And that ends all. V/hat made me do the deed ? The old, Old, time-worn story of man's cold And heartless cruelty; of wrongs Heaped on her head, to whom belongs At least respect, if nothing more ; A husband's deviltry, a sore Heart for a patient, sufFring wife; A blasted, hopeless, wretched life; My sweet child's death ; a constant hell On earth for me — for these he fell. I met him — him, my husband, — just Five years ago. My God ! what trust I placed in his fair words, so soft, So sweet, so full of love, that oft I thought more of his trait'rous smile, 50 WERNER'S READINGS That had such magic to beguile, Than Heaven's pure and bless'd decree,— Than e'en th' Eternal Deity. I thought him all that woman's mind Had e'er conceived. But love is blind. The first two years Were full of joy — joy without tears. The skies were bright ; no clouds above ; My life was one of peaceful love. But ah ! the change came sudden, fast ; My summer sun was overcast ; The gloom of death fell on my heart: I saw the light for'er depart; The godlike being that I thought Of all mankind, most perfect wrought Tore off the mask that hid his face, And to my horror, in his place, Revealed a demon blackest-hued, Remorseless, pitiless, imbued With all the wickedness the heart Can hold, or shameless sin impart. I kissed our child with sobs and tears, And murmured still, though full of fears, "He yet will change, he cannot be So cruel, child, to me and thee." Alas ! my hopes were all in vain ; The old days ne'er would come again. The loving words to curses turned; My fond advances all were spurned; The embrace became a stinging blow ; And eyes that once were all aglow With tenderest fire, with hate's fierce blaze Now shone on me with scorching rays. Thus was my every sad day's flight, AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 51 A curse at morn, a blow at night. I soon become for him a thing To tread upon, — a clod to fling From out his path. I took my child, And fled one night, half-maddened, wild, Far from his sight — I cared not where So I again his face might ne'er Behold. But soon once more with words That seemed to me like song of birds He sought me out, and with his eyes Filled with repentant tears, and sighs That spoke of sincere love, implored Forgiveness ; and I — fool ! ignored The past, forgot my woes, and went Back to his home with heart content. Once more his solemn vows were cast Aside as idle words, and worse Than e'en before — a daily curse My life became. I tried to bear My heavy cross ; my fervent prayer Was still for strength from Him above, Who lightens labors with His love. And so my load of cruelty I bore unheeding, patiently. Then came at last the final blow — The worst that love can contemplate And which can turn that love to hate. One night when he had gone from me, I found a letter which he carelessly Had overlooked. The script was small And neat — a woman's hand ! A wall Of fire outstretched before my eyes ; A nameless horror seemed to rise. No, no ! this could not be. He might 52 WERNER'S READINGS Be bad, be dead to sense of right, But false! O heaven! the dreadful thought Surged in my brain. I crushed it, fought It down with frenzied eagerness. The note was open; chilled, nerveless, I drew it from its fold and read. Not long I had to wait in dread ; 'Twas true — all true ! I reel'd and fell. How long I lay I could not tell, But I awoke heartsick and dazed, The letter in my grasp. Half crazed I smoothed it out and read again, Though every word was growing pain : "This night to meet him," so it said. My child from off the floor I clasped, And from the bureau drawer I grasped A loaded pistol that would right My wrong. So out into the night, Into the raging storm I fled, My babe clasped in my arms. No dread Had I of wind or rain that beat Upon me ; I could but repeat, "False ! false ! I'll be revenged !" My soul, Now stirr'd and rous'd beyond control, Was filled with one desire alone. And that was that he, should atone For this — to woman — foulest wrong. So through the night I sped along Until I reached her house, and worn And faint, with clothing rent and torn, I leaned against the casement and My moaning babe with soft command ■ Caressed and soothed. And then I heard A voice within — his voice ! each word AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 53 In sweet and loving tenderness; And accents that my heart should bless Were lavished on her list'ning ears. I listen'd, listen'd, all unseen, Until I thought I should go wild. Then clasping close my trembling child, I with a desperate hand flung wide The casement ; with a bound beside The two I stood. She started — screamed; He turned and saw me, and then seem'd A moment as if turned to stone ; And as his baseness I made known, Poor thing — she, with a long, low cry, Sank to the floor despairingly. Then like a fiend let loose from hell, He toward me leaped with one fierce yell, And grasping quick a heavy chair Cried, "Curse you !" whirled it high in air. I sprang aside in sudden dread ; The blow fell full upon the head Of my sweet child that lifeless dropped Back in my arms. My heart throbs stopped ; A red mist swam before my sight; I could not scream try as I might. I grasped the pistol from my breast, — And then I killed him! God will not judge me hard, I know. He sees my heart and saw my life ; He knew its- bitterness and strife. And when in answer to His call I stand within the heavenly hall, „ . Where justice to the least is done And lowest, and the Blessed One Says, "Why hast thou transgressed my laws?" My babe shall plead its mother's cause. 54 WERNER'S READINGS BETSEY. Comedy Monologue for a Woman. Translated from the French expressly for this book by Lucy Hayes Macqueen. Character : Betsey, the Cook, Speaker present ; her Mistress, a Postman, supposed to be just outside the door or in the hall. Scene : A kitchen. Table R. Door R. Stove L. Pots, pans, crockery, etc. Wood beside the stove. [Enter Betsey with large market basket, wearing a shawl and a hood. She stands in doorway and speaks to some one near door.] WHAT did you say, ma'am ? Late again ? Stayed away too long? Now that's just the way with you! The side- walks are one glare of ice. You can only take little short steps. No, ma'am, you have no right to say I stay out long. Dear knows, I should like to see the girl who is quicker than I am. Yes, other girls, I'm well aware, stand and talk, but that's not my way, heaven forbid ! And do you think anybody would want to stand and talk in such cold as this? I am only too glad to get back to the house. [Comes in, puts down basket, takes off hood, etc.] Well, there she is again out of bed, wrong foot first. I declare I often feel as though a car horse had an easy place compared to a poor maid of all work. [Goes to stove and puts in wood.] Well, the fire hasn't gone out, the water will soon boil. [Takes small looking-glass from table drawer.] Dear, dear; I've got a red nose from the cold and the wind has blown my hair all about my face. [Blozvs on her fingers.] Whew! When I think how that poor policeman has to walk up and down his beat, half frozen — he's on duty two hours in this fearful cold. Yes, yes, AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 55 policemen, car horses, and maids of all work lead a dog's life. [Takes from basket vegetables, meat, eggs, fruit, etc.] But what do I care for policemen ? They are a faithless set ! A decent girl should feel no pity for them even if they had to stay on duty four hours. When I think of Miller, who gave me up for that yellow-haired Matilda — six hours wouldn't hurt Miller. Oh, six hours of such cold — that's too much to wish any one. [Takes up meat.] Gracious, there's another big bone. I never noticed it. The butcher was telling me all about his sister's little boy that tumbled down stairs, and all the time the good-for-noth- ing fellow was putting in that bone ! Well, Mistress will give me another scolding. [Puts meat into pot.] I can hear her now: "You let them put you off with anything ! You take whatever rubbish they choose to give you !" Well, a little more or a little less, it is all the same. I'm sure to get scolded anyhow. [Puts on apron, takes vegetables and begins to clean them.] Bones make good soup, and she must have good soup. Good soup ! Tender meat ! Where does she think they are to come from ? Gracious, how much is expected from one animal! [Bell rings.] There she is ringing again ! I never have a moment's peace. [Opens door.] Yes, ma'am! [Listens.] How much did the butter cost ? Thirty cents. What ? Too dear ? Dear me, ma'am, I only wonder that there is any butter. The poor cows have noth- ing to eat. The butter-woman doesn't know how the cows are going to get through the winter. [Goes back to vegetables.] That's the old story ; we servants always pay too much. The mis- tresses can always buy things cheaper. Well, sometimes that's true. There's Mrs. Smith can bargain. She'll beat a poor man, who looks as if he were starving, down to almost nothing, and haggle over a cent with him. Of course I don't always give peo- ple as much as they ask in the first place, but it's no use to be so stingy. You don't want to skin folks alive ! And Mrs. Peters is another! She has prayer meetings at her house and she's al- ways taking up collections for the poor, but she'll keep Sarah Sempstress waiting a month for the few dollars she owes her. 56 WERNER'S READINGS There, that will do ! Master never eats any fresh vegetables but macaroni, so there'll be plenty left for me. [Organ heard outside.] There is time enough for the pigeon, but I must mix the pudding. [Prepares pudding in a mold.] Dear me, that's the very same polka he played two weeks ago when the policeman in- sisted upon dancing with me, and John wouldn't let him. Now, it's a stupid idea to think that you must dance a whole evening with One person — a little change is always agreeable — and the policeman was a "perfect picture of a man," as mistress would say; but then John is jealous. We poor girls have a hard time of it, sticking in the kitchen all day long. Our lovers needn't be afraid we shall deceive them ; but men, men, they are moving about all day, here, there, and everywhere, and who knows all they do ? They must think we're blind when they tell us they are true to us. To be sure, I can trust John. He is faithful, but car- penters are not so flighty as other trades. I never could put any faith in a tailor ; no, no, carpenters are the best ; there's something so solid and substantial about their work. And then John! Well, he's not so handsome as the policeman, but still he's a fine-looking fellow. That stupid Nora says he has a crooked nose. To be sure, it does turn a little to the left, but what difference does that make ? Suppose his nose is a little bit crooked — we all have crooked noses, and he's got a good pair of eyes to make up for it. Oh, my, when he looks at me and says, "Betsey," I declare I can't say a word. I wonder why I am so afraid of him ? Why, really, the man ought to be the one to obey. My last lover, the gardener, and my first one, the policeman, didn't dare to wink if I said the word ; but I don't know how it is, I can't call my soul my own when John's here. After all, he's a good fellow and he'll never desert me. The others were good talkers, but they only wanted their fun, and so I had to get rid of them. Oh, well, it's not too late for me yet ; to be sure, John is thirty-six — dear me, how short youth is when we think how long we've got to live. Other girls get married at twenty-five, while I — oh, well, it's no disgrace. Now I can be proud of John and he shall have a good home when I am his wife—only he must give up being jealgus. When a girl AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 57 does nothing wrong it makes her sad to have a body jealous, and yet I do like to see him look miserable ! I would never have smiled at the policeman if I hadn't wanted to tease John a little. It really wasn't right, but then, why is he so jealous? {Bell rings.] Well, what is that now? [In doorway.] Yes, ma'am. What, put vermicelli in the soup? I can't. Why not? Because there isn't any in the house. I can go out and buy some? No, that won't do. I can't leave the fire now, for it will go out. I will take rice instead. What? Oh, master will eat it fast enough, or if he don't like it he can just leave it on his plate! [Comes in.] The idea of me going out again in this weather ! What does it matter to master whether it's vermicelli or rice ? Go out in this wind, indeed ! I should like to see myself ! My hair's all blown about my face now. [Takes looking-glass and comb.] Really, if any one should happen in I should look like a fright. John says I have lovely hair, so I must take care of it. [Bell rings.] I should think she had gone crazy to-day! [In doorway.] Yes, ma'am! You want me to come and lace up your dress? I can't leave the kitchen now. What did you say? You know I am combing my hair? Oh, ma'am, how can you think of such a thing? You have always told me that a decent girl would never comb her hair in the kitchen for fear of getting a hair in the food — oh, who would do such a thing? I would be glad to come, but I have just been making the pudding — my hands are all over flour and I would spoil your gown. You'd better call Miss Lucy; she can lace you up. [Comes back and finishes arranging hair. ] How suspicious some people are. Miss Lucy might as well wait on her mother a little. She does nothing all day long but read and play on the piano. I'm called out of the kitchen every min- ute, and then if anything is wrong with the dinner I get scolded for it. [Pokes fire.] I only wish mistress could be in my place for a few days, then she'd see what it is to be ordered about. [Goes to table and takes up account book.] But I must add up my accounts or else I shall forget something: Spinach, fifteen cents; eggs, thirty cents; h'm, day before yesterday eggs were 58 WERNER'S READINGS thirty-two cents; I may just as well call them thirty-two now. No, no, I wouldn't do it ! To be sure, it would be only two cents more; mistress would never notice it and it would be a help to me. Other girls always take a little commission and they laugh at me because I don't do the same. It would serve mistress right, for she never trusts me, and is always suspecting something wrong — but no, no, it's not right and I won't do it. John says, "Ill-gotten gains never prospered any one." He would find me out in a minute if — no, no, — if he knew it and were 'my husband afterward, he would never trust me — no, no, eggs, thirty cents — '■ I must make the thirty very plain ; onions, five cents ; lettuce, ten cents ; pigeons, seventy-five cents ; butter, thirty cents ; this makes in all [counting slowly] — five and five make ten, and five are fif- teen [bell rings] — there's the bell again — and three and one are four — I'm coming! — and seven are nine, no, eleven— gracious, I should think the house was on fire ! [Goes to door.] Yes, ma'am ! Why didn't I come before ? Well, I had to put down what I had in my hand. You want a cup of soup? Then you'll have to wait half an hour; it's not ready yet. What? I ought to have put it on sooner ? Well, how could I when I've only just got back from market? What? Impudent? How am I im- pudent? I was only defending myself! [Comes back.] And now she has slammed the door. She says I can go if I am not satisfied. She says that every day. [Sits down.] Now, I shall have to begin all over again. Five and five are ten, and five are fifteen — oh, dear me, how cross she does make me — and three and one are four — to have to hear that every day — and seven are eleven — it seems as if I couldn't stand it — eleven, eleven — I often have it on the tip of my tongue to say, "Yes, ma'am, I will go," but then she wouldn't give me a recommendation — eleven, eleven — and I couldn't get another place — eleve'n, eleven — ladies all stand by each other so — eleven, eleven — and we poor servants are always in the wrong — eleven, eleven- — how can I add when I'm so put out? and one is twelve — really, if it wasn't for John! and three are fifteen — for he says that in two years he will be able to set up for himself — and one is sixteen — I must put up with it a AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 59 little longer — and one is sixteen — oh, dear, two years more ; how long they will seem — and one is sixteen [mutters] and eight makes — makes — oh, now it's all wrong; I don't know what I'm about. Now I shall have to begin all over. Five and five are ten — hark, didn't I hear the front door bell? [Goes to door.] Miss Lucy went — the postman ! What ? For me? A letter for me ? Five cents extra postage? [Greatly excited.] Now, where is my money ? A letter ! To be sure ! Now, where is — there, there are five cents. Good morning, good morning. [Gomes back with letter. ] Good gracious, a letter — for me — that is too queer. Who can have written to me? John would never spend his money on stamps — no, no, he would look in for a moment after supper. Whoever can have written to me? It is all right — "Miss Betsey Brown" — that's my name. I wonder what is in the letter. I de- clare I'm curious to know — heavens, the policeman never can have — well, I don't know what to think. How silly I am ! I might as well open the letter and then I shall find out what it's all about. There — but what a pretty seal — it seems a pity to spoil it — and yet I must open the letter. I must know who has written to me. Oh, bosh, when other people get letters they don't make such a fuss over them. [Opens letter and reads laboriously.] "To Miss Betsey Brown" — there it is again — "On the twenty- fifth day of the present month Miss Betsey Andrews departed this life, greatly respected by all who knew her, and left you in her will the sum of five hundred dollars, as being her namesake." [Drops letter in surprise.] Good heavens, it never can be true. Old Miss Andrews ! Why, I thought she was dead long ago. No, it's not possible. Where is the letter? [Picks it up and reads address.] "Miss Betsey Brown," yes, that's all right. [Turns letter upside dozvn.] What does it say? The letters dance be- fore my eyes — oh, I see, I've got it upside down [reads] — "left you five hundred dollars as being her namesake." [Bell rings.] Yes, it is really true. [Weeps.] Five hundred dollars. I have five hundred dollars ! Old Miss Andrews ! I had quite forgotten her. It must be twenty years since I saw her. Oh, she was a 60 WERNER'S READINGS good woman; she used to grumble and scold all day long; her lit- tle poodle dog was always barking at me, and then she would say that I must have looked cross at him and she'd give me a scold- ing, good old woman! [Bell rings.] Five hundred dollars! But what am I crying about ? I ought to laugh. [More and more ex- cited and confused.] Why, what was I doing? To be sure, the soup! [Takes spinach and throws it into pot.] Five hundred dollars! The fire doesn't burn bright. [Puts pigeons into iire.] Five hundred dollars ! What will John say ? What was I look- ing for? Oh, yes, I must clean the pigeons. [Looks around.] Where did I put the pigeons? Oh, what will John say? He told me once that if he had five hundred dollars he could set up for himself — where are those pigeons? and I shall be a master car- penter's wife. [Bell rings.] John, oh dear, good John — but he shall make a nice cross for poor Miss Andrews's grave. If I only knew where I put the pigeons ! John ! I must tell him at once ! But, there's the dinner ; no, I can't go now ; I must cook the spinach. Where is the spinach? [Bell rings.] I think the bell rang ! Well, she may bother me as much as she likes to-day, noth- ing can make me angry now. [Bell rings.] Yes, yes. [Goes to door.] Yes, ma'am ! Why don't I answer ? Well, here I am ! What ? Impudent? I didn't say anything, I'm sure. Go about my busi- ness? [Aside.] If I wasn't afraid — but why should I care now? Haven't I got five hundred dollars? Very well, ma'am, I will. What ? Do I mean to leave you ? I can go at once ? Very well, I will go. As soon as dinner is done, I will pack up my things. [Slams the door.] There, ma'am, if you can play a trump, so can I. But the dinner. Where on earth are the pigeons and the spinach ? Oh, I am free — and I must tell John ! I can't wait until evening! [Takes off apron hastily.] I shall be back before the soup is ready. John ! How pleased he will be ! [Runs out, but turns back.] The letter ! I must show it to him ! Oh, where is the letter ? Here it is ! John, John, how happy we shall be ! [Runs off.] AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 61 TOM FAY'S SOLILOQUY. Comedy Romantic Monologue for a Man. FANNY FERN. Arranged as a monologue expressly for this book. Character Represented : Tom Fay, Speaker. Costume : Home costume. Stage Setting: Handsomely furnished room, doors R. and L. Large easy chair C. Scene : Enter Tom Fay, smoking cigar. Takes several puffs as he crosses room and flings himself into chair. Puffs a while in silence, listens, then repeats what he seems to have heard. "Most any female lodger up a stair Occasions thought in him who lodges under." DON'T they, though? Not a deuced thing have I been able to do since that little Gipsy took the room overhead, about a week ago ! Pat — pat — pat, go those little feet over the floor, till I am as nervous as a cat in a china closet. Confounded pretty they are, too, for I caught sight of 'em going upstairs. Then I can hear her little rocking-chair creak, as she sits there sewing, and she keeps singing, "Love not — love not!" Just as if a fellow could help it. [Sits in chair.] Wish she wasn't quite so pretty; it makes me decidedly uncom- fortable. Wonder if she has any great six-footer of a brother, or a cousin with a sledge-hammer fist. Wish I was her washer- woman, or the nigger who brings her breakfast ; wish she'd faint away on the stairs ; wish the house would catch fire to-night ! Here I am, in this great barn of a room, all alone ; chairs and things set up square against the wall ; no little feminine fixin's 'round ; I shall have to buy a second-hand bonnet, or a pair of little gaiter-boots, to cheat myself into the delusion that there's two 62 WERNER'S READINGS of us ! Wish that little Gipsy wasn't as shy as a rabbit. I can't meet her on the stairs if I die for it; I've upset my inkstand a dozen times, hopping up, when I thought I heard her coming. Wonder if she knows, when she sits vegetating there, that Shakespeare, or Sam Slick, or somebody, says, that "happiness is born a twin" ? 'Cause if she doesn't, I'm the missionary that will enlighten her. Wonder if she earns her living, poor little soul ! It's time I had a wife, by Christopher ! Sitting there pricking her pretty little fingers with that murderous needle ! If she were sewing on my dickeys it would be worth while now ! [Jumps up.] That's it — by Jove ! I'll get her to make me some dickeys — don't want 'em any more than Satan wants holy water, but that's neither here nor there. I shall insist upon her taking the measure of my throat — [laugh]. Bachelors have a right to be fussy. There's a pretty kettle of fish, now ; either she'll have to stand on a stool or I shall have to get on my knees to her! [Laugh.] Solomon himself couldn't fix anything better; deuce take me, if I couldn't say the right thing then! This fitting dickeys is a work of time, too. Dickeys aren't to be gotten up in a hurry. [Bell rings.] Hello! there's the door-bell ! [Noise outside of trunk being throzvn from wagon to sidewalk. Tom goes to window, looks out.] There's a great big trunk dumped down in the entry! [Voice outside: "Is Mrs. Legare at home?"] Is — Mrs. — Legare at home? M-r-s. — Legare? I like that, now! Have I been in love a whole week with M-r-s. Legare? Never mind, maybe she's a widow ! [Noise outside of some one walking.] Tramp, tramp, come those masculine feet; [looks out of window] handsome fellow, too! [Opens door R. and listens.] Ne-b-u-c-h-a-d-n-ezzar ! — If I ever heard a kiss in my life, I heard one then ! I won't stand it ! — it's an invasion of my rights. Guess I'll listen again — [same business]. My dear husband! — p-h-e-w ! As I'm a sinner! [Listens again.] What right have sea-captains on shore, I'd like to know? Con- found it all ! Well, I always knew women weren't worth thinking of; [sits in chair C] a set of deceitful little monkeys ; changeable AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 63 as a rainbow, superficial as parrots, as full of tricks as a conjurer, stubborn as mules, vain as peacocks, noisy as magpies, and full of the "old Harry" all the time! There's "Delilah," now; didn't she take the "strength" out of "Samson?" — and wasn't "Sisera" and "Judith" born fiends? And didn't the little minx of a "Herodias" dance "John the Baptist's" head off ? Didn't "Sarah" raise "Cain" with "Abraham," till he oacked "Hagar" off? Then there was — well, the least said about her the better, but didn't "Eve," the fore- mother of the whole concern, have one talk too many with the old serpent? Of course; she didn't do anything else! Glad I never set my young affections on any of 'em ! Where's my cigar-case? How tormented hot this room is! [Business of lighting cigar as curtain falls.] JACK'S SECOND TRIAL. ROY FARRELL GREEN. THE second time that Jack proposed 'Twas really a surprise, Though still I — gossips so supposed — Found favor in his eyes. His first avowal, months before, I'd treated with disdain, And laughed at him the while he swore He'd surely try again. The second time that Jack proposed I never said a word, Though to assent I'd grown disposed — I simply overheard By accident his earnest plea While in the waltz's whirl ; The second time 'twas not to me. But to another girl ! WERNER'S READINGS I AND MY FATHER-IN-LAW. Comedy Monologue for a Woman. HARRIET L. PEMBERTON. Character: The Wife, Speaker, present; Servant, supposed to be within hearing later on. Costume : House dress. Properties : Letter ; call-bell. Scene : Comfortably furnished room. Wife pacing the room. I KNEW it must come to this at last ! Jack and I have had a row, and with all the meanness of a man he has managed to get the last word by bouncing out of the room and banging the door. And all for what, if you please? All for just nothing at all. But that's always the way. Everything is always about nothing. Just because — what do you think — simply because — merely because — I've overdrawn my account for the third time in the last twelve-month ! The first time it occurred he paid up like a man and placed a fresh sum to my credit. The next time he grumbled like a man ; but when I said : "Jack, dear, do it the second time," he did it the second time. And now that it has oc- curred again he has been swearing — like a man ; oh, very like a man ! and when I began : "Jack, darling, do it the third time," he replied he'd be hanged if he would ! It was in vain I argued that I must dress, must give to charities, must have everything I want. He answered that I must cut my coat according to my cloth, and that charity ought to begin at home, and all those ridiculous old platitudes which people always fall back upon when they're angry. And then he bounced out of the room and his last words were : "It's no use my talking. I shall send my father to you and perhaps he'll be able to make you listen to reason." [Flings herself into a chair.'] Oh! I'm the most miserable of women ! I've quarreled with Jack ; I've not got a sixpence ; AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 65 and Sir John is coming to make me listen to reason ! I don't want to listen to reason, I don't want to see Sir John ! I can manage Jack all right by myself, but Sir John terrifies me out of my senses. The first time he came to see us after we were mar- ried, he asked me if I kept a meat-book ; and he hoped I should always be content with a low r rate of interest for my money. I said : "Dear Sir John, I will never condescend to anything low, I like all things high — high game, high steppers, high rate of in- terest." I believe he observed after that he was afraid I was flippant, and he trusted Jack wouldn't find out that he had made a very poor bargain. And this is the man who is coming to make me listen to reason ! Hush! there's the bell! [Listens.] Surely, he can't be coming already. No; I don't think it was the front door-bell after all. It was only the muffin-man. Now, how shall I take Sir John? I think I'll try the pathetic, on my knees- — so [kneels], hands clasped — so [clasps hands]. "Yes, I know ! I know ! call me any- thing you please — foolish, idiotic, mad as a hundred hatters — I'm all that and worse! I've nothing to say for myself; I've nothing to plead as an excuse. But consider my youth, consider my in- experience, consider the atmosphere in which I was brought up ! Why, in my family we were taught to chuck away dollars as if they were pennies ; taught, think of that ! Oh ! instead of gazing at me with that stern countenance, take me and teach me to do better. You could teach me if you would ; and I — I would learn, oh, so willingly !" Here I shall break down utterly, so [collapses o'n floor] . And then he will take me by the two hands — so [ex- tends hands] — and raise me up tenderly — so [rises slowly to her feet] — and kiss me kindly on both cheeks — so [movement as if she zvere being kissed] — and then he will say: "Bless you, my dear child ;" and so the victory will remain with me. Yes ; only I can't quite fancy Sir John blessing me. Hush! there's the bell. [Listens.] It is the front door this time. He's really coming. [Stands zvaiting.] No. He doesn't seem to be coming after all. I wonder who it is. [Looks out of tvindozv.] Only old Lady Alicia leaving her cards! Now, how 66 WERNER'S READINGS shall J take Sir John? [Reflects.] I think I shall try the indig- nant, very upright, so [draws herself up] — head well back, so [throws head back]. "Let me tell you, Sir John, once for all, that I am not accustomed to be addressed in such terms as foolish, idiotic, much less as mad as a hundred hatters; and I must insist — yes, I must insist — on your giving me the explanation I have a right to expect. When i — no, don't interrupt me, please — when I did your son the honor of marrying him, it was on the distinct understanding that I was to do as I liked. In my family we un- derstand the value of money every bit as well as you, only we understand it in a somewhat different way. But if the manner of my upbringing was to be flung in my teeth as a cause of com- plaint, you should have had it put in the settlements. As this was not done, neither my husband nor my father-in-law has any right to call my conduct in question, and that there may be no mistake, I take this opportunity of putting my foot down at once." Here I shall stamp my foot [stamps]. Sir John's breath will be quite taken away, he will spread out his hands in a deprecating kind of way, so [spreads out hands] — and will murmur hurriedly: "My dear lady, I assure you I meant nothing of the kind." And the victory will remain with me. Yes ; only I can't quite fancy Sir John's breath being taken away. Hush! there's the bell. This must be he. [Listens.] He's had plenty of time to get Jack's message. [Stands waiting.] No; he doesn't seem to be coming after all. I suppose it was only the post. Now, how shall I take Sir John? [Reflects.] I think — yes, I know, I'll try the familiar and the pert. Throw myself into a chair, so [throzvs herself into a chair] — look at him archly, so [looks over shoulder]. "You know you don't mean it, really. You were never hard upon a woman in your life, Sir John. I'm sure you never were. Now look here ; it's no use pretending that you're not like the rest of them. You like to see a pretty woman well dressed. Nonsense ! don't talk to me ; of course you do ! A man of your taste and all. Eh? Aha! I've found you out " Here I shall shake my finger at him, so [shakes finger]. "And I'm not a bit afraid of you, you know, not a bit. No ; I never was ; from AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 67 the very first I always thought you and I would understand each other. And I'm sure we do, don't we, perfectly ? Now, give me a kiss and let's make up. That's right. I'm sure you feel better now, don't you?" If I had a fan I should tap him with it here. Then Sir John will chuck me under the chin, so [chucks herself under chin] — and call me "a little puss!" And so the victory will remain with me. [Rises.] Yes ; only I can't quite fancy Sir John chucking me under the chin, or calling me "a little puss." Hush ! there's somebody coming upstairs. It must be he. There can't be any mistake this time. I hear the tramp of feet ! [Stands waiting.] No; it's only the servant. [Turns as if addressing some one at the door.] What is it? A letter? Give it to me. [A letter is handed in to her; continues as if still addressing some- one at door.] What? I can't hear what you say. A gentleman wants to know if I will see him ? Didn't he give his name ? What ? He didn't give his name because he said I would understand? [Aside.] Yes, of course, I understand. Why didn't you say I was not at home ? What ? I hadn't given any orders. Well, say I'm very sorry, but I can't see any one this afternoon. What ? I wish you would speak a little more distinctly. Very particular? Yes, I know he's very particular; that's why I don't want to see him. Say I'm very sorry, but I can't see any one this afternoon. That will do. [To herself again.] I wonder if he'll take offence at such a message. It's rather a dreadful thing to say to one's father-in- law. Falls rather flat, too, after the way in which I meant to re- ceive him. [While talking she opens letter.] Hullo! why, what in the name of fortune is this? [Reads.] "Dear Madam, — We have the honor to inform you that, under the will of the late Mr. Puffin, you are become entitled to fifteen thousand pounds, free of legacy duty, which will be paid into your account, so soon as the necessary formalities have been gone through. One of our firm will wait upon you with this letter to take any instructions you may have to make. We remain, Madam, yours obediently, Brown, Jones & Robinson." Dear old Mr. Puffin ! I lent him a hymn-book once in church. 68 WERNER'S READINGS and he always said he would remember me in his will; but, of course, I never thought he would. Fifteen thousand pounds ! Now, let Sir John come and make me listen to reason ! I shall know how to take him. [Walks round triumphantly, brandishing letter; stops suddenly.] One of the firm would call. Then it was one of the firm who wanted to see me. Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! I hope my message wasn't given correctly. Don't want to see him ; of course I want to see him most particularly. Perhaps he's not gone yet; I'd better go down myself and see. [Exits in a great hurry.] DEPOSED. I'SE a poor 'ittle sowwowful bady, An' B'idget's away down 'tairs ! De kitten have sc'atched my finger, An' my Dolly 'on't say her pwayers ! I'se jus' dot a 'ittle new buzzer — Dod jus' sent him down tozzer day — He kies and he kies so dwedful, I 'iss Dod 'ood take him away ! I ain't seen my bootiful mamma Since ever so Ion' adoe, An' I ain't her own darlin'est bady No londer, 'tause B'idget says so. O, I'se a poor 'ittle sowwowful bady — An' B'idget's away down 'tairs ! De kitten have sc'atched my finger, An' my Dolly 'on't say her pwayers ! AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 69 WHEN DAD ENJOYED HIMSELF. Comedy Monologue for Small Boy. [Boy enters and begins to talk when he gets near stage front."] I WISH I had known my dad when he was a kid, instead of knowing him now when he's growly most of the time. He was the real thing. I know it because I heard dad's mother, that's my grand- mother, whisper to my mother, "Why, John was a regular little devil when he was a boy. He was just full of fun and I can't see for the life of me what makes him so glum all the time now." Ma said she knew it and that the old man was jolly enough when he was courting her. She didn't say "old man" of course, but that's what she meant all right, because I've heard her say lots of times that dad's the only man that ever courted her, and then dad always says that she's the only girl he ever courted. Then ma says : "Well, you're glad you're married ?" as if she kinder didn't think so, and dad always says, "Of course. Are you ?" And ma says, "I guess I am," with a lot of ginger in her voice. Well, when they tell each other that they're glad they're mar- ried anyhow, that's usually the end of the first round. I always know just what dad's going to say next. He says, "What we need is a little real fun," and ma says, "That's so. What shall we do?" Ma's just dying to go to the theatre or the opera, but the old man can't seem to catch on. He blurts right out the first thing when ma says where will they go with saying that they must go somewhere in the country. The next thing dad does is to get out a lot of old maps. Maps is the only thing he's really stuck on. He pretends that he only uses 'em to pick out a place to go to and I s'pose he really thinks that's what he's doing, but tain't so. His fun is just in looking at 'em. Why, dad and ma have traveled millions of miles on those maps, sitting on the couch, but that's the only way they get anywhere. He'll begin by asking ma how she'd like Nova Scotia, for in- 70 WERNER'S READINGS stance. She says 'twould be lovely. Then he's just mean enough to pretend Nova Scotia is her idea and he'll say : "Well, if you are set on going there, I'll get a month's vacation and we'll try it. I guess 'twould do us good." Then dad measures off places in Nova Scotia with a pencil and lays the pencil down on that little line in the corner with little feelers on it that looks like a worm on its back, to see how many miles off one place is from another. If it's less than a hundred miles he says : "Now, it would be very interesting to walk that distance and see the country. How would you like to take a tramping trip ?" And ma says it would be lovely, if her feet didn't trouble her so. That usually makes the old man a little glummer than he was before. Then he starts out something about riding and begins to figure out the fares and the time-tables. Well, when dad gets to figuring ma slips into my room, and yawns. Then she goes back and asks him if he thinks they can afford it. She just does that to keep the fun going, for it starts him right off on another hour's figuring to see how much money he'll earn the next six months and how much he'll spend. But after dad has had the fun of figuring up what he's made last year and dividing that by fifty-two, he multiplies that by twenty-four weeks of the next six months and subtracts a lot of things from that. What's left is' for Nova Scotia, and he gets real hopeful. But the other day dad tried to have real fun. Ma suggested that it might do him good to go to a real funny show without her or me to look after. He said kind of mournful that he was afraid there might be a reaction after a funny show. Ma said "Non- sense !" so dad went to the theatre. I sneaked down the fire-escape with fifty cents out of the ice money to follow him, for I'd risk any kind of a licking to see dad really cut loose and laugh. I had a quarter besides for carfare. First he walked up and down in front of half a dozen theatres. I suppose he was trying to decide which one to go to. I went on the other side of the street behind a lot of cabs and kept my eye AND RECITATlbNS NO. 32. 7* on him. Finally he went in downstairs to a high-priced seat. That's just like dad, and he talks more about saving money, his ma says, than any man she knows. I went up in nigger heaven and got in the front row where I could look over. It took me most ten minutes to pick out the old man. He's getting bald, and the top of his head looks just like the top of any other head a mile away. It seemed like a mile up there, anyway. I kept looking from the folks on the stage to dad and back again, 'cause I wanted to see the show myself and see the old man laugh too. But he didn't move and he didn't clap, and I lost half the show watching him for nothing until pretty soon there was an awful racket and smash behind the scenes and a big dummy in a yellow overcoat shot head first across the back of the stage and landed with an awful thump on the other side. And in about two seconds in walked a little short fat man with a yellow coat on, just like the dummy's, and an automobile cap. He let on that he was the dummy we had just seen and said that he was full of gasoline after the explosion. Well, you'd thought every one in that theatre was going to bust laughing and in a minute after everybody else had got their laugh started I heard a yell down- stairs. There was dad with his head so far back that I could see his eyes and the end of his whiskers going up and down, and he was slapping the arms of his chair with both hands. Then I yelled and everybody downstairs was looking at dad and everybody upstairs was looking at me. You couldn't stop the old man after that. He let out enough laugh for a whole year, and I'd have swiped another fifty cents just to have had ma with me there to see him. After the show he forgot all about going to cheap restaurants to save money for Nova Scotia, but braced right into a swell place. I was hungry, too, so I sneaked into the same place so I could keep an eye on dad. First he had something yellowish to drink with a round red thing in it. I think he grinned again, after he put that down, but I ain't sure. Then he had some raw clams and pretty soon a great 72 WERNER'S READINGS big platter of something with a silver cover on top and a silver pail with some ice and a bottle in it. He looked pleasant enough to have his picture taken. I slipped out and waited across the street for dad. It seemed like an hour before he came out. He took the first car that came along and we got on the same ferry-boat. Then the funniest thing happened you ever heard of. There weren't any wagons on that boat and nobody in the middle part for horses. I'll be hanged if dad didn't go in there all alone and begin saying over some of the funny things they had said at the show. Then he whistled some rag-time and kept kicking up and dancing back and forth across the boat like they did in the show. I thought I would bust then, but the best of all was when dad took a run and fell down head first on purpose just like a fellow sliding for a base. He was practising doing what the dummy in the yellow coat did. Then the boat bumped into the slip and dad went right past me. I heard him kinder talking to himself and saying he guessed he could be funny and cheerful 'round the house if he tried. I heard dad and ma talking in their room that night, but couldn't hear what they said, only I heard 'em both laugh, and was tickled to death. But dad's whole plan was ruined in the morning. Ma and me got to the table first, as usual, and waited for dad. We heard him whistling in the other room, trying to work up gradual, I suppose, to being real lively. Ma looked pleased as pie. In a minute dad came through the hall and just as he reached the dining-room he gave a yell and fell flat. It was the dummy trick, and I roared. Ma gave me a cuff and kneeled right down on the floor side of dad and said : "Oh, John, are you hurt?" She couldn't have said a worse thing. Her game was to laugh when dad tried so hard as that to be funny, but he hadn't tipped her off, because he wanted to surprise her. So, when she asked if he was hurt, he just said- "No," solemn as an owl and went to the table. It was the glummest breakfast we ever had. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 73 LAUGHING AND CRYING. Comedy Monologue for Man or Woman. G. A. LANDRUM. Arranged as monologue and business given expressly for this book by Howell L. Finer. LAUGHING. [Enter stage laughing heartily and address conversation en- tirely to audience. ] I WOULD be willing to choose my friend by the quality of his laugh. [Give a glad, gushing laugh.] A clear, ringing note of soul [give it] as surely indicates a genial and genuine nature as the rainbow in the dewdrop heralds the beautiful day. A laugh is one of God's truths. [Laugh heartily.] It tolerates no disguises. [Laugh very cordially.] A falsehood may train the voice to flow in softest cadences [laugh characteristically], the face to wreathe into smiles of surpassing sweetness [give broad smile], to put on the look we trust in, but the mockery becomes apparent to the careful observer. Who has not started and .shuddered at the hollow "He ! he ! he !" of some velvet-voiced Mephistopheles ? Leave nature alone. [Laugh very heartily, giving some variations from preceding laughs.] If she is noble, her broadest expression will soon tone itself down to fine accordance with life's real earnestness. If she is base, no silken interweaving can keep out of sight her ugly head of discord. Laugh if you want to live well. [Laugh heartily.] He only exists who drags his days after him like a massive chain, asking sympathy with uplifted brows as the beggar asks alms. Better die for your own sake and for the world's sake than to pervert the uses and graces and dignities of life. There is no need to lay our girlhood and boyhood down so doggedly upon the altar of sacrifice as we toil up life's mountain side. Gray hairs should no 74 WERNER'S READINGS longer be the insignia of age, but the crown of ripe and perennial youth. Laugh for your health. [Do so very heartily.] Laugh for your beauty. [Do so comically.] The joyous carry a fountain of light in their eyes and around in their dimples where the echoes of gladness play "hide-and-seek." But your lean and hungry Cassius is never betrayed into a laugh. If we put a laugh into a strait-jacket [laugh hollowly], we kill the soul of joy. If we attempt to refine, we destroy its pure, mellifluent ring. If we sup- press a laugh [illustrate], it mocks the effort that puts it forth. "Laugh, and the world laughs with you ; weep, and you weep alone." Laugh and be judged by it. [Laugh heartily.] Laugh and set the echoes ringing all about you. [Laugh more heartily.] Laugh and grow fat. [Laugh heartily as you leave stage.] CRYING. [Enter stage crying bitterly and then address audience.] I would be willing to choose my girl by the quality of her cry [a sad, zveeping countenance]. A quiet sob from the heart [il- lustrate] as surely indicates the tender and sympathetic nature as anything a girl ever did or is likely to do. A cry is one of God's truths. [Cry bitterly.] It tolerates no disguises. [Cry in great agony.] Leave nature alone. [Cry wildly.] Cry if you want to "hold your own." [Cry lustily.] He only strives against nature who giggles. Cry with all your heart. [Cry bitterly,] I don't blame the babies for crying. It's the first privilege of existence. Cry for your beauty. [Beauty's cry should be full of grimaces.] 'Cry when you have the toothache. [Cry as in pain.] NOTE. After giving the monologue "Laughing," wait a moment and then give the monologue "Crying," as an encore. The two monologues may also be successfully given at one time by two different persons who appear simultaneously on stage, one laughing heartily, the other crying bitterly. The Laugher recites his first sentence with full business; then the Crier recites his first sentence with full business, they alternating in this way until the end. AND RECITATIOXS NO. 32. 75 A FLORENTINE JULIET. Romantic, Pathetic, Italian Monologue in Verse for a Woman. SUSAN COOLIDGE. Characters Represented : Florentine Mother, Speaker, present; Renzo, her son, supposed to be present. Costume : That of a matron of the 12th to 14th Century — a house costume. Stage-Setting: Boudoir interior of the 12th to 14th century. Scene : At rise of curtain Mother is seated near a table looking down at Son who is supposed to be seated near her. WHAT is it, my Renzo? What is thy desire? To hear my story — hear the whole of it? Ah, boy, with eyes still full of childish dreams, And yet with manhood on the firm young lip, 'Tis a hard thing to ask me, and a strange. Yet must I do this hard thing for thy sake, Since who shall do it for thee, if not I ? Thy father, who had else more fitly told, Is at the wars, the weary, wasting wars. Long years ago he sailed unto the wars, And dead or living, comes not back to us. Thou bearest an honorable name, my son, Two mighty houses meet and blend in thee : For I, thy mother, of the warlike line Of Bardi, lords of Florence in past time, Was daughter, and thy sire Ippolito Sprang from the Buondelmonti, their sworn foes : For we were Guelph and they were Ghibelline, 76 WERNER'S READINGS And centuries of wrong, and seas of blood, And old traditional hatreds sundered us. Even in my babyhood I heard the name Of Buondelmonti uttered 'twixt set teeth And coupled with a curse, and I would pant And knit my brows and clench my tiny fist And whimper at the very sound of it : Whereat my father, stout Amerigo, Would catch me up and toss me overhead, And say I was best Bardi of them all : And if his sons but matched his only maid They'd make quick work of the black Ghibellines And of Buondelmonti. So I grew To woman's stature, and men called me fair, And suitors, like a flight of bees, began To hum and cluster wheresoe'er I moved. And then there came the day — that fateful day, When little Ghan, my father's latest born, Was carried for chrism to the baptistry. And standing, all unaware, beside the font, I looked across the dim and crowded church And saw a face, a dazzling, youthful face, A face that smote my vision like a star : With golden locks, and eyes divinely bright Like San Michele in the picture there, Fixed upon mine. Had any whispered then It was Ippolito, our foeman's son, At whom I gazed, I should have turned away. My father's daughter sure had turned away. But nothing warned me, nothing hindered him, We looked upon each other — Fate so willed — And with our eyes our hearts met. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 77 And still that tender, radiant gaze wooed mine, And still I felt the enchantment burn and burn, But would not turn my head or look again: And all that night I lay and felt those eyes, And day by day they seemed to follow me, Like unknown planets of some strange new heaven Whose depths I dared not question or explore; And love and hate so strove for mastery, Within my girl's heart made their battle-field, That all my forces failed and life grew faint. He for his part set forth with heart afire, To learn my name — sad knowledge, easy gained, Leaving the learner stricken with a chill. And after that wherever I might go — To ball or feast, I saw him, only him ! And while the other cavaliers pressed round To praise my face or dress or hold my fan, Or bid me to the dance, he stood aloof With passionate eyes, but never might draw near For still my brother Piero or my sire Was close behind, with dark-set brows intent To watch him that he did not dare to speak. At last, with baffling of his heart-sick hope And long suspense and sorrow he fell ill : And in a moment when life's tide ran low He told his mother all : she, loving him well And loth to see him perish thus forlorn, Became his ally, spoke him words of cheer, And with my cousin Contessa, her sworn friend, She counsel took : and so, betwixt the two, It came about that on a day of spring We met : a meeting cunningly contrived. In an old villa past the walls. My mother had led me thither, knowing naught, ;8 WERNER'S READINGS And I, naught knowing, had wandered for a space Among the boskage and the fragrant vines; I heard the soft throb of a mandolin, And next a voice, divinely sweet it seemed, A voice unheard till then, and yet I knew The voice for his. The music ceased, the while spell-bound I stayed, Then came a rustle, he was at my feet! Few moments might we stay, and few words speak . But love is swift of tongue, all was arranged, The plan of our escape, the hour, the place, And that Ippolito, next night but two, With a rope ladder hidden 'neath his cloak, Should stand beneath my window. Once on grouiad A priest should wait to bind us quickly one. Then a mad gallop, ere the dawn of day, Would set us safely forth beyond the rule Of the Black Lily. With his vanishing The thing grew like a dream, and as in a dream I seemed to walk the next day and the next; For all my thoughts were of that coming night, And all my fear was lest it should not come. And all the oldTtime animosities, And all the hates bred in me from a child, And feudal faith and loyalties were dead; I was no more a Bardi ; Love ruled all. It came, the night, and on the stroke of twelve I stood at the casement, wrapped in veil, with mask And muffling cloak laid ready close beside ; And there I stood and watched and heard the bells Strike one, two, three, and saw the rose of dawn AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 79 Deepen to day, and still my love came not. Then fearing to be spied, I crept to bed, And lying in a weary trance, half sleep, Heard shouts and cries and noise of joyful stir Run through the palace, and quick echoing feet, And little Cosmo thundering at my door. ''Wake, Dianora, here is glorious news, Ippolito, our foeman's only son, Is caught red-handed on some midnight raid, Taken with a rope-ladder 'neath his cloak, Bound for some theft or felony, no doubt : And, as he offers neither excuse nor plea, He is to suffer at the hour of noon, In spite of his fond father's threats and cries. All that the criminal asks by way of boon Is he may pass our palace as he goes Unto the scaffold. A queer fancy that, But all the better sport it makes for us, And we need neither pity nor deny ; So rise, sweet sister, don your bravest gear, For all the household on the balcony Will be to jeer the fellow as he wends." My boy, look not so startled, those were bitter days. What was I saying? So I rose that day A traitor unsuspected 'mid his foes, Who were my friends, hiding 'neath feigned smiles A purpose desperate as was my hope. I rose and let them deck me as they would, Put on my jewels, star my hair with pearls, And all the while a voice like funeral dirge Sang in my half-crazed ears or seemed to sing The fragment and the cadence of a song, "Ah death, the end of grief, what do I care?" Then took my station on the balcony, In the mid place, the very front of all, 80 WERNER'S READINGS To see the hated foeman of our race Led past the palace on his way to die! Long time we waited, till the fear began To stir that some mischance had marred the plan, And still I sat and smiled, and while the bells Tolled, and they talked and buzzed, I only prayed, "O pitying Virgin, only grant he come!" They came at last, the Bargello and his troop, And in the midst my love with hands fast tied And golden locks uncurled and face all wan, But still with gallant, bearing, and his eyes Fixed upon mine — me, for whose sake he died, For whose sweet honor's sake he silent died. There was a little halt and then a cry Of fierce joy rang from out our balcony. Now was my time : all sudden sprang I up, And while the astonished crowd kept silence deep, And they, my kin, amazed, sat silent, too, I loudly told our tale, our woful tale, And made avowal that 'twas for my sake Ippolito his noble silence kept! Then, while my brother strove to stop my mouth And fierce hands clutched my gown and seized my arms, I clung and pleaded : "Find the holy friar, Good people, only send to find the friar — Find him' for pity's sake ; he will confirm All I have said and prove my truth, and his, ■ And save my dear love, slain for love of me." Then a great cry arose ; some this way ran, Some that, and suddenly, amid the press A cowl was seen, and Fra Domenico, Breathless with haste, just conscious of our need, Ran in the midst, and then, I know not what, For all was tumult ; but my love stood free, Free and unbound, and all the populace AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. Shouted our two-fold names, "Ippolito And Dianora," and the bells broke out, And with the bells the sun and all the air Seemed full of interlaced and tangled sounds. Cries and glad pealings and our blended names On one side ; on the other stormy words, Reproach and curses. Then the Podesta And many great lords came, and all passed in, And up the stairs and filled the palace full, And high and low joined in an equal plea That the long feud be stanched, and as a pledge Of lasting peace we two be wedded straight. But still my father frowned and closed his ears, And still my brothers fumbled at their swords : But when Count Buondelmonti, aged and gray, And shattered with the horror just escaped, Suspense and heavy sickness, hurried in And kissed my hands and knelt before my feet And blessed me, the savior of his son, While with redoubled zeal the Podesta Urged, and the noble lords — Heaven touched their hearts They gave consent, and so the feud was healed, And the next day my love and I were wed. And twenty glad years came and fleetly sped. Ah me ! and then he sailed unto the wars, And all the years that have gone by since then Are as sad night-shades steeped in deadly dews. Death has been busy with us, as thou knowest. Thou art the youngest of my six fair sons, Thou art the only one to close my eyes. If I shall wake in Paradise one day And find him safe, safely still my own, And see his eyes with the old steadfast look", Why that will be enough, that will be Heaven"! %2 WERNER'S READINGS PRESSED FOR TIME. Comedy Monologue for a Man. CHARLES DE SIVRY. Translated expressly for this book by Lucy Hayes Macqueen. Character : The Man Pressed for Time. Costume : Society Frenchman. Scene : Room of a Society Man. Couches, chairs, table, etc. One man supposed to be seated near table. Society Man stands near him. M Y dear friend, I beg - a thousand pardons, but I must leave you at once — I am very busy — exceedingly pressed for time. [Makes for the door, but just at the door returns again to hit friend. ] By the way, did I tell you something? No? Well, it's all the general's fault. He was telling me about that everlasting old campaign of his and I was pretending to listen — not heeding one word, you know, — he was going on : "I massed my men with a sharp turn, scattered the men of the 28th, everything was going beautifully" — just then my fiancee came toward us, and as I leaned forward to make a pretty little speech to her, all the time pretend- ing to be engrossed with the general, something twitched my cup of chocolate out of my hand and all over the pale blue chiffon gown of my cousin. I rushed from the room covered with shame, the ridicule of all the people in the room, — and chocolate. So, that is why my engagement is broken off — such an excellent match, too. I am going to try to make up the misunderstanding to-day. The ladies go every afternoon between two and three to that well- known little confectioner's shop on the Boulevard, to nibble maca* AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 83 roons and discuss — their neighbors ; and I am going to meet them there to-day and try to get in her good graces again. [Consults his watch-] It is now just ten minutes of three. I have not much time to lose. Well, I'll say good-bye. Pardon me for being in such a hurry, but you understand. [He makes another attempt to leave, but returns just as he reaches the door.] By the way, did I tell you that the general is a very useful friend to keep in with ? If I get the embassy I am seeking, it will be through his recommendation ; onh for that I would not waste my time listening to his old campaign yarns. Time is too pre- cious. Besides [laughing], you know about that famous "sharp turn" he is always talking about? Well, it is a matter of history that he was beaten all to pieces by the enemy — done up like hot cakes — oh, that reminds me — speaking of cakes — of the ladies and the confectioner's shop. [Consults watch.] Heavens ! I must be going. It is five minutes after three. [Makes another attempt to leave, but returns as before.] Oh, apropos of nothing in particular, have you heard the sad news? Gaeton, my best friend, and yours, too, I believe, — well, his life is despaired of. He is terribly low, poor fellow. It came about from a quarrel. He has broken with the little countess — all for nothing — a mere trifle. They had a true love-affair this time. It has lasted three months now. He is ill, in bed, — fever and the blues — pulse, 450 beats per minute. [Consults his watch.] Too bad ! It is a quarter after three ! I have missed the ladies. Well, never mind, I'll see them at the opera this evening — "Aux Italiens" — they never miss it. And now I'll just run over and see the minister of foreign affairs about my embassy. I'll just be in time, for the general leaves every day at half-past three ; but I must hurry, so good-bye. ♦ [Rushes to a window and hails an imaginary cab.] 84 WERNER'S READINGS Coachman ! Coachman ! Oh, it is taken. Well, never mind. I'll walk fast. Good-bye, again. [Makes another attempt to leave, but returns again.] Poor Gaeton, who is ill with the fever, I promised him that I would stop at the countess's and tell her what a state he is in — his despair, his sorrow, his penitence. I think she will listen to me — she must listen to me. I will speak eloquently, like this : [Addressing an imaginary cotmtess:] "Madam, if you only saw him this morning - as I saw him, you would be all pity for his miserable state. Madam, it is his life that I beg from you — his life ! He said to me : 'If you are not back here at four o'clock precisely with good news from the countess, then I shall know that she wants no more to do with me, and I shall immediately, precisely at five minutes past four, blotv out my brains.' And you know that he will keep his word." [Addressing the imaginary friend.] He really will, too. He's a hot-headed fellow. He is such a serious fellow, too, withal, he could have made his fortune as a lyric poet ! I shall carry his pardon to him in a paper — a little violet scented note. [Running to the window and frantically hailing another cab.] Coachman ! Coachman ! Why is it that every cab in Paris is engaged this afternoon? [Consulting watch.] It's no use. The general is gone now. It is half-past three ! Where can I find him ? What an unfortunate day it has been for me! He was waiting for me, too, and he will be furious at my disappointing him. He has left in a rage, by this time. Heavens ! I wish I knew where I could find him! And it is all your fault! You detain me here talking and gossiping when you know I have important business to attend to. Oh, I do not blame you. When people are talking time flies so quickly one does not notice. But I must run now. I shall go to the countess's house— the little countess — for I must save my friend's life. He distinctly told me that if I am not back with him at four o'clock, he will blow out AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 85 his brains at five minutes after four. He will do it, too. Oh, the women ! Good evening". [Makes another attempt to leave, but returns again.] [Quickly.] I will go now to the countess's house and will tell her in two words what I have told you. Then, I'll whisper in her ear to make my excuses to the general, her husband, and I'll ask her to try to get him to sign the papers for me. So you see, I'll kill two birds with one stone. After- ward, I'll run to poor Gaeton with the good news — for I shall carry nothing but good news. As a diplomat, you can depend upon me. And they say that the world thinks that society men have all their time unoccupied! What injustice! They think we are lazy. Well, now, at last, everything will come around all right ! This evening at "Aux Italiens" I shall have patched up my engage- ment, received pardon from the general, and saved the life of my best friend. [Consults watch.] Great Heavens ! It is five minutes after four o'clock ! He is dead ! BETTY BOTTER'S BATTER. BETTY BOTTER bought some butter, "But," she said, "this butter's bitter. If I put it in my batter, It will make the batter bitter, But a bit of better butter Will make my batter better." So she bought a bit of butter Better than the bitter butter And made her bitter batter better. So 'twas better Betty Botter Bought a bit of better butter. 86 WERNER'S READINGS TAKEN BY SURPRISE. Comedy and Dramatic Monologue for a Woman. METTA VICTORIA VICTOR. Arranged &s monologue and directions given expressly for this book. Characters : Miss Gumbtdge, Boarding-House Mistress, Speaker present; Dora, and several Gentlemen supposed to be present. Costume : Gray wig, red flannel nightcap, red flannel night- gown, old dark petticoat showing beneath nightgown, teeth all out (may be made to look so by blacking each tooth with shoe- maker's wax). Skin made-up to look wrinkled and old. Scene: Hall-way (L. side of stage). Room where fire is sup- posed to be is at R. of stage. Miss Gumbidge stands facing en- trance to the room. She jumps about a good deal and calls at top of lungs.] SCENE I. DORA ! Dora ! Dora ! wake up, wake up, I say ! Don't you smell something burning ? Wake up, child ! Don't you smell fire ? Goodness, so do I ! I thought I wasn't mistaken. The room's full of smoke. Oh, dear ! what shall we do ? Don't stop to put on your petticoat. We'll all be burned to death. Fire ! fire ! fire ! [ Turns quickly and looks toward stage front where Mr. Little is supposed to be standing.] Yes, there is ! I don't know where ! It's all over, — our room's all ablaze, and Dora won't come out till she gets her dress on. Mr. Little, you shan't go in — I'll hold you — you'll be killed just to save that chit of a girl, when I — I — He's gone — rushed right into the flames ! [Seems exhausted after her effort to hold Mr. Little from going into her room.] AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 87 Oh, my house, my furniture, all my earnings ! Can't anything be done ? Fire ! fire ! fire ! [Another boarder seems to have entered and stands just where Mr. Little stood.] Call the fire-engines ! Ring the dinner-bell ! Be quiet ? How can I be quiet? Yes, it's all in flames; I saw them myself! Where's my silver spoons? Oh, where's my teeth, and my silver soup-ladle ? Let me be ! I'm going out into the street before it's too late ! [Miss Gumbidge suddenly makes for stage front as if about to leave, then acts as if stopped by some one.\ Oh, Mr. Grayson, have you got water? Have you found the place? Are they bringing water? [Drops into chair near stage front C] Did you say the fire was out? Was that you that spoke, Mr. Little ? I thought you were burned up, sure. And there's Dora, too. How did they get out? My clothes-closet was on fire, and the room, too ! We would have been smothered in five minutes more if we hadn't waked up ! But it's all out now, and no damage done but my dresses destroyed and the carpet spoiled. Thank the Lord, if that's the worst ! But it ain't the worst ! Dora, come along this minute to my room. Don't you see — don't vou see I'm in my night-clothes? I never thought of it before. I'm ruined, — ruined completely ! Gentlemen, get out of the way as quickly as you can. [Rushes wildly into her room dragging Dora with her.] Dora, shut the door. [Miss Gumbidge rushes to dresser at stage R. and gazes at herself.] Hand me that candle — I want to look at myself in the glass. To think that all those gentlemen should have seen me in this fix! I'd rather have perished in the flames. It's the very first night I've worn these flannel nightcaps, and to be seen in 'em. Good gracious, how old I do look ! Not a spear of hair on my head, scarcely, and this red nightgown and old petticoat on, and my teeth in the tumbler and the paint all washed off my face, and 88 WERNER'S READINGS scared besides ! It's no use ! I never, never again can make any of those men believe that I'm only twenty-five ; and I felt so sure of some of them. They say that new boarder is a drawing-master. I know he'll caricature me for the amusement of the. young men. Only think how my portrait would look taken to-night ! and he'll have it, I'm sure, for I noticed him looking at me, — the first thing that reminded me of my situation after the fire was put out. Well, there's but one thing to be done, and that's to put a bold face on it. I'll pretend to something — I don't know just what — to get myself out of this scrape, if I can. [Exit from room and stage.] SCENE II. Stage-Setting : Dining-room with table down stage C, chairs about table. [Enter Miss - Gumbidge gotten tip in latest morning gown. She bows right and left as she approaches table, seats herself very carefully at head of table and then beams on each boarder in turn while she sees them properly served.] Good morning, gentlemen, good morning! We had quite a fright last night, didn't we ? Dora and I came pretty near paying dear for a little frolic. You see, we were dressing up in character to amuse ourselves, and I was all fixed up to represent an old woman, and had put on a gray wig and an old flannel gown that I'd found, and we'd set up pretty late, having some fun all to our- selves ; and I expect Dora must have been pretty sleepy, when she was putting some of the things away, and set fire to a dress in the closet, without noticing it. I've lost my whole wardrobe, nigh about, by her carelessness ; but it's such a mercy we weren't burned in our bed that I don't care to complain so much on that account. Isn't it curious how I got caught dressed up like my grandmother ? We didn't suppose we were going to appear before so large an audience when we planned out our little frolic. Don't you think I'd personify a pretty good old woman, gentlemen — ha! ha! — for a lady of my age? What's that, Mr. Little? You AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 89 wish I'd make you a present of that nightcap, to remember me by ? Of course; I've no further use for it. It's one of Bridget's that I borrowed for the occasion, and I've got to give it back to her. Have some coffee, Mr. Grayson — do ! I've got cream for it this morning. Mr. Smith, help yourself to some of the beefsteak. It's a very cold morning — fine weather out-of-doors. Eat all you can, all of you. Have you any profiles to take yet, Mr. Gamboge? I Way make up my mind to set for mine before you leave us ; I've always thought I should have it taken some time. In character? He ! he ! Mr. Little, you're so funny ! But you'll excuse me this morning, as I had such a fright last night. I must go and take up that wet carpet. [Miss Gumbidge gets up, smiles and boivs to all at table and exits. ] READY FOR A KISS. M AMMA, I'se been washin'- Don't you see I has? Curled my hair my own se'f Sweetest ever was ! Nozzer time I was not Half so nice as this — See, I'se fixed up, mamma, Ready for a kiss ! Johnny's having trouble — Dreffle trouble, too — Bird-eggs in his pocket, Keeps a-comin' f roo ! I ain't a dirt baby — Does you think I is? I'se your little Taddie, Ready for a kiss ! 90 WERNER'S READINGS THE LITTLE FRIEND IN THE MIRROR. Comedy Monologue for Very Young Girl. ANNA M. PHILLY. Written expressly for this book. Characters Represented: Small Girl, Speaker, present; her friend and playmate, Mary, her Big Sister, Tom and Bob, all supposed to be present sometime during the monologue. Costume: Small Girl wears Big Sister's silk skirt and car- ries her best fan. Stage-Setting : Dressing-room interior. Large mirror so placed that audience can get profile view of Small Girl and of her reflection in mirror as she sits before mirror making-up with powder, etc. Near large mirror is table on which is placed doll, powder box, bow of ribbon, etc. About the room are chairs, couch, etc. Scene at Rise of Curtain : Small Girl standing near couch on which sits Mary. Small Girl. NOW, Mary, the boys are gone, and you and I will have a good time with our dollies. . I don't see what makes boys so mean, do you ? They had rather tease than eat. Whenever they see me talking to you they call out, "Oh, how do you do, Mary?" in such a silly way. I get so provoked at them. [Listening.] I wonder what that noise was? Excuse me just a moment, and I'll go see. [Runs to imaginary door and looks out.] No, Mary, it was a false alarm; they are playing ball be- hind the barn, so we are safe. [Admiring doll's dress.] Oh, thank you! I'm so glad you like it. My grandma made it. Oh, it's just dimity. Yes, I think she looks sweet in it. How is your baby this morning? What? You don't say! What's the matter? I'll bet it's amonia on the lungs! That's what Mrs. Paul's little boy had, and he died ; wasn't sick but two days ! You'd better be careful with her. I'm just in fear AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. yi and trembling (as mamma says), I'm so afraid Marabel will get amonia or brownkitties, or something contiduous. Humph ! What does "contiduous" mean ? Why, it means — let me see, what does it mean ? Oh, yes, I know ; it means something catching, like diphtheria ! Oh, that makes me think, did you know my Uncle Herbert's children had the diphtheria? Oh, yes, they're all well now; but when they were so awful sick that old German woman who lives next door — what is her name? Yes, that's it — Mrs. Blitzenhoffer. Well, when she saw the card out she came over and tapped on the window and said, "Och, Mrs. Schmidt, I vas so sorey your chillerns got the dip-te-ra-ri-a — Och, dat was too bad !" Wasn't that funny ? And — Oh ! you mean, hateful boys ! if you don't go away and stop teasing me I'll tell mamma. I didn't say my doll had dip-te- ra-ri-a, or any such thing! I just said [Calling up stairs.] Mamma ! make Tom and Bob go off and stop teasing me. I'm not a tell-tale either ! Oh, what does make boys so mean ? I wouldn't be a boy for the world ! Oh, where is that pretty bow of ribbon ? I'm going to put it in my hair. Oh, here it is. Yphm ! I think my hair looks pretty this way. Now, isn't that sweet ? This dress ? Oh, it's sister Amy's. [Parades up and down in front of mirror, admiring her gown.] She has just loads of 'em. You know she plays and sings for con- certs so much and has so many beaux, so she has to have lots of different kinds. Humph? Oh, I don't know what the goods is, but it's pretty, don't you think? And I like it.i Now, let's put a little powder on our faces. Oh, don't you long to be a young lady? Yes, this is sister's fan, too. Oh, one of her beaux gave it to her — Tom Stewart, I think. Bah ! no, she don't care a thing for him. He has such red hair, and such lots of freckles. But he's awful good, mamma says, and has lots of money, and he's awful nice to little sister. He always brings me marshmallows — a whole lot, fresh ones, too ; he don't try to poke off a lotjof cheap stuff on me like some of the other old stingies do. There! I thought I heard something. I'll bet those boys are sneaking round again. [Goes to door and looks out.] Oh, it's 92 WERNER'S READINGS my sister! What? Well, how did I know it was your newest skirt? Well, I just thought it was pretty, and I'm not hurting it one bit. Well, take your old skirt and fan. [Kicks skirt off and tosses fan.] I don't want 'em, anyway! Maybe you'd like me to give you the powder I put on my face [sarcastically]. I'm not vain, either ! Well, you can tell mamma, if you want to. She said I could play up here. There ! she's gone — Mary. Big sisters are almost as mean as boys. When / get to be a big sister I'm going to be just as good to all the little girls, and let them play with anything I've got! Didn't sister look hateful and cross when she went out? My! how she slammed the door ! But you ought to have seen her last night when Fred Martin called. He's the one she likes best. She had that skirt on that I just kicked off. And she carried her fan and she winked and she smiled, and whenever she didn't under- stand what he said to her she would say, "Beg pahdon?" Just like our new teacher talks — the one from Boston. My ! but she puts it on ! Just you wait. The next time he comes 'round I'll let him know she's got a temper. Say, Mary, I wonder who left their flowers here. Daisies are my favorites. Let's tell our fortunes. Name it, Mary. Are you ^ ' "One I love, two I love, Three I love, I say. Four I love with all my heart, And five I cast away. Six, he loves, seven she loves, Eight they both love, Nine he comes, ten he tarries." Who is it ? Pooh ! I don't care for him, anyway ; he's [Listens.] Now, Tom, if you don't let me alone I'll — I wasn't, either, talking about Teddy St. Clair. I was just practicing my new recitation and getting ready for school. There goes the bell now ! Dear me ! And I'm not ready at all. My ! but I'll haft to hustle. [Gathers up doll and other things as she hastily leaves platform.] AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 93 DAWSON'S WOMAN. Dramatic Pathetic Western Dialect Monologue in Verse for a Man. W. MILLER. Character : Westerner, Speaker, present. Costume: Western farmer. Scene : Westerner enters, moves along as if listening to some- one, nods his head and then speaks. WANT to hear about Jim Dawson ? he's a little tetched, you know ; Somethin' ails his upper story — kinder cracked — he's harmless, though. How it sends the chilly shivers up an' down my spinal bone, Freezes up my very marrer, when I think how Dawson's gone ! But about that Dawson fam'ly. Jim, he come in eighty-four, Took up land an' built a shanty, batched it fer a year or more ; Jim wuz such a jolly feller — such a bang-up clever one, That we liked him, an' we used to ask him over, an' he come Purty often ; Marthy wondered if he'd took a shine to Cad — She's our oldest gal, an' handsome, if she does look like her dad ; But Jim didn't do no courtin' 'round our gals, an' soon the boy, Blushin' awkward, tol' my folks he'd got a gal in Illinoy. Then he got more confidential after that, an' said that he Would be married in September ; said her folks wuz farmers ; she Hed been teachin' school a little, so's to help her folks to hum ; Said she made han'-painted picters, an' could play pianer some. Wal, he brought her in September. Phew ! but she was purty, though ; My gals couldn't hold a candle to her, an' yet they ain't so slow ; My two gals hev got the muscle, they kin plow an' use the hoe, But 'long side 'o her, fer beauty, my gals didn't stan' no show. An' ye'd ort to see that shanty blossom out when she got there — 94 WERNER'S READINGS White lace curtains at the winders, ingrain carpet on the floor, Drapes, an' lamberquins, an' tidies — ribbon bows just filled the air! Lots o' things I never heard of Dawson's woman brought out here. Bunch o' cat-tails in the corner — painted chromos everywheres, Little bags o' scented cotton hangin' on the backs o' chairs; An' a-standin' in the corner, on a kind o' crooked rack, Wuz some painted jugs an' vases — think she called 'em bricky- brac. That ranch paralyzed the natives here ; some on 'em used to swear That it looked like heaven ort to, with a angel hov'rin' there ; I kin tell ye, mister, that it wa'n't exaggeratin' things Very much, fer Dawson's woman wuz a angel, bar the wings. Ez fer Jim — wal, now ; ye couldn't tech him with a ten-foot pole. Used to stay to hum on Sundays ; ez a man she called Jim "whole." She wa'n't no shakes at housework, said she never hed no luck ; So Jim washed an' scrubbed the kitchen floor, an' helped her cook the chuck. She told Marthy, confidential, when they'd got enough ahead — Built a house with foldin' doors, an' porch an' winder blinds, she said They'd go back to see her mother, an' she told her, too, that day, When they got rich, they wuz goin' back to Illinoy to stay. Their hard time begun that winter, fer the blizzards they raised Ned- Froze the horses in the stables, froze the cattle in the shed; Folks took lots of exercise, ye see, the temper'ture wuz low, An' fuel high ; we went without some necessaries, too. Then the crops played out next season, fer the rust got in the wheat, Dews an' sunshine done the business, an' our hailstorms can't be beat ; AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 95 Hail — an' hearty, too, I reckon, fer they pelted at the corn, Till they drove it out o' sight, an' let no second crop be born. We're used to it, ez I told ye, but we got downhearted some, Waitin' fer that summer's harvest, which it never, somehow, come. Dawson's folks got clean discouraged, never seen 'em smile till — wal, That there mornin' Jim come over, grinned, an' said they'd got a gal. Somewhat later, Dawson's woman piled the chromos in a heap, Packed up all the fancy truck around the ranch, jest made a sweep ; She brought out all the bricky-brac, an' took the curtains down, Loaded up the one-hoss wagon, took the kid, an' broke fer town. I saw her comin' up the road, an' hollered, "What's to pay?" She said, "Why, debts, o' course," then laughed an' turned her face away; She said they didn't need the things at all — then tried to cough ; She said she'd take 'em up to town an' try to sell 'em off. I noticed that her eyes wuz red, but she went on to say How the shanty wuz so crowded that the baby couldn't play. She sold the traps an' paid the bills, an' hed enough, she did, To buy a coat fer Jim, an' shoes an' dresses fer the kid. I think Dawson's wife got homesick; don't believe she liked the West; Guess she didn't like the sandstones, ner the Injins at their best; Never'd seen a lively Injin till she come here, an' they used To skeer her some, likewise the cowboys, prowlin' 'round the roost. Then a cyclone blew upon us, when the spring wuz gittin' green, Struck us right an' left an' forrards, till it shaved the country clean ; g6 WERNER'S READINGS In a quite emphatic manner lifted all we hed to spare — Splintered shanties, barns an' fences — kindlin' wood whizzed through the air. Dawsons went to town that day, or else I don't know where they'd b'en. They camped with us a week or two till they'd built up again ; We wuz boardin' in the cellar, with a haystack fer a roof, Which that breeze hed kindly put there, an' we thought it good enough. Crops wuz more than slim that summer, fer we hed a little drouth Clean from April to September, not a drop to wet yer mouth From the sky ; we kep' from chokin' at the river, till it slid, Then brought water by the quart an' counted it by drops, we did. How the sun swooped down upon us ! how it scorched an' cracked the land! How it parched the fields o' grain an' cooked the taters in the sand ! Sucked up all the cricks an' rivers in Nebrasky, an' I'll bet It raised a row aloft at night because it hed to set! After that we had the prairie fire — November, eighty-eight; If ye want to see the jaws o' hell a-gapin' at ye straight, With a million hissin' tongues o' flame, an' see them risin' higher, An' ye hain't got no ranch to save, jest watch a prairie fire. Miles away we heard it crackle, all the sky wuz blazin' red; Tumble weeds ez big ez hay-stacks helped to take the flames ahead ; All the land wuz jest like tinder, an' the wind wuz blowin' hard, So the flames got mighty frisky, seen 'em jump two hundred yard. Wal, we done some heavy plowin' 'round the Dawson ranch that day, An' the wind jest took a friendly freak, an' drew the flames our way. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 97 We saved our lives by managin', I might relate jest how, But I'm tellin' Dawson's story, an' my own ain't nowhere now. Ez we crawled to Neighbor Dawson's when the fire hed gone that day, We saw a bundle, which it 'peared the wind hed blowed away ; It wuz lyin' in the gumbo near the road, an' partly hid, An' I hope to holler, stranger, if it wuzn't Dawson's kid ! She hed wandered from her mother, in the midst of smoke an' flare, She wuz little, so the hungry flames forgot an' left her there, Lyin' smothered by the roadway ; so we took her to the home Where she'd furnisb or1 all the brightness through so many days o' gloom. Dawson's woman never held her head up after that, they say — Teased fer Jim to take her home; he set an' watched her every day Till the end, an' told her soon ez he could git enough ahead They'd go back to Illinoy ; "An' take the little one," she said. Two lone mounds are over yender, on the banks o' Dismal Crick, 'Mongst the gumbo grass an' cactus, an' the sand burs growin' thick ; But that stream still murmurs softer, an' the birds sing in the air Jest a little sweeter, fer the sake o' them that's sleepin' there. Dawson's got some luny notions ; he told Parson Gibbs, one day, That he didn't b'lieve in God, no matter what the preachers say — Said if there wuz sech a bein', that he wouldn't hev the cheek To handle folks so rough, when he hed made 'em poor and weak. Settin' by them grave mounds yender, 'mongst the burs an' prickly pear, Dawson spends a heap o' time; he says he's 'feard they're lone- some there ; Says it ain't no place to keep 'em, an' he told me, jest to-day\, If he ever could he'd take 'em back to Illinoy to stay. y WERNER'S READINGS DECEITFULNESS OF MAN. Comedy New England Dialect Monologue for a Woman. Character: Aunt Susan, Speaker, present. She directs her conversation to the audience. SOME say 't when Eve left the Garden a double burden was imposed upon her because she- had sinned twice, once in her pride and once in eatin' the fruit, an' thet only a single burden was placed on Adam. I dunno ez thet is true, an' I ain't sayin' it ain't. My sex has its failin's, and none knows 'em better'n me who has been one of 'em all my life, but sometimes it seems to me we have our burdens. How" did Ed Johnson treat my niece, Susan Wig- gins, who married him less'n a year ago under false pretenses ? It never made no diff'rence in the relations in our family thet the Wigginses leaned toward Methodism, an' after Susan was named for me I never mention'd it. The Johnsons was mostly Unitarians, which, ez near ez I can calculate, isn't bein' much of anythin' accordin' to rule. Ed wasn't no better'n the Johnsons run, an' I ain't sayin' he was worse. He had his faults, though, an' manlike he concealed them till after he was married. Well, Susan Wiggns was brought up about ez strict Methodis' ez any one around here, an' her face was set against cards an' the-aters an' rum an' tobacco about ez much ez any one's, if I do say it myself. When Ed Johnson married her no one told Susan thet he had any bad habits. I knew thet poor Susan was ez innocent ez a mouse about the wiles of men folks, an' bein' her aunt I made up my mind thet I wouldn't see her imposed on. Well, I give the young people a month to get settled an' then I went over to take tea with them. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. >j9 Ed has his father's old house an' a farm thet's so full of rocks thet I don't see how he's goin' to git a livin' an' none of the Haw- kins's money is a goin' thet way now when I'm dead an' buried. I wore my cameo brooch thet Susan admired an' my Paisley shawl, for I didn't want her to be shamed by her branch of the family, howsomever the Johnsons might act. "Why, Susan," says I, as I came in the front door an' was shown right into the parlor an' tol' to set down on the Johnson hair-cloth sofa thet never was used when Ed's mother was alive, "why, Susan," says I, "aren't you young folks gettin' very ex- travagant, throwin' your parlor open when there ain't no funeral or minister or anythin' ? I'm jus' one of the family an' you mustn't make company of me." "Not a bit of it, Aunt Susan," says she. "Ed says thet if things ain't good to use they ain't good for anythin'." Where Ed Johnson got such notions ez thet, an' him with a rocky farm, I'm sure I dunno. I just felt of my cameo brooch, casual like, but thinkin' it might give Susan a hint thet if I saw old Mis' Johnson's things misused I wouldn't be in a hurry to turn, my pin over to some one who'd wear it out every day. Ed came in an' he not only slicked up before tea, but he put on the clothes he was married in, ez fine black broadcloth ez you'd want to see. "Expectin' company?" says I. "No one but you, Aunt Susan," says Ed. "Why do you ask ?" "Oh," says I, "I see you're all dressed up. I s'pose thet's 'cordin' to rule now though, ez I see you have the slips all off'n your mother's parlor furniture." "We only live but once, Aunt Susan," says Ed, "an' I believe in enjoyin' life ez we go along." Rememberin' thet he was brought up Unitarian an' thinkin' thet it was only one of their new-fangled notions, I didn't argufy the question, but I had my doubts about Susan's happiness. Ed talked a lot about the stones on his farm bein' some new kind of marble, an' how there was monev in them, but I said I ioo WERNER'S READINGS never knew stones to be anythin' but a detriment 'cept for fences. Susan had brought all her plants from home an' I do think thet growin' plants is her pet vanity. When tea was over Ed says : "Susie, shall I get after the. bugs to-night?" "For mercy sake, Susan," says I, "if I hadn't heard Ed say so I'd never believe it, an' Mis' Johnson was such a careful house- keeper, too ! Dear, dear, but thet's too bad." "Hold on, Aunt," says Ed, "you're on the wrong track," an' then I saw them both laughin' ez if the minister had made a joke. "Ed's talkin' about the bugs on my plants, Aunt," says Susan, when she stopped laughin' ; "an' he found in a newspaper last week a way to kill them. Ed's awfully thoughtful, Aunt." "Oh," says I, settin' up very straight, "I'm glad to hear it." I ought to have suspicioned thet somethin' terrible was comin', for if you'll take perceivance you'll notice thet men don't potter around household plants without havin' deep motives. I was thet taken back, however, thet I was speechless. "Dear Ed," says Susan, "I'd be very thankful if you would give the bugs a dose." "Certainly, Susie," says he, obligin'-like, and before my eyes he took down from the clock shelf a pipe and a bag of tobacco. He filled his pipe, went over an' sat down by the plants an' lighted it. I never seen any one smoke more natcheral like. He blew out great puffs of smoke an' there sat Susie lookin' ez proud ez if he was leadin' an experience meetin'. "Well, for land sakes, Susan Johnson !" says I. "Now, Aunt," says Susan, "you are wrong. Ed has no bad habits. We both noticed about a week ago thet there was bugs on my plants. I tried liquorish water an' camphor an' I declare I was mos' sick about it. Then Ed came down from the village one night with a piece of one of those N'York papers. It said thet tobacco smoke was the only sure cure for plant bugs. " 'Do you believe it, Ed ?' says I. " 'There it is in the paper,' says he. " 'Well,' says I, 'the bugs are gettin' awful on them. I wish you'd thought to bring some tobacco with you.' AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 101 " 'I did,' says he. Now, wasn't thet thoughtful of him, Aunt r "Well, we put a little tobacco on a saucer an' tried to light it but it wouldn't burn. Ed says that it would only burn in a pipe. an' to make sure of savin' the plants he brought along a pipe. " 'Did you think, Ed,' says I, 'you could burn a lettle tobaccc in a pipe for me without gettin' the habit?' " 'Sure,' says he. An' he did an' I think it's just lovely of him, so now." I wasn't born yesterday, an' bein' of a thoughtful mind I've taken some notice to the ways an' tricks of men. I could almost swear thet Ed Johnson winked at me, but bein' a maiden lady I didn't want to say so. Talk about the deceit of women ! It was jus' ez I expected. I says to Susan : "How long has Ed been killin' bugs for you this way ?" "Since las' Saturday," she says. "Did he burn up more'n one pipeful the first night ?" "Yes," says she, "he said they needed a big dose to begin with an' he's burned three pipefuls. Since then he's burned two pipe- fuls every night. "An' didn't the first make him sick?" says I. "Why, no," says Susan. "Did Edwin smoke before?" says I, an' I could see he was get- tin' nervous. "No," says Susan, "certainly not." "Well, then," says I, "all thet I can say is thet " An' jus' then Ed Johnson says : "Look out, look out, Aunt Susan ; there's a mouse jus' comin' out the buttery door." I can't abide mice, an' I don't know now whether there was one or not. I have my suspicions. I jumped up on my chair, however, an' Ed knocked around with the broom handle real hard. When he finished makin' a racket he began : "Oh, Aunt Susan, I heard Joe Stebbins down to the village yesterday tellin' what a good housekeeper you was." You know thet some people did say thet Joe used to like me bctter'n Lizzie Hooper, who is now Mis' Stebbins. I wasn't par- to2 WERNER'S READINGS tic'lary curious to know what Joe Stebbins had said about me for myself, but I knew thet if it could get back to Lizzie it would make her real angry, an' I declare, in askin' Ed questions I for- got all about smokin' an' I went home leavin' thet poor child in innocence about thet man's deception. You can't tell me thet if he hadn't been hardened in the tobacco habit smokin' wouldn't have made him ez sick. You can't fool me. An' I haven't been back to the Johnsons' house since, be- cause Ed ez much ez told me to stay away. You see, his old rocks did turn out to be marble, an' some folks say ez how he will die rich. They won't need any of the Hawkins money, which is fortunate, considerin'. I suppose such deceitful- ness from man to woman is one of the burdens we females have to bear because of Eve's sins. They say Susan an' Ed's happy an' thet Ed regularly every night kills the bugs on Susan's plants. Well, it ain't none of my business, p'r'aps, but I can't help feelin' bad for Susan. PERPLEXED. LAST night I kissed her in the hall — My promised wife. She said, "Now tell me truly this — Another girl did you e'er kiss In all your life?" I gazed down in her pleading face And told her, "No." Now, why did she, with pensive sigh And sad look in her soft blue eye, Say, "I thought so?" The game she gave me, you'll admit, Was pretty stiff, And as I homeward went my way And thought on what I'd heard her say, I wondered if — AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 103 THE COMFORTABLE CORNER Comedy Monologue for a Man. Translated from the French of M. Armand Sylvestre by Lucy Hayes Macqueen especially for this book. Character : The Bachelor, Speaker, present, who directs all his conversation direct at audience. I AM a bachelor — and I am a well-bred, well-behaved man. I simply say this to let you know that I have no bad habits which prevent me from offering myself a victim at the altar of Hymen — no, none whatever. I have simply found myself suffi- cient unto myself. Why take another into partnership, when I am capable of running the business myself? I have weighed my own individuality and found myself worthy. I am on very good terms with myself. Now, a single man who has nobody and nothing tied to his heels cannot do a better thing than travel about and see life. All railroad directors and steamboat officials will tell you the very same thing. I console myself for the loneliness inherent in a bachelor life by traveling. I pass half of my life in going on journeys, and the other half in returning from journeys, and I shall in all proba- bility do this up to that fatal last journey of all for which I shall buy no return trip ticket, for I shall never return. I am a fellow who loves his ease, so I always travel as com- fortably as possible. I wear a silk cap, you know, the kind that sheds all the dust ; a little flask of brandy ; a little giblet patty in my portmanteau ; a good novel ; — but, oh, above all, when I have to pass the night on the train, give me my comfortable corner sleeping compartment ! It is not because I am more comfortable there than I would IG4 WERNER'S READINGS be in any of the other compartments which cost the same price, it is not because human nature loves a bargain ; it is not because I am cooler in the corner than I would be in the middle of the car surrounded by all the passengers and a load of stuffed horse-hair cushions ; no — it is because I am a poet and love to see the be- lated traveler rush after the train and try to throw himself on to the platform near me, and I like to look out of the window and see the receding landscape as I fly along — you can see better from the corner of the last car than you can anywhere else on the train. Now, I tell you that I am a poet because you might not take me for one if you should ever meet me in a crowded waiting-room waiting for a train. I tell you this beforehand so that you will not be surprised at my behavior, then, for in spite of my poetic feelings I will jostle you terribly so as to get ahead of you into that righthand corner compartment at the end of the car. I have been known slyly to kick a chair in front of the other passengers for them to fall over, so as to get ahead of them into that corner. It is a very good old trick — that chair trick, but do not employ it upon me, if you see me coming into a car where you may be, for I warn you that I would return the compliment by shoving a sofa or a table in front of you to keep you out of that corner. Well, in starting for Paris last night I secured my corner as I have done hundreds of times before, — I had employed the chair for my fellow passengers to stumble over — and the air was per- fectly blue with bad language as we began our journey. I had just rolled a good cigarette to scare all ladies away from my Corner, and had made a perfect barricade of the seats around me with my hat, overcoat, portmanteau, umbrella, — I even took out the contents of my portmanteau and spread them about so as to insure plenty of room. Thanks to my barricade, every passenger who opened the door and looked toward my corner immediately retreated. Soon I heard the signal for starting, — I was saved. Dear night ! Incomparable for dreams and revery ! A full moon ! How the trees flew along under the stars ! AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 105. What then did I hear? A' dastardly conductor yelling: "Here, sir; here, madam; there is room here." My privacy was invaded. A couple were thrust rudely in upon me. The woman was charming — the man, beastly. You'll find it always that way. I took no notice of them, but allowed them to install themselves in the other side of the compartment. The lady went to the left — the gentleman to the right. He immediately put on his slip- pers without asking my permission. I did not revenge myself upon him my immediately donning mine, for I believe I have told you that I am a well-bred man. I simply contented myself with pitying the poor creature who had to live with him. These people were soon very quiet and I decided not to look toward them and to try to imagine that I had the place all to myself. • Oh, charming night, filled with meditation and ecstasy ! It seemed a little colder ! A mist had passed over the moon. But there ! That villainous conductor was howling again : "Here, sir ; here, madam ; there is room enough here, but hurry up." The door opened and another couple swooped down upon me — the woman, pretty, the man — a cyclops. You'll always find it so. Then what do you think I did? A frightful battle was fought for an instant between my love of ease and my refined sense of delicacy. Follow me — I beg of you. If I retained my corner, my charming neighbor would be forced to sit opposite me, and her husband would, of course, have to sit beside her to protect her — then, you see she could not lie down at all, but would be obliged to sit up, bolt-upright, all night. If I gave my seat to her hus- band she would still have to suffer, for I would sit near her and be obliged to watch that beast lie down and sleep placidly on soft cushions, while she and I — no — I gave her my corner. I did so in less time than it has taken to tell. The unbearable man seated himself at my left and never even said : "Thank you." As shameless as the first man, he proceeded to make a night toilet without even begging my pardon — his wife did not, either, 106 WERNER'S READINGS but she, more's the pity, did not make a night toilet in front of me. I could no longer make believe that I was alone and ignore my neighbors. My night was lost ! The moon had gone in be- hind a cold mist. Once I carelessly glanced over at my first couple. I beheld the ugly profile of the man's face, sitting beside me, for all the world like a crow's — if I had looked long at it, it would have driven me mad. Presently I gazed at the first couple. They were fast asleep — the lady like a drooping lily — the man like an ogre. I resigned myself to my fate and tried to sleep with the serene consciousness that though the men could not appreciate my deli- cacy and self-immolation — the ladies could and did — and only the fear of exciting the jealousy of their husbands kept them from expressing to me their thanks. I had no doubt that they had mentally compared me with their beastly husbands much to my advantage. My back felt as if it was broken, but my conscience was peace- ful — and it was sweet to suffer for that half of the creation which is so incomparably more beautiful than the other half. Delight- ful martyrdom. I even pretended to sleep, so as not to disturb the dear creatures. Then what did I hear? My pretty neighbor, opposite, was awake. She stole gently over to my hateful companion and whispered to him as she designated me. with a look. I know it is not polite, but I could not help listening: "Poor dearie ! Why don't you ask that idiot if he is anywhere's near his destination yet, so that you may lie down and stretch your legs ?" And now, brother bachelors, give me your corners, please. 1 am going to be married just to have the pleasure of taking those corners from you and hearing my wife call you idiots afterwards. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32- 10; HOW UNCLE MOSE COUNTS. Negro Dialect Comedy Monologue for a Man. Arranged as a monologue expressly for this book by Stanley Schell. Characters Represented: Uncle Mose, Speaker, present; Mrs. Burton, and other persons supposed to be present. Make-Up : Poor old darkey, a regular chatterer and gossip. Stage-Setting : A street in the South or an exterior scene. Scene : Enter Uncle Mose with basket of eggs on arm, and carrying a folding chair on the other arm. He shambles along as if it were too much effort to move, occasionally wipes face with big red bandanna handkerchief. As he approaches side of stage where houses are supposed to be he begins to shout. Points : Whenever Uncle Mose asks a question, he invariably stops between sentences and eagerly watches the face of the person with whom he speaks. AIGS, aigs ! fraish aigs ! from honest ole Mose. Try mah fraish aigs. Aigs, aigs, aigs ! Yas'm, fraish laid dis mornin' — yas'm — firty cents a dozen. Dear? Hens cain't 'ford to lay no cheaper dis wedder. [Moves on.] Aigs! Aigs! Aigs! fraish laid aigs — ony firty cents dozen. Good mornin', Miss Burton, good mornin'. Yas, indeed, I has. Jes' receibed tan dozen fraish from de hens dis bery mornin'. Fraish? Yas, I guantees 'em, an' — an' — de hen guantees 'em. Nine dozen? In der basket? Oh, yas, 'M — yas, 'M — All right, M'm. [Begins to take eggs from basket zvhich he has placed on the opened folding-chair and puts eggs gently into woman's basket. Counts and talks and, as a result, makes mistakes.] One, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten Oh, yas 'm, you kin 'ly on dem bein' fraish. How's yo' son comin' on in de school ? Mus' be mos' grown. A dark in de bank? Why how ole am de boy? Eighteen? You doan tole me so ! Eighteen and gittin' a sal'ry 'ready 108 : WERNER'S READINGS Eighteen [counts and puts eggs in basket], nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-free, twenty-foah, twenty-five. An' how's yo' gal a-comin' on ? Mos' growed up de last time I seed her. Married and livin' farder south? Wall, I do declar', how de time scoots away ! And you say she hes chilluns ? Why, how ole am de gal? She mus' be jes' about Firty-free? Amdatso? [Begins putting more eggs in basket.] Firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seben, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free. Hit am sing'lar dat you hab sech old chilluns. You doan look more'n forty yars ole yersef. Nonsense? Flatter you? Fifty- free yars ole? Dis ole darkey hain't got no time to flatter. An' fifty- free! I jes dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free [goes on counting eggs and putting them in basket], fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six — : — I done wan' you to pay 'tenshun when I count de eggs, so dar'll be no mistake. Fifty- nine, sixty, i sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah Whew ! dis am a warm day. [Mops brow and rests a moment, looking about.] Dis am de time ob de year when I feels dat I'se gettin' ole mysef. I hain't long fer dis world. You comes from de bery fustes' family in de south, Miss Burton, an' when yo' fadder died he was sebenty yars ole. Sebenty-two? Oh, yas 'm — I done fergot. Dat's old, suah. Sebenty-two [counts], sebenty- free, sebenty- foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine An' yo' mudder, Miss Burton ? She was one of de likeliest lookin' ladies I ebber seed. An you 'minds me ob her so much! She libed to mos' a hundred. I bleeves she' was done past a centuren when she died Ony ninety-six when she died? Den she died 'fo' I done thought. [Counts.] Ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hun- dred, — one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight. Dere, dat's one hundred an' eight nice fraish aigs — jes nine dozen, an' here am one more fraish aig in case I discounted mysef. Good mornin', Mis' Burton. ,.a <# [Moves about stage shouting.] -:< . '.<-s> $m • AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 109 Aigs, aigs, aigs ! No, ma'am, only one dozen left to-day — kin take yer order fer to-morrer. [Moves on.] Aigs, aigs, aigs! Why, .Mis' Burton, whut yo' call dis nigger ? Now, yo' nos I neber stole a t'ing in mah life. You heerd me a countin' ob dem aigs. You recollects I tole you to see I done counts straight, an' frowed in one in case I done discounts wrong. Yer knows I counted straight? Yo' gal? Hab you one ob dem low white trash fer a serbent? You has — den dat 'splains. She stole dem extry aigs, I reckon. You feel sure I done tell de truf ? Dat am so, Mis' Burton ; I neber cheated no one, an' I wouldn't ; I'se an' honest nigger, I is, an' you knows it. Yo' suah now I didn't ? It's dat white gal. You'll send her away? Dat am de only way to do. De ideah ob sayin' I didn't count dem aigs straight. T'ank yo', Mis' Burton; de nex' time we'll count dem aigs togeder, so no low down white trash kin put dirt on mah name agin. Good mornin', good mornin'. [Goes toward exit.] Aigs, aigs! fraish aigs! De idea, ez ef I didn't know how to count c'rectly. [Exit.] LOVE IN LENT. LOVE hides behind the door, 'Tis Lent; His quiver's on the floor, 'Tis Lent; The maiden bows her head, The maiden's prayer is said, The holy book is read, 'Tis Lent. Love hears a step outside— 'Tis Lent — Love starts up, eager-eyed — 'Tis Lent ! A man comes in, and lo ! Love blithely draws his bow— A twang ! And oh — and oh, 'Tis Lent ! no WERNER'S READINGS ABBIE'S ACCOUNTS. Comedy Monologue for a Woman. TUDOR JENKS. Character : Mrs. Abbie Appleby, Speaker, present. Costume: House costume. Scene : A sitting-room. Abbie discovered at desk. THERE is one comfort about being a married woman — that is, of course, there are more than one — there are a good many ; but one especially, I mean. And that is to have a right to. some of the luxuries of life. Now, a husband isn't like an elder sister. Of all creatures that tyrannize over their kind, an elder sister is the very worst. A husband is rather — well, rather bossy, — Alfred says "bossy," and it's a real good word, — but then you prefer that from them. Besides, one's husband is a man, you know ; and one expects men to be a little masterful. Alfred is, sometimes,^and — I think I like it. It is such a comfort to have some one else to take the responsibility — for things, you know. And that reminds me — Alfred said I should keep accounts, now I'm married. Where has that account-book gone to, anyway ? I'm sure I put it here under this pile of invitations to those five-o'clock nuisances — I just hate them! The impudence of that Hanson woman — with her teas ! She seems to think tea is a kind of legal tender ! I've sent her cards for the last six — where in the world is that ac- count-book? Oh, I remember; I left it in the pocket of my blue serge — or was it my gray cashmere ? That old cashmere ! I meant to leave it at home, but Ellen packed it in. It's worse than the "Colonel's Opera Cloak." Let me see — it's in the closet up- stairs. [Starts toward door; then returns. .] No, it isn't in the pocket of the cashmere — it hasn't any pocket. I remember now ; I put it in the top drawer of my desk — one of them. [Opens top drawer.] No. Where can the old thing— heavens, what a lot AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. in of old stamps ! I had forgotten those. Those are for that Van Blankenstyne girl. When she got a billion she was going to endow a negro orphan baby in the South. He must be grown up by this time ! Let me see ; I began to collect those stamps in eigh- teen hundred and — I don't know when. It must be years and years — long before Susie was married, and her oldest is — I don't know how old. Too old for dolls, anyway, because I thought of giving her a doll for Christmas, ana then changed to a book. Where is that old book? Probably in the other drawer. [Opens other drawer and finds it.] Here you are! How good the Russia leather smells ! I like red leather ; it's so business-like. [Spreads book out on desk.] Now where's the ink? [Looks into inkstand, and turns it up- side down, making a face when she finds it empty.] Never mind. A pencil is just as good — and better, if I should make mistakes. I wonder if I remember my multiplication table? Seven times used to be a — horror ! Seven times seven are forty-nine, and seven times eight are fifty. That isn't right. Fifty-two, I guess. Let me see. [Counts on fingers.] It's so good to be married. They didn't use to let me count on my fingers at school. Forty-nine, fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two, three, four, five, six. Seven times nine are fifty-six. [Turns to desk again.] Now, what do you put down first? It's either "debtor" or "creditor" to Alfred. He gave me $35 yesterday morning, all in fives. So am I his creditor or debtor? He gives it to me, you see, so I am his debtor for it. Of course. And he's my creditor. All right ; here goes ! [ Writes for a moment.] Now that looks real sweet! — "Alfred Appleby, Creditor." And on the other page, "Abbie Appleby, Debtor." But, let me see — where am I to put down what I spend it for ? I know they use only two pages ; I remember hearing papa talk about taking a trial balance, and you can't balance three things — unless you're a juggler. I think I'll tear these two pages out. No, I won't ; it's only in pencil ; I can rub it out. [Rubs vigor- ously, and then blows the pages.] I don't wonder papa gets tired over his accounts. It must be awful to be a bookkeeper, and get all covered with red ink. ii2 WERNER'S READINGS [Looks around and sees a package.'] Goodness! I forgot that Chinese silk for the curtains. I must look at it before I go on with my accounts. I am tired of figuring, anyway. [Opens pack- age and spreads out silk.] How cheap these silks are nowadays! This was only — only forty-five cents a yard, and. there's enough to make a dress. I wonder how I'd look in it. [Drapes it around her.] There! [Strikes attitude before mirror.] I look like a duchess at least. I wonder what duchesses look like, anyway? I wish I could travel and see things. It must be splendid to be rich —real rich, so that you don't care a bit how much you spend, and don't have to keep accounts. Oh, that reminds me — I must go on with my account-book. I promised Alfred that I would have it ready for him this evening when he came home. But he won't care, even if I don't have it ready. Now, that's the difference. If it were papa, why, I just have to be ready. What a comfort it is that your husband isn't your father ! And how absurd it would be to be your own grandchild — or something like that! [Goes to desk, and takes up account-book.] Why ! I thought I had done a — lot ! And I rubbed it all out. Never mind ; a new broom sweeps clean. Oh, I remember — it was that debtor and creditor thing that stopped me. After all, what difference does it make ? Alfred doesn't care. I'll choose one of them and put it down. [Writes.] "Abbie Appleby, Debtor." And now, on the other side [writes] , "Alfred Appleby, Creditor." There ! Next I put down what he gave me. He gave me — let me see [chewing end of pencil] — it was $35 before I bought the lace for hat trimming ; and it cost $2.99 a yard; and I bought 2.y% yards. My! that's a puzzle! How did we use to do it at school? What a lot papa spent on my school bills, and much good it does me now ! Let me see — here is the way Miss Gumption used to do them. [Imitating.] "If 2^ yards of lace cost $2.99 a yard, and if Alfred gave Abbie $35, how much did Abbie have to start with?" [Suddenly, as she sees through the problem.] Humph, that's easy ! She had $35, of course ! After all, an education is worth something ! I suppose that is what men call logic. I think guessing's easier. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 113 Well, the answer is $35, and it goes down under [pause] — under [recklessly] — "Creditor." There! Alfred is my creditor for $35. That is plain. [Writes it down.] Next comes the lace. Alfred isn't creditor for that, / know. So down it goes. [ Writes; then, after a moment of reflection, she speaks abruptly.] How ridiculous ! "Abbie Appleby, debtor, to lace, $2.99 multiplied by 2^" — but I'm not. I can't be debtor when I paid for it; and the idea of making Alfred creditor for several yards of lace, when he doesn't know anything about lace, is too absurd for any use ! I shan't change it, anyway. How much does it make ? Two dollars multiplied by two yards is four — four what ? It can't be done. You can't multiply yards by dollars, I'm sure. I remember that much. Why, Miss Gumption used to tease us dreadfully about that. She used to say, "Two oranges multiplied by four apples makes what?" And then the other girls — the ones she didn't ask — would all laugh. And how that ridiculous Susie Brewer did giggle ! That was all she knew — arithmetic, and things like that. She couldn't do a thing with Virgil — and she's an old maid now, too. But I mustn't wander so. I wish I knew more about accounts. Alfred will think I'm a perfect ignoramus. It's his own fault. If he wanted somebody to keep accounts, he ought to have married Susie Brewer; but he couldn't bear her — he never could. Said she gave him the creeps just to look at her frizzes. Still, it's a good thing to be systematic; and that reminds me — I wonder what time it is. I didn't bring my watch. [Rises and searches for it.] I know I put it somewhere. [Tries to recollect where.] Ah, I know ! It fell out of my pocket when I was taking off my jacket. It must be on the floor near the bureau. [Searches there, and finds it. Picks it tip.] I hope it isn't hurt! [Looks at the cover.] No; none of the pearls are out. Now, what was it I wanted it for ! Oh, yes — to see the time. I'll have to wind it first. I'm glad it's a stem-winder. [Tries to wind it.] But it won't move but a click or two. It must be wound. [Puts it to ear.] Yes — why [in a tone of great surprise], it's going! The sweet little thing. I guess I must have wound it some time or other: H4 WERNER'S READINGS [Opens watch.] But it caw'* be so late. [Shakes watch and puts it to ear again.] Yes, it's going. I must really hurry, or I shan't have my accounts ready. Where was I? [Examines book.] $2.99 multiplied by 2% is — I never can do it in the world ! Why, it's fractions and decimals mixed! [Sighs. After a moment seizes pencil confidently.] I wonder I didn't think of that before ! Of course $2.99 is prac- tically the same as three dollars, and 2^ is nearly three yards; and three times three are nine yards. [Perplexed; then face clears.] What a goose! Dollars, of course! nine dollars; and except for car-fares and the caramels, that's really all I spent. Call it ten dollars. [Writes it down.] Then $35 less $10 is $25, and that's what is called the capital. No, that's not the right word. [Thinks.] I think the word bookkeepers use is "deficit," but I don't like it. There is one commences with B, I'm sure. It must be — "bonus"; that's it! [Writes.] "To bonus, $25." Now I must see if I have that much cash. [Laughs.] Why, how fool- ish of me ! That's the very word ; I've heard papa say it often and often. [Scratches out the last entry, and rewrites.] There, that's better ; "To cash, $25." Where's my pocket-book? Here. Now let's see. [Counts change; stops suddenly, and examines one piece of money.] I knew she was a hateful — that impudent thing at Brady's ! She's given me a fifty-cent piece with a hole in it ! What a sly, deceitful thing she must be ! And yet they ask people to have sympathy for those wretches ! No doubt that brazen creature makes a good liv- ing by passing bad fifty-cent pieces on customers ! It's certainly a wrong thing to do. And how can I get rid of it? [Reflects.] Alfred says they take all kinds of money at liquor stores ; I sup- pose they pass them off on drunken men. I might give it to Al- fred. [Stops and laughs.] Well, what am I to do? I can't put that down as "debtor" or "creditor," because neither Alfred nor I have anything to do with it. And I'm sure I can't put it down to that girl at Brady's — but I might ; I can open a sort of account with her ; "Brady's shop girl, debtor, one plugged fifty-cent piece." And then I should have to open an opposite page with "Abbie AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 115 Appleby, creditor, fifty cents — out." [Bell rings.] Oh, that's Alfred! — I remember I borrowed his latch-key — and I haven't finished my accounts ! No matter, I've made a good beginning. And he won't blame his little wife, bless him ! He didn't marry me because he thought I was a good bookkeeper. I hear his step ; I'll go meet him. The darling! [Exit.] KEEP A-GOIN'. FRANK L. STANTON. IF you strike a thorn or rose, Keep a-goin' ! If it hails or if it snows, Keep a-goin' ! 'Tain't no use to sit an' whine When the fish ain't on your line; Bait your hook an' keep a-tryin' — Keep a-goin' ! When the weather kills your crop, Keep a-goin' ! Though 'tis work to reach the top, Keep a-goin' ! S'pose you're out o' ev'ry dime, Gittin' broke ain't any crime ; Tell the world you're feelin' fine- Keep a-goin' ! When it looks like all is up, Keep a-goin' ! Drain the sweetness from the cup, Keep a-goin' ! See the wild birds on the wing, Hear the bells that sweetly ring, When you feel like singin' sing — Keep a-goin' ! n6 WERNER'S READINGS THE PIANO-TUNER. Comedy Monologue for a Man. Translated and arranged from the French expressly for this book by Lucy Hayes Macqueen, Character : The Piano-Tuner, Speaker, present. Dressed in black without a collar, he sits at piano and speaks while strik- ing chords and running scales at random. A MAN has been Quixotical enough to steal my wife — a Don Quixote whom ugliness inspires, for my wife is ugly. And in spite of all my domestic unhappiness I have to go — poor, humble workman that I am — faithfully to fulfil my sad task of piano-tuning. [Plays piano.] Do — mi — sol — do — ri — fa — la — ri — mi — sol — si — mi. I awaken the sleeping soul of music in the keyboard; give life to the dull, dead white and black ivory. I am full of zeal ; I come with the sun to tune my pianos. Oh, the miserable drollery of the thought that I went forth every morning to restore harmony to poor instruments that had been put out of tune by unskilful fingers, and I returned at evening to hear the shrill, discordant voice of my ugly wife fill the air with her complaints. Then, when I was as tired and worn out as a black slave with my hard day's work, I had to give her my hard-earned money with which to bedeck her ugliness. [Plays a scale.] In the hall where the night's revel has left everything in dis- order, restoring ruined flats and sharps to their normal pitch, you see me at work, and only God knows what I feel. Oh, piano, witness of such beautiful gala nights of which nothing remains AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 117 for me to see except their following gray, cloudy mornings, I feel that you are one I can confide in. I have never known hap- piness, wealth, nor beauty. [Turns over music on piano and finds something he can play.] Ah ! Here are some four-hand pieces — lovers can play such music. He, pressing the pedal, covers with a tremolo his pas- sionate whisper, while she under the very eyes of her indulgent parents, answers with little runs and trills, becomes confused, blushes, pales again, trembles, and gives her lover a tender little pressure of the foot to indicate to him that he has made an error in his playing. Here are some waltzes — beautiful, blonde waltzes flying like swallows here and there, and leaning forward lightly in the arms of their partners ! Shall I not banish such entrancing visions ? Oh, compare my lonely lot, my dark nights, with these gay evenings, where beautiful eyes flash brighter than the jewels which sparkle in the light on every side ! [He stops and thinks.'] Still, I am happier than that lover of my wife's ! He has to look at her ugly face morning and night and pretend to be greatly in love. Only we who are husbands can be sulky and avert our eyes from the faces of our wives. Lovers must be ardent. [Turning over the music] Here are accompaniments, opera music, songs, operettas * * * [Searching still further among the music.] Here are some ends of dead cigarettes. [Plays a scale or two.] I do not smoke cigarettes. I take my tobacco in the good, old way. [Pauses.] No! I never cared for any woman except my wife. She was not beautiful, but I chose her for her- ugliness, thinking, like Ii8 WERNER'S READINGS many another reasonable man, that an ugly wife would be faith- ful. I never even suspected her. [Plays minor chords in a depressing manner.] I thought, poor fool that I was, that she was too ugly to ever tempt the heart of a lover. [Plays another scale.] Ah, well, ugliness, it seems, does not frighten love. She left me, one day, heavily veiled, taking away with her, without shame "or remorse, my paper collars, my glass watch-chain, my two new razors, my summer shirts — in fact, all of my wardrobe — all ! all ! all ! even my poor old tuning-fork. She sold all our household furniture to defray elopement expenses, and now I am obliged to replace my tuning-fork with my voice when I am at work. [He sings a broken, false note.] And my voice — how feeble it is now! [With a sigh.] Ah, I could stand it better if only my wife had been pretty! [He begins to work.] I am too base at heart ! I am ashamed of myself to have any thought or care for that ugly, absent wife of mine! [He plays loud and strikes the keys hard.] I do not care ! I am very angry ! The beast ! If ever I catch her I will beat her ! [Bangs harder than ever on the piano.] I feel every bad instinct growing strong within me. I have behaved like a lamb long enough — now I am going to rage like a demon. [He bangs terribly on the piano.] Stop! Stop! Stop! [Very coolly.] I have broken the piano ! I will run away ! AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 119 MY LOVER WHO LOVED ME LAST SPRING. Romantic Pathetic Monologue for a Girl. DOLLIE DENTON. Written Expressly for this Book. Characters: Prospective Bride, Speaker, present; her friends. Scene: Her boudoir. Prospective Bride in dainty negligee, reclines on couch. OH ! girls, I am charmed to have you ; So sweet of you to come. You know mama and I were just speaking of you, — Why, Bess, how absurd ; how could you ever be de trop ? Yes, indeed, we are busy With milliners and modistes. And then, We sent direct to Paris To secure the services of Mme. N., With whom I practice daily my court bow — Ahem! g [Laughs and botvs.] Countess D'Valliere — there, Isn't that au fait to the Queen ma chere? Why, certainly, you shall see my trousseau — Please ring, Bessie dear, for my French maid; That is one more necessary affliction, So the Count will not be afraid of my accent, Which must be Parisian strictly. Nannette, apportez mes robes, Oui cest dans cette chambre — allons. I3>. WERNER'S READINGS, Yes, she's bright enough, But it takes me so long To acquire the accent Parisian, Sometimes I wish I'd never been born. My gowns are from Worth and Felix and {looking around as if speaking to maid who enters with gozvns] Entre, oui, oui — ■ Mettez sur la chaise — allons. Papa has given me carte blanche for anything under heaven, Or the deep blue sea, — Yes, Inez, quite right, One does not become a countess Every day in one's life. [Motions to gowns on chair.] Bess, that lace is worth a fortune — Present from ma mere to be; » And those buckles on the cheval dresser Are from the Duchess D'Louis. Diamonds of the first water ; Aren't they pretty — see ! Oh ! Mother dear, do let me chatter, For after another short day, I'll be a titled lady, And must say "Amen" to "love, honor and obey." Yes, Be£§ ; Count D'Valliere is slightly ancient and rather a stern-looking man. But consider his titles, dearie, And money, and lands; _,■• - Why, his estates are worth millions. Last season at Newport the way the girls threw themselves at his head, '* Was ridiculous; of course to the Count it was simply sport. Have you seen his horses? ' - ■ ■- There they go! ... AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 121 Aren't they beauties ? Black as jet; There has never been a pair in Memphis tc compare with them yet. The girls are just dying with envy — What's that ? Hush ! Ray, do not talk of that ring! Do you recognize it, Alida ? It was given me by Reginald Hall, The talented young artist Whom we met at the Beach House last Spring — Yes, it belonged to his mother; You remember him, dear, What Ray? He is killing himself drinking — Such a pity; such a pity — [sighs heavily]. Ah, me, did I start? Well, dearie, he was fascinating, But poor as a church mouse, And maybe he did touch my heart [laughs nervously]. You're going? Oh! dear, I'm so sorry — Mother is in the library; She will lead the way. May I ask you to excuse me ? How I wish I might beg you to stay, But my toilet demands my attention ; Count D'Valliere is a critic, you know. I drive with him at seven, So — Au revoir. * # * * * w Thank God ! they've gone and left me — What a miserable, weak, craven thing — How I chatter and laugh, day in and day out, Striving to forget him. Ah ! Reginald, my King ! Your fair face and ambition Rise before me like a ghost of the past 122 WERNER'S READINGS - That flings back with a sneer my false kisses and promises, That were not made to last. Ah, me ! Did I say they were false Caresses and promises I gave When he'd bring, in all life's young beauty, His heart's true love? Then I lied — Nay, they were not false; To him only have I given the true thing. Ah ! Reginald, how well I remember When you first spoke of the hope you had; The rain was dripping, dripping With a musical sound so sad. We two had been reading "Lilith" — Reading all that day. Suddenly I glanced at him — How my heart thrilled. Well, he told me the old sweet story, Maybe in the same old way. With his strong arms around me clasped closely, I can hear him e'en now as he'd say : "Darling, I love you ; I love you." It may be the same old thing, But my heart quickens now • And flutters like a bird that has broken its wing. I have ruined his life — God forgive me ! Why can I not blot out the past? Why must I be cursed with a love That e'en down into eternity will last? Other women love and forget — Why, to me, must it be the real thing? Ah, Heaven ! Count D'Valliere's voice ! I must don the masque. Pity me, oh dear God, pity me, And pity my lover who loved me last Spring-. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. ' 123 TAKING AN ELEVATOR. Comedy Yankee Dialect Monologue for a Woman. Character: Country Woman. Costume : House dress of a countrywoman. Scene: Country sitting-room. [Enter Countrywoman and talks direct to audience.] I HAD heard considerable about Mr. Stewart's big store in New York, but I wasn't in no way prepared for all I see there. Sakes ! it was equal to a dozen villages like Vandusburg a-coming out o' meetin' all to once. Such a crowd I never see. And the women maulin' of the goods without buyin', and the clerks lookin' on sarcastic, just the like you see in any ornery store. Well, I went about better'n an hour, gettin' a couple o' pair o' good domestic hose for my son Jabez, and seven-eighths of a yard of stuff for cheese-bags, and finally, bein' uncommon tired, I felt a weak spell comin' on, and I hadn't hardly strength to ask for chintz for the sittin'-room sofa. "Next story, ma'am," says the clerk, kind o' lookin' sharp at me. "Wouldn't you like to take a elevator ?" Well, I was beat. It seemed a most uncommon proceedin', and what I never heard no gentleman do before, to ask me to take a elevator. I had my misgivin's what it meant, for our Jabez, with his jokes, and what nots, though father and me is most strong temperince folks, presists sometimes in takin' what he calls ele- vators, which is glasses o' speerits and water, calkerlated, as he says, to raise droopin' feelin's and failin' strength. "Sir," says I as lofty as I could, "I prefer not, and, to my mind, you'd do better for a respectable shop not to be offerin' elevators — leastwise not to me." So I kept walkin' round, not likin' to ask questions showin' my 124 WERNER'S READINGS country ways, and still feelin' that awful feelin' o' goneness which them as has weak spells is subject to, when another clerk, hearin' me ask for chintzes, said something agin about takin' a elevator! By this time I felt dreadful ; and so says I, makin' up my mind it was a New York fashion, and it wasn't best to seem too back- country, "Thanks to you, sir, I don't mind tryin' something of the kind, bein' most remarkable thirsty." "Certainty, ma'am," says he, bowin' careless toward a stand holdin' a fancy pail, full of what I might have took to be water, judgin' by the taste, but I know well enough it was some deceit- ful genteel kind of liquor with the taste and smell took out of it, as they do to benzine and castor oil. No sooner had I swallowed a goblet of it, than a young man pinted to a little room, which, if you'll believe me, give the queerest kind of jerk you ever see just as I looked in. But seein' comfortable sofas all around the walls, I steps in, and sot down. There was other ladies goin* in, too, and I couldn't help wonderin' whether they had been takin' ele- vators like me. "It won't do no harm," said I to myself, "to set here a minute or two, till this dizzy spell passes off" — when massy on me ! if I didn't feel myself agoin' up ! Yes, agoin' up I And with me the room, and sofas, and ladies, and all! I clutched a hold of the cushions, and stared kind o' wild, like as not for one of the ladies bit her lips as if contemplating to laugh. And still we was all a goin' up — leastwise it seemed so to me. "It's all on account o' taking' that elevator," thinks I to myself. And then it came upon me, how uncommon appropriate the word was, meanin' a drink. But I couldn't help feelin' scared, particular when I see, all of a sudden, men and women kind o' walking about in the air. Once I jumped up to go out of the room, but a man, workin' some clock-works in the corner; held out his hand. "In one moment, madam !" said he, a-pushin' me back with such an air. "Did you take a elevator?" I whispered to the lady settin' along side of me. She nodded her head without sayin' nothing, and, from her queer look, I reckoned she was worse afflicted, even than I was. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 125 "It's the first one I ever took in my life," continued I. "Our country elevators is more positive to take, but they don't have nothin' like this effect, though I must say such things never oughter to be took except in sickness." "Now, madam," says the clerk, very pompous, "you'll have no difficulty now." Sure enough, I didn't have no difficulty. For a minute, the effect of the elevator passed off suddener than it came. I followed the ladies out lively enough. But, sakes alive ! what a time I had findin' the street-door. I never was so both- ered in all my life ; though I knowed all along what was the mat- ter. But I just kept on, without asking no questions, a-goin', down stairs, and down stairs, and expectin' nothin' else but to find myself in the kitchen, if Mr. Stewart's family lives any- where in the buildin', which is most likely, there bein' enough room, I should think. How I ever got out of that store, I don't never expect to know. But after I once ketched sight of them glass doors I didn't halt till I stood out on the sidewalk, ex- plainin' private to a police that I had been takin' elevators, and wouldn't he put me into a down-town stage. To this day I haven't said a word about the business to Jabez, nor husband, nor no one to home. Some things had best be by- gones. But I feel it a boundin' duty to warn respectable females, great and small, not to be led into takin' elevators when they go into them York stores. Least of all, this new-fangled kind, which is equally fatal in consequences to pure spirits, but tastes like nothin' on earth but water, which leads you to takin' too much. I'M LITTLE, BUT I'M SPUNKY. 15 M little, but I'm spunky, too, I'll tell you all what I can do ; I've got a top that spins ; and I Can make a kite go to the sky. Bill Smith says he has got one, too ; I don't believe he says what's true, And I can tell you just the sign — 'Cause Bill — he always borrows mine! 126 WERNER'S READINGS: AFTER THE BALL: HER REFLECTIONS. Comedy Musical Monologue for a Woman. MEL B. SP.URR. Character : Miss Flossie Fluffytop, Speaker, present. Time : High noon the day after the ball. Scene : A boudoir. On a stand are a bottle of salts and several jars of scents. Piano at one side of room. [Miss Flossie is seated near table zvrapped in a shawl and looking somewhat fagged as she gases at her program.] OH, dear, dear ! How fatigued I do feel, to be sure. I seem, 'positively, to ache in every limb. It does seem a shame that one can't have a little innocent amusement overnight with- out having to suffer so terribly for it next day. I have just had an interview with Dr. Blunt, our family physician, but he really is such an outspoken, unsympathetic old — brute, that I feel very little, if any, better for his visit. He asked me if my head ached ! I told him that it simply felt as if it would split! Then he asked me what else I could expect, after twirling round for several hours like a tee-totum, in a room as hot as an oven. I told him that I was not a tee-totum, and I didn't know anything about ovens. Then he said I was probably suffering from indigestion, and he asked me what I'd had to eat at the ball ? Rude, inquisitive people doctors are, to be sure! I told him I couldn't remember. He said I must. I said I couldn't — it was impossible! He said, "Was it such a lot?" I said, No, it was not such a lot, but I couldn't possibly remember all I ate at a ball. He insisted, so I told him that, as well as I could recollect, I'd had a little clear soup, and just a picking of cod and oyster sauce, and some joint, and an entree or two, and some sweets, and a few ices, and per- haps two or three oranges and an apple and some grapes — noth- Note.— "After the Ball: Her Reflections" and "After the Ball: His Re- flections" are companion monologues which may be recited at same enter- tainment, either by one person or by two persons, woman and man, one following the other. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 127 ing at all out of the way, you know — for a ball! You should have seen the way he glared at me, as he informed me that such a mix- ture as that was enough to destroy the digestion of an elephant. Yes, an elephant — male or female ! The idea of comparing me to an elephant ! — disgusting! Yes, and then he finished up by recommending me to take a good, smart, two hours' walk in the country. The idea ! A morning like this ! He knows that the morn- ing air would make my eyes and nose sore and red, but what does he care about that? Nothing! The old hedgehog! — / hate him. But it was a delightful ball, after all ! There was such a lot of nice fellows there, and good dancers — some of them. I danced every dance, of course. I always do. If I don't, I fill in the blanks when I get home. You can always do that, can't you ? [Looks at program.] I wonder if I can remember any of my partners? [Reads.] "Charlie Honeyford." Ah, I remember Charlie ! Oh, he is. nice ! [If the performer is a pianist, she should here turn round to the piano, and softly accompany the words with suitable music. This, of course, should be kept up to the end of the monologue. Here a ivaltz should be played.] And so handsome, too. Such lovely golden hair and moustache, but very little gold anywhere else, unfortunately. It is a pity, because he's so good-looking. And he dances delightfully. [Reads prograih.] "Captain Claude Crawler." [Plays first figure of lancers, softly.] Yes, that was fun! We danced the lancers, and he didn't know the figures. He had to be pulled through. Oh, have you ever had to pull anybody through the lancers ? Isn't it awful ! You should have seen Captain Claude Crawler after he'd been clawed through. He was all dank and dripping, as if he'd just come up from under water. [Giggles.] It's a shame to laugh at him, but he was too absurd. [Giggles; reads program.] "Benjamin Briefless." He was a barrister. Well, I'll give him his due. He could talk. I never heard a woman talk like him — not even at a mothers' meeting! But he couldn't dance a little bit. His was the hop-skip-jump style of thing. He said "he couldn't slide, he could only hop." And he did hop, too. On to my corns sometimes. We danced the High- 128 WERNER'S READINGS. land schottische, and we separated as usual during the first part, you know. And before I knew where he was, he was jigging away at the other end of the room with a creature in green ! He said he was short-sighted, and didn't know the difference. I thought he was very rude. It was simply adding insult to injury, wasn't it? [Reads program.'] "Maurice Moonshine." [Plays mazourka.] He was a poet ; a real poet. He had lovely unkempt hair. I don't exactly know what unkempt hair is, but I think it must mean un- cut, and then such eyes! — like gimlets! Badly-fitting clothes, too ; all complete — a perfect poet. He asked me in a sort of "cold- drawn castor oil-" y voice if he "might have the pleasure of a dance with me?" Fearing that he might come to some harm if I didn't give him one, I gave him a mazourka, and at the proper time he came for it. The dictionary says that a mazourka is "a sentimental sort of dance." Mr. Moonshine evidently felt it to be so, for he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, clasped my hand with feverish eagerness, and sighed so dismally and so often that I really was afraid he was not very well. I said to him, "Are you not well?" He said, "Well? I am enraptured!" [Dismally.] I said, "Is that the way you look when you are enraptured? You don't look over festive." What do you think he said ? " Tis but a worldly heart that is worn upon the sleeve."' I said, "Oh, that's very pretty, indeed ! Is that Tennyson or Shakespeare, Mr. Moonshine?" He said, "It is neither. It is Moonshine. All Moonshine !" I was very glad when that dance was over. It made me feel quite uncomfortable. [Reads program.] "Harold Horty." Oh, yes! I remember Mr. Horty. He was one of the golden youth of the day. Plenty of money, you know, but very little brain. His conversation was not brilliant, by any means, and was restricted, almost entirely, to that highly epigrammatic expression, " D on' t-you-knozvf" He came up to me languidly, and said, "I hope you've kept a dance for me, Miss Fluffytop, don't-you-know ?" So I gave him a galop. Oh, and it zvas a galop! A donkey's galop, as far as he was concerned, don't-you-know ! [Plays galop softly. ] We AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 129 bumped against everybody, in turn. And every time we bumped he would say, "Shocking lot of dancers they are here, to-night. Aren't they?" And I said, looking full at him, "Yes, some of them are." He didn't see it. He went on, "just in the old sweet way." And, if you please, he seemed to think it was all my fault. Oh ! — I think I never was so mortified in my life. But I had my revenge. Oh, dear, yes ! I saw he was getting very tired. (These sort of men are very soon done up.) So I wouldn't let him stop. He said, "I hope I'm not tiring you, Miss Flufrytop, don't-you- know?" I said, "Oh, no! Not at all, thank you!" and on we went, faster than ever. Then he gasped out — "It's getting rather warm, don't you think?" I said, "Not at all!" and on we went again. At last he was obliged to give in. He said [puffing] , "If you don't mind, we'll stop now, don't-you-know !" Poor fellow ! He was done up, if you like. He had to have a brandy and soda, "to bring him round again, don't-you-knozv! /" [Reads program.] "Percy Powell." [s/^/zs] Ah! — Percy is a perfect darling, "don't-you-know !" He waltzes divinely. [Plays waltz.] And he talks so nicely to you, too, while dancing. None of your stupid, inane, vapid conversation like Mr. Horty's ! — Oh, dear, no ! His is what I call real, intellectual talk. This is the way Percy talks to you while dancing. "Awful lot of peo- ple here to-night." [Looks up and smiles, as if assenting to the remark. N.B. — This business is kept up all through the ensuing remarks of Percy.] "Very warm!" — "Been to many kick-ups this season?" — "Going to the Thompsons' next week?" — "Ah, so am I. I shall see you there. Thanks awfully for this dance. [yawns.] Goo'-ni'." That's the way Percy talks to you. Isn't it nice? That was the last dance I had, and then I had to come away. [The following parody could be used as a finish.] (Air.— "After the Opera is Over.") I'm sorry the dancing is over, So sorry the dancing is done. For supping, and flirting, and dancing, I think is the greatest of fun ! [Skips about stage and exits.] 130 WERNER'S READINGS AFTER THE BALL: HIS REFLECTIONS. Comedy Musical Monologue for a Man. MEL B. SPURR. Character : Mr. Harold Horty, Speaker, present, addresses his conversation to audience. Time : High noon day after the ball. Scene : A den. Table, chairs, etc. On table are brandy and soda. [Mr. Horty drains a glass, sets it on table, shakes himself together, yawns, and then exclaims:] BY Jove ! These balls do knock one over and no mistake. Make one feel kind of knocked-down-and-not-worth-pick- ing-up-again, don't-you-know ! My head feels as if I'd been dancing wrong end up, and I've got a red mark round my neck, as if I'-d been trying to saw my head off. My man tells me that that is caused by my insisting on going to bed with my collar on. Somehow, do you know, I don't remember going to bed at all ! I don't know why I shouldn't, but I don't. I know I feel deuced seedy. I've had a good wash — that pulls a fellow together ; I feel as if I wanted starch-and-ironing as well. Awfully jolly ball that was last night. Some tidy little girls there, don't-you-know. Let me see if I can remember any of my partners. [Looks at program.] By Jove! Is this my writing? It looks like forked lightning more than anything else. Must have been worse than I thought. Now let me see [reads]. "Kate Jesmond Deane." Ah ! A delightful little creature, with — what-you-may-call-'em — sapphire blue eyes and lovely chestnut hair — sort of roast-chest- Note.— "After the Ball : His Reflections" and "After the Ball : Her Re- flections" are companion monologues which may be recited at same enter- tainment, either by one person or by two persons, woman and man, one following the other. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 131 nut hair, don't-you-know ! And such a sweet smile. It's a smile that goes very well with mine. You know, some girls seem to be afraid of their partners, don't they? But not Kitty. She nestles up against a fellow's waistcoat like a bee-yu-tious bee in a balmy butter-cup, don't-you-know! [Reads.] I notice I danced an awful lot with her. "Waltz, Miss Jesmond Deane." "Lancers, Kate." (Told me her name was Kate.) "Polka, Kitty." (Getting on!) "Quadrille, darling Kitty." "Waltz, My own Kitty- Witty." Ah ! That was after the champagne. [Reads.] "Miss Belinda Bluesox." I remember her. A strong-minded party. Tall, thin and jointy — not jaunty, don't- you-know? — jointy. Hostess told me she was a Master of Arts, or something terrible. We had a set of quadrilles together. Fancy going through a set of quadrilles in this petrified mummy sort of style. [Goes through part of first figure of quadrille, zvith arms folded stiffly.] Then, when we were setting to partners, I was going to take her by the waist, as usual. Not a bit of it ! She put out a skinny hand instead. [Imitates, turning round, hand held aloft.] Then her conversation. She asked me if I was fond of literature. I said, "Oh, yes — some. I take the 'Sporting Times' regularly." She said, "What books did I like best?" I said "Those that have pictures in them, don't-you-know?" She said, "Didn't I study any of the arts or sciences?" I said "I did a little in the art of self-defence." I thought she would have to be taken home on a shutter. She was a terror, I tell you. [Reads.] "Flossie Fluff ytop." 'M-yes ! She was recommended to me as a girl with plenty of "go" in her. By Jove! "Go!" — vShe had that with a vengeance. I have often wondered what was meant by "perpetual motion." I think it must be a galop with Miss Flossie Fluffy top. We went twirling and twisting round like a couple- of dervishes ! Ah ! and talking about twists, — what a twist that girl had on her at supper. I'd rather keep her a week than a fortnight, any time. [Reads.] "Maggie MacTaggart." Ou ! Aye! A great, raw- boned Heeland — toe-and-heehnd — lassie, ye ken, don't-you-know. ,i 3 2 , WERNER'S READINGS Hech! The dauchter o' a "braw laird," whatever kind of cattle that may be. We had a real — I was going to say reel — Highland Schottische together. We did it in the native style — war-whoop and all, complete. [Dances the Highland schottische, emitting loud, stentorian "hechs" every now and then. Finishes up in an exhausted state, and fans face with handkerchief.] After about ten minutes of this sort of thing, I was beginning to feel a bit done up, don't-you-know. Miss Maggie MacTaggart looked as if she hadn't turned a hair, so to speak. I gasped out, "It's a fine dance, the Heeland Schottische, ye ken, don't-you-know. Hech!" She said, "Aye, it's no that bad ! But your dances here are naeth- ing but puir creepin' and crawlin'. Ye pay mair attention to yer parrtners than to they dances." "Weel," I said, in my best Jamieson, "and it's a vary guid fault, for a' thot, — Hech!" She said, "Maybe aye, maybe no ! It's ilka mair a canny gilly gaskin, Skirrach !" I said I thocht so mysel', but I couldna' express it sae elegantly. She sniffed again, and said, "Happen we'd better gae at it again." So we "gaed" at it again, and after that I went hame, ye ken, saying, "Hech, hech, hech !" all the way ; and, now I come to think of it, I rather fancy it's that that's given me such a hea.d-hech this morning, ye ken, don't-you-know!!! HECH! WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. Humorous Yankee Dialect Verse Monologue for a Man. O TRANGER here? Yes, come from Varmount, v -^ Rutland county. You'e hern tell Mebbe of the town of Granville? You born there? No! sho! Well, well! You was born at Granville, was you? Then you know Elisha Brown, Him as runs the old meat market At the lower end of town ! Well ! Well ! Well ! Born down in Granville ! And out here, so far away! AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 133 Stranger, I'm homesick already, Though it's but a week to-day Since I left my good wife standin' Out there at the kitchen door, Sayin' she'd ask God to keep me ; And her eyes were runnin' o'er ! You must know ole Albert Withers, Henry Bell and Ambrose Cole? Know them all? And born in Granville ! Well! Well! Well ! Why, bless my soul! Sho ! You're not old Isaac's nephew, — Isaac Green, down on the flat ! Isaac's oldest nephew, — Henry? Well, I'd never thought of that! Have I got a hundred dollars I could loan you for a minute, Till yon buy a horse at Marcy'sf There's my wallet ! Just that in it ! Hold on, though ! You have ten, mebbe, You could let me keep ; you see I might chance to need a little Betwixt now and half-past three ! Ten. That's it; you'll owe me ninety; Bring it round to the hotel. So you're old friend Isaac's nephew? Born in Granville ! Sho ! Well, well ! What ! policeman, did you call me ? That a rascal going there? Well, sir ; do you know I thought so, And I played him pretty fair; Hundred-dollar bill I gave him — Counterfeit — and got this ten ! Ten ahead. No ! you don't tell me, This bad, too? Sho! Sold again! 134 WERNER'S READINGS i AN INTRODUCTION. Romantic Comedy Monologue for a Woman. ANNA WARREN STORY. [Enter Widow laughing heartily.] HA ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Oh ! I beg a thousand pardons — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I cannot help it. I must laugh or I shall die — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Now, imagine ! I am a widow ! Oh, no ! that's not the reason I laugh. No, no ; it is much more droll than that. One of my good lady friends wishes me to marry again, and to bring this about has selected a number of gentlemen whom she thinks suitable for a future husband for me; and she arranged a meeting this evening for one of these gentlemen and me — ha ! ha ! ha! ha! It was at the opera. "Faust!" "Faust!" — poetical and preparatory. I arrived with my friend before my "Future" should come, in order to judge of his entrance. The door opens. He enters. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! I laugh. It is not my fault. It was so funny. Picture this to yourself. The evening was very cold, and the air had given to this (ha! ha! ha! ha!) "Chosen One" among the eligibles a severe cold. He had wound a scarf several times around his head and had forgotten to take it off — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! He looked as if he were a fortification in cashmere ; and his small tip of a red nose seemed like a lighthouse. We are introduced to each other. "Madame" [imitating the salutation of the gentleman], "Monsieur" [making a courtesy]. "Madame" [same as before]. "Monsieur" [same as before]. Then came a long silence — oh, a long silence. I say to myself, "He is looking at me ; he is fascinated." "Beautiful hall," he says to me. "Very beautiful." "Beautiful music." AND RECITATIONS NO. $2. 135 "Oh ! ah ! Perfectly lovely." "Fine execution." "Yes, yes." In fact, everything - was beautiful, except himself. The act being fimshed, he went out to search for the compli- ments he had not paid me, and in leaving the box he dropped his glasses ; for, besides having a cold, he was near-sighted. I said nothing, but pushed the poor man's glasses under the chair. He did not return to look for them, not daring to let me know that he could not see well. "Well, my dear," said my friend, "how do you like him ?" "Really, up to the present moment I only find he has a severe cold." "But, that will not last. Wait — we shall see him again." In speaking we had made a little turn in the box. The orches- tra began the overture to the second act. We seated ourselves, and, without thinking, my friend took my place and I took hers. The door re-opened (ha! ha! ha! ha!) Monsieur re-entered, and, seating himself behind me and leaning toward my ears he said : "Thanks, my dear friend, thanks. She is frightful. She is too dark. She is too large. I will have none of her. Thank you (ha! ha! ha! ha!). Besides, she is stupid; indeed, she is. She has found nothing to say to me, and I have taken up every sort of subject. Find me another, but not this lady." Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! He had not recognized me. We were both dressed in black ; he had mistaken me for my friend, and had given me my panegyric (ha! ha! ha! ha!). A burst of laughter made him comprehend his mistake, my voice serving him as a glass. "Oh ! Madame ! Many excuses ! Many pardons — many — many " The emotion gave him extra cold and he began to sneeze and sneeze and sneeze, and I — I laughed and laughed and laughed to such an extent that I finally escaped that I might come and laugh with you, for I am sure he will go on sneezing forever. I shall remain a widow. 136 WERNER'S READINGS WHEN PAPA'S SICK. Comedy Verse Recital for a Boy. JOE LINCOLN. WHEN papa's sick, my goodness sakes! Such awful, awful times it makes. He speaks in, oh ! such lonesome tones, And gives such ghastly kind of groans, And rolls his eyes and holds his head, And makes ma help him up to bed, While Sis and Bridget run to heat Hot-water bags to warm his feet, And I must get the doctor, quick, — We have to jump when papa's sick. When papa's sick, ma has to stand Right 'side the bed and hold his hand, While Sis, she has to fan an' fan, For he says he's "a dyin' man," And wants the children round him to Be there when "sufferin' pa gets through;" He says he wants to say good-bye And kiss us all, and then he'll die; Then moans and says his "breathin's thicks- It's awful sad when papa's sick. When papa's sick he acts that way Until he hears the doctor say, "You've only got a cold, you know; You'll be all right 'n a day or so;" And then — well, say — you ought to see — He's different as he can be, And growls and swears from noon to night Just 'cause his dinner am' 4- cooked right; And all he does is fuss and kick, — We're all used up when papa's sick. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 137 WHEN PA GETS SICK. Comedy Verse Recital for a Boy. WHEN pa gets sick he always knows He's go'n ter die, an' Tommy goes For Doctor Quack, an' 'fore he 'rives I'm hurried off for Doctor Ives, An' ma an' Bess an' auntie, too, For liniments an' gruels go, An' plasters an' the warmin' brick An' everything, — when pa gets sick. No one of us is 'lowed to play, The baby's sent across the way, The 'pothecary's boy's about, The hull time runnin' in an' out. The house so with his groans is filled, Folks stop to ask who's gettin' killed, An' misery is piled on thick For everyone, — when pa gets sick. We never have no table set ; Cold vittles is the best we get, For cook is busy to the brim Contrivin' dainty things for him; An* studyin' it in my mind I'm good deal more'n half inclined To think — although I dassent kick — We suffer most when pa gets sick. U8 WERNER'S READINGS IF I CAN BE BY HER. Romantic Stammering Dialect Verse Monologue. BEN KING. ID-D-DON'T c-c-c-are how the r-r-r-obin sings, Er how the r-r-r-ooster f-f-flaps his wings, Er whether 't sh-sh-shines, er whether 't pours, Er how high up the eagle s-s-soars, It I can b-b-b-be by her. I don't care if the p-p-p-people s-say 'At I'm weak-minded every-w-way, An' n-n-never had no cuh-common sense, I'd c-c-c-cuh-climb the highest p-picket fence If I could b-b-b-be by her. If I can be by h-h-her, I'll s-s-swim The r-r-r-est of life thro' th-th-thick an' thin ; I'll throw my overcoat away, An' s-s-s-stand out on the c-c-c-oldest day, If I can b-b-b-be by her. You s-s-see sh-sh-she weighs an awful pile, B-b-b-but I d-d-d-don't care — sh-she's just my style, An' any f-f-fool could p-p-p-lainly see She'd look well b-b-b-by the side of me, If I could b-b-b-be by her. I b-b-b-braced right up, and had the s-s-s-and To ask 'er f-f-f-father f-f-fer 'er hand ; He said: "Wh-wh-what p-p-prospects have you got?" I said : "I gu-gu-guess I've got a lot, If I can b-b-b-be by her." AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 139 AT THE BOX-OFFICE. Comedy Monologue for a Young Lady. ELSIE LIVERMORE. Characters : Alice, Speaker, present ; Margaret, an ac- quaintance, several men all supposed to be present. Scene : Alice is standing in line looking in at window ; turning suddenly, she discovers an acquaintance near stage front R. HELLO, Margaret ! Yes, dear, I have been standing in line the longest time, perfect ages. I'm just about dead. Such a string of stupid men have been ahead of me, and they have all been so long making up their minds. I should think they would decide what they wanted before they came, wouldn't you? I always do. Are you after tickets, too ? That's nice. I love company. Now, dear, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll let you stand right here behind me and then you won't have to go away down the line. [To a man in the rear:] What, sir? Well, I'll have you under- stand, sir, this lady is a friend of mine, and I have a perfect right to allow her to stand beside me if I wish ! The idea, Margaret ; that man objects to your standing here ! It's awful waiting, isn't it? I wouldn't do it for anyone but Hackett, but I simply adore him. What do you think of my new hat, dear? Rather "swell," I think. I bought it at "Maguirett's." 'Her prices are something atrocious. Why, my dear, will you be- lieve me, she wanted twenty-five dollars for an ordinary walking- hat with nothing on it but a rosette ? Of course, it had style, but when I pay that amount for style I want it to consist of something more than a bow of ribbon. Did you go to the whist yesterday? What did Maude wear? The one trimmed with pink? Mercy, she's worn that since the year One. Have anything good to eat ? Is that all ? Well, thank goodness ! I didn't go. You always get lobster salad at whists, just as you get chops and green peas at luncheons. 140 ■ WERNER'S READINGS Awfully uninteresting set of people here this morning, espe- cially the men. Just look at this man ahead of me. I hate that type of person, don't you ? So insignificant ! Think he must be buying up the whole house, he's certainly been there long enough. Anyway, I come next. There, he's through at last. [To the ticket seller:'] Two seats, please. Oh, Saturday, yes, matinee. Best seats, I always buy the best seats. Are those the best seats you can give me? Isn't there anything nearer? I couldn't possibly think of sitting back of D., and I must insist on aisle seats. (You know, Margaret, Jennie and I always draw to see which one shall buy the caramels and have the aisle seats.) How much are these? Two dollars apiece? I call that robbery. Why, I have sat there any number of times and never paid more than a dollar. Let me see something cheaper, please. Dollar and a half? Way back there? That's funny! You can get lovely seats at the Bijou for that price, — front row, I believe.' I never would pay a dollar and a half to sit there. Where are the dollar seats? Oh, balcony. Oh, Jennie wouldn't like those. She couldn't see a thing. She's a trifle near-sighted, although she doesn't like to admit it. Will Ellen Terry play Saturday after- noon? Isn't she in the company ? Oh, no, of course not. I recol- lect now. She plays with Faversham, doesn't she ? I always get so mixed. Anyway, I know I've seen Hackett. I don't remember much about the play, but he was too dear for anything. It was "Henry VIII." or "Sherlock Holmes" or something like that, and he wore purple tights and looked stunning. [To the man behind:'] What, sir ? No, I haven't decided yet what I want. I've been standing in line one solid hour, and I don't intend to rush now for anyone. (Men are so rude!) What can you give me for fifty cents ? Second balcony ? That's what they call "nigger heaven," isn't it ? I never sat there myself, but I know real nice people who do go there. Carrie White goes there a lot, and she's an awfully swell girl. By the way, Mar- garet, have you seen that new coat Carrie's wearing? My dear, it's a dream ! — gray broadcloth made with the new style sleeves AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 141 and trimmed with Oh, yes, beg pardon, I forgot about the seats. Yes, I will decide at once. What? Yes, I know there are others waiting, but I've been waiting myself and I didn't com- plain. [To the man in the rear:] I think it very impolite of you men to talk so. There aren't any seats cheaper than fifty cents, are there ? Well, I thought I'd inquire. I've known places where you could get the best seats for thirty cents. Xo, it wasn't this theatre. Now., what would advise, Margaret ? To-day is Thursday, and Sat There, what am I thinking about ? I can't go Saturday, of course not. That's the very day Maude and I planned to cut out shirt- waists. Isn't that mean? Well, I'll have to give up the matinee, that's all there is about it. Why, I never saw such rude men in my life. I think it very strange if a lady can't buy theatre tickets without being insulted. I'll never patronize this theatre again. I'll go where I will be treated civilly and where I can buy a decent seat without paying all creation. Margaret, don't you buy tickets, either. Come, dear, let's go down to Hurler's and have a soda. WHEN THE MINISTER CAME TO TEA. JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS. M ANY a solemn conference Went on in high-backed seat, And long we pondered, in grave suspense, What the minister 'd like to eat. And never a royal pilgrimage So fluttered a realm in fee ; For the hurrying footsteps came and went, And the heart beat thick for the great event, When the minister came to tea. Oh, the pewter was polished brave and bright, And the silver shone like glass, 142 WERNER'S READINGS With never a spot or a speck in sight Where the clerical eye might pass. For mother was up in the early dawn, And calling to Ann and me, And the floor was sanded in scrolls and waves, And we learned how a good little girl behaves When the minister comes to tea! Then the cream plop-plop'd in the waiting churn. And our arms grew tired and lame As we patiently did our share in turn Till the clerical butter came. But our thoughts kept pace with the dasher's stride r Telling with secret glee To all unhonored by such a guest, How the minister talked and ate and dressed When he came to our house to tea. Oh, the things we piled on the willow plates, And the things we sniffed with pride ! And the solemn visitor in our gates — Did he chuckle a bit inside? Under his grave, abstracted air, And the texts that he turned on me, And his sighing comments on worldlv dross, And his somber dealing with damson sauce- Did the minister like his tea? . Was he a human, after all, This great grandee of souls? Well, Heaven be praised that he did not fall At the lure of our cakes and rolls. For never was glorious pride like ours (And never again shall be) When the warming-pan rubbed the icy sheet. For the sake of four little tired feet, And the minister'd been to tea ! AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 143 THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA. Comedy Verse Monologue for a Boy. OH ! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; And the whatnot's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat. Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin up her bangs, Ma's got her best alpacky and she's askin' how it hangs. Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G, And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea. Oh ! the table's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged chiny set, And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; And we're going to have some fruit-cake and some thimbleberry jam, And "riz biscuits" and some doughnuts, and some chicken and some ham. Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, And "sich awful luck with cookin' she is sure she never had," But of course she's only bluffm', for it's as prime as prime can be, And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea. Everybody is a smilin' and as good as ever wuz, Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does, And he'll ask me would I like another piece of pie ; but sho ! That, er course, is only manners an' I'm s'posed ter answer "No !" Sis'll talk about the church work and about the Sunday-school, Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule, And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word to me — Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea ! Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never'd say what wasn't true; But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; 'Cause when sis plays the organ so it makes yer want ter die, 144 WERNER'S READINGS Why, he sits and says it's lovely, and that seems to me a lie. But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay At our house for good and always and eat with us every day ; Only think of havin' goodies every evenin' ! Jiminee ! And I'd never get a scoldin' with the minister ter tea! MEAN LITTLE TORMENT. MY name's Jack. I'm eight years old. I've a sister Arathusa, and she calls me a little torment. I'll tell you why. You know Arathusa has got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas 'way, 'way down 'till you can't hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night. I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went to the door to let Alphonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa, and I couldn't hear nothing but smack ! smack ! smack ! Then I reached out and jerked Arathusa's foot. Then she jumped and said, "Oh, mercy, what's that?" and Alphonso said she was a "timid little creature." "Oh, Alphonso, I'm happy by your side, but when I think of your going away it almost breaks my heart." Then I snickered right out, I couldn't help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the key-hole and said, "I do believe that's Jack — mean little torment — he's always where he isn't wanted." Do you know, this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa and stood up before her and said, "You think you are smart because you wear a Grecian bend. I guess I know what you've been doing; you've been sitting on Alphonso's lap, and letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If it hadn't been for that old false front of yours, pa would have let me have a bicycle like Tom Clifford's. You needn't be grinding them false teeth of yours at me; I ain't a-goin' out of here. I ain't so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don't care if you are 28 years old, you ain't no boss of me!" AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. . 14S "STUDYING GERMAN." Comedy Monologue for a Girl. SARAH E. PITTMAN. Written Expressly for this Book. Scene : Enter Girl with book in hand ; begins studying as she enters. < ' T CH— haba— gahabt— 1 Du es" — no, no — "Du hast gahabt — Er — se" — Oh, shoo fly, — I never can learn such gibberish ! "Ich haba — Ich — Ich" — Christopher Columbus, how it does twist my tongue, but I must learn it — of course I must learn it — if it puts every muscle in my face out of joint. "Du hast gahabt." Jehosaphat, I believe I've got the lockjaw now. "Ich haba, Ich haba, Ich haba" — when I learn to speak this beloved language fluently, I am going to Europe, to visit Germany, to sit beside the Emperor like Consuela did, and to charm him with my "Ich haba gahabt." I shall be able by that time to pronounce it very much better than I do now. Dear me, I am beginning to think that I am getting on very slowly — quite discouraged at times — looks as if there was no Dutch in me. "Du hast gahabt — Du has — Du" — Oh, the poor old Professor, how he does scowl and how earnestly he will say, "Oh, my dear mees, you nefar study much, I fears you should apply your mind -—you me so fery much worried" — Worried ! worried ? — I'd like to know what about me? you old goose — "Ich haba gahabt," not much, old fellow, I no love you — but I really do believe — to give him his dues — he does try his level best to bang the stuff into my head. Ha ! ha ! ha ! He fairly shivers with a chill at my blun- ders — ha ! ha ! ha ! — I really believe that I will be the microbe that will develop nervous prostration in his anatomy — ha! ha! 146 WERNER'S READINGS ha ! ha ! It is too absolutely funny to see him start and stretch out that long bony hand, with his waving head keeping time with his spreading "diggits" — and an awful agonizing look on his face as he listens to my — "Ich haba gahabt, gahabt, gahabt — Du, Du ■ — es es gahabt, gahabt — Du hast gahabt — Ha ! ha ! It's enough to make a monkey laugh. He is ready to expire with disgust, but he don't. He simply gulps down his wrath, pockets his profane ammunition, and will say quite amiably, with a prophetic shake of his head : "Oh, veil, veil, you vill some time learn." But this isn't trying to learn some time — "Ich haba gahabt — Du hast gahabt" — yes, I think everybody has loved some time in their lives — now I do wonder if that old Prof, ever felt the sting of Cupid's dart — ha! ha! — "Ich, Ich" — ha! ha! — I've just thought of a bright idea — a startling announcement. I'll just marry the old Prof, and that will end all further bother and worri- ment, for he can furnish Dutch enough for the family — I'll have to do all the courting — "Ich haba" — he wouldn't know how, ha ! ha ! ha ! wouldn't he think that a whole Fourth of July had ex- ploded at his feet, if I was to say — well — I hardly know just how I should pop the question. I would have to wait for the occasion to give me the inspiration. But I must get my lesson without any more shilly-shallying — "Ich, Ich" — oh, this old grammar is the plague of my life. I think I'll give up modern classics, but what could I do with Greek ? No, I must stick to this : "Ich haba gahabt — Du hast gahabt — Er — es — ha ga " Oh, con — 'Script the in ternal revenue stamps — there, go into that corner and stay there until called for with your "Ich haba gahabt, etc., etc." I like the plain English to tell the old story : "I love I have loved Thou lovest Thou hast loved He loves He hast loved." AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 147 'BILL THAY.' Comedy Lisping Dialect Monologue for a Boy. MARY TUCKER MAGILL. Characters : Master Brown, Speaker, present , who addresses his conversation to audience; Bill Smith, supposed to enter towards end of monologue. [Enter Master Brown slowly and awkwardly, looks at audi- ence as if listening to a question, smiles, nods, hunches himself, and speaks.] YETH, me an' him 'th right intimate. He knoweth more than I do, 'cauth he'th had more exthperienth. Bill thay hith father wath a robber. Bill thay that he'th got ten millionth of dollarth of gold buried down in hith thellar along with a lot of human boneth, people he'th killed. An' Bill thay that hith father makth all the earth- quakth that happen anywhere in the world, an' when the old man comth home thometimes, he feelth tho thorry for him, 'cauth he'th all tired to death makin' earthquakth. It thtandth to reathon it'th hard work tearin' up the earth that way. An' Bill thay that hith father juth taketh bith out of people if he don't like 'em, an a lightnin'-rod man come along one day, an' Bill thay hith father juth ate him right up, 'cauth he got mad at him. An' Bill thay one day he wath a'flyin' of a kite, an' he had one of theth little dogth that juth run along, an' Bill thay he tied the kite to the dogth tail juth for fun, an' prethently the wind thruck Her an' the went boomin' down the thtreet about a mile with her hind legth in the air. Prethently the kite commenthed going up. Thoon the dogth was fifteen milth high, an' could thee California an' Egypt, an' Oshkosh, I think Bill thed, or it thound like that, but I don't like to thay for thertain. Anyhow, I know he come down in Brathil, an' he thwam all the way home in the Atlantic 148 WERNER'S READINGS ocean, an' when he got there all hith legth wath et off by the tharkth. I with my father would give me a dogth tho I could thend it off that way, but he never givth me nothin'. I never have no fun like Bill doth; he'th too thtrick. Bill thay another time he wath a-flyin' of hith kite, an' he went up on top of the houth to give himthelf plenty of room, an' thet up on the chimley, an' the old man had put a keg of powder down below there to blow the thut out of the chimley, an' he thet her off juth then, an' Bill wath blowed over againtht the Baptith church thteeple, an' he hung on there for four dayth before they could get him off. He juth lived by eatin' the crowth that come an' thet on him, 'cauth they thought he wath made out of theet- iron and put there for purputh. Bill thay that hith brother invented a thothage thtuffer onth. It wath a kind of a mathine, what worked with a treadle. You put the mathine on the hog'th back an' the hog'th foot on the treadle, an' you thuck him with a pin an' that made the hogth move the treadle, you know, an' in a minute the hogth wath cut up in fine pieces in the treddle an' thtuffed an' thkinned, an' Bill thay hith brother called every hogth hith own thtuffer. That muth o' bin a right curiouth kind of a mathine to work. I can't juth thee how he did it, but I know ith tho, 'cauth Bill'th a good boy, he ith, an' never tellth no thtorieth. He goeth to Thunday thkool, he doeth. He'th a good boy, he ith, an' he told me about hith uncle what lived out in Authtralia, what wath et by a big oythter; an' he thtayed there till he et the oythter. Then he thplit the thellth open, took one of 'em for a boat, an' he thailed along, an' he thailed along, till he come to a thea-therpent, an' juth caught it an' thripped ith thkin all off of it, an' thold it to an engine com- pany to put out fireth with. He thold it for forty thouthand dollarth. An' Bill thay the Injunth took him wunth an' they cut hith thcalp off, an' thtuck him half a dothen timeth through the body, an' never hurt him a bit. He juth made hith ethcape by the daughter of the chief takin' him out of the wigwam an' givin' AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 149 him a horth to ride. Bill thay — Bill thay— he ! he !— that the wath in love with him. He thay he could thow me the holth in hith body now, but he'th afraid to take hith cloth off, fear he'd bleed to death. Nobody don't know about it. Wouldn't tell the old man 'cauth he'th 'fraid he'd worry about it. Bill thay he ain't goin' to Thunday thkool no more ; thay he'th goin' to turn a heathen, 'cauth hith father'th got a brath idol at home. He'th goin' to wear a blanket an' carry a tomahawk ath thoon ath the weather geth warm. Bill thay hith father dug a big hole under thith thity, an' got it all filled up with dynamite an' powder an' thingth, an' he'th goin' to blow her up when he geth ready. An' Bill thay he goin' to tell me, tho I can get away. Bill liketh me, he do. An' Bill thay — but thar'th Bill now ; do you hear him whithlin' ? I ecthpec' he srot thomethin' more to tell me. I muth s:o. Good-bye. WELCOME. A Child's Speech. IT scares me, my friends, to speak to you to-night. My heart goes pitty pat. I want to speak my piece and can scarce think what to say. Mine is a speech of welcome. I am to say welcome to you all, right welcome to our hall, our hearts, and to hear what we have to say. Some of the larger boys who are studying arith- metic and geography and grammar will make believe they are orators, or generals or kings, but I don't ; you all know me and it's no use for me to pretend to be what I am not ; besides, I can welcome you just as well, just as I am, and now I say, you are just as welcome as you can be. We are real glad you are here. iWe wondered if you would come, we wanted you to come, we are glad you have come, we thank you for your coming. Now you know you are welcome. 150 WERNER'S READINGS THE LONG AGO. Comedy Monologue for a Man. Translated and arranged from the French expressly for this book by Lucy Hayes Macqueen. Character : A Man, the Speaker. ONCE upon a time, long ago — but long ago is not a strong enough expression. It was a long, long, long, long time ago. Well, once upon a time, long ago — one day — no, there was neither day nor night then — so one time — what else can I say ? — there came into someone's head — no, there were no heads then — anyhow, an idea came — that is a good expression — an idea came to someone to do something. He wanted to drink — but what was there to drink? There were no wines nor beers, then ; no sauterne, champagne, ver- mouth, absinthe, cocktail, brandy, white wine, red wine, cider, water, ginger ale, — nor anything to drink. You see, times have improved since then, very much. Well, not being able to drink, he decided to eat, but to eat what ? There was no turtle soup then, no turbot with caper sauce, no roast-beef, no beef a la mode, no sauerkraut, no potatoes, no pears, no cheese — no indigestion, no blues, nothing of that kind. You see how times have improved since then. [Gay/y.] So, not being able to eat nor drink, he decided to sing — but to sing what? ' [Sadly.] There were no drinking songs, no love ditties with "flower" and "our," and "love" and "dove" rhyming sweetly in them ; there was no flute nor guitar nor mandolin, then ; not even a piano upon which the inn-keeper's daughter could play an accompaniment while he sang. What progress the world has made since then ! So, as he could not sing, he wanted to dance, but where ? There were no balls, then, nor little home dancing parties where au AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 151 ogre of a father and an eagle-eyed mother keep their eyes on you all the time ; there was no chocolate to spill over your clothing — nothing of that kind whatever ; and no pretty young ladies to be your partners — so what was the use of dancing? Then, since he could not eat, drink, sing nor dance, he could only sleep. So he decided to go to bed. But there was no night, no bed, no pretty wadded silk coverlets, no warm-water bath, no night-lamp on the table and French novel — well, you see, we have made some progress since then. Then, he decided to fall in love. He said to himself, I shall be very affectionate ; I shall sigh ; it will be a distraction ; I shall even be jealous, and beat my — my what? Beat whom? What? Be jealous of whom ? Whom shall I love — sigh for ? For a brunette? There are no brunettes. For a blonde? There are no blondes. There are no black locks, nor gold locks, nor red locks — not even a false wig — for there are no ladies at all, any- where. Women had not been invented then. Oh, what progress we have made since then ! Then, I shall die, he said. [Resignedly-] I want to die — but how? There were no Brooklyn bridges to jump off, then — no ropes to hang one's self with, no revolvers, no fatal diseases, no drugs, no apothecaries and — no doctors ! Then, he wanted to do nothing. [Plaintively.'] What more unhappy position could one be in! [Joyfully.] But no — do not pity him — there were no unhappy positions then — no unhappi- ness. Happiness and unhappiness are modern, you know — people were neither happy nor unhappy long ago. So ends — but no — there was no end, then'; endings had not been invented. To end is an invention of our times — it is a part of our progress. Oh, progress, progress! [He walks stupidly off stage.] 152 WERNER'S READINGS WHEN PA WAS A BOY. Comedy Child Dialect Monologue. S. E. RISER. I WISH 'at I'd of been here when My paw he was a boy; They must of been excitement then — When my paw was a boy. In school he always took the prize, He used to lick boys twice his size — ■ I bet folks all had bulgin' eyes ■ When my paw was a boy ! There was a lot of wonders done When my paw was a boy ; How grandpa must have loved his son, When my paw was a boy ! He'd git the coal and chop the wood, And think up every way he could To always just be sweet and good — When my paw was a boy ! Then everything was in its place, When my paw was a boy; How he could rassle, jump and race, When my paw was a boy ! He never, never disobeyed ; He beat in every game he played — Gee ! What a record they was made ! When my paw was a boy ! I wish 'at I'd of been here when My paw he was a boy; AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 153 They'll never be his like agen — Paw was the moddle boy, But still last night I heard my maw Raise up her voice and call my paw The biggest goose she ever saw — He ought of stayed a boy. POSTPONED. Pathetic Monologue in Verse for a Man. CHARLES E. BAER. [Anyone familiar with farm life knows that when the old dog becomes blind, tooth- less, and helpless it is the sad but humane duty of the farmer to put an end to his sufferings; it is generally done by taking him off to the woods and shooting him. Although the new dog quickly wins his place in our affections, the old is not soon forgotten.] Character: Farmer, Speaker; Dog, supposed to be present. Costume : Farmer clothes and carrying a gun. Scene : Enter Farmer at Stage L., upper entrance. COME along, old chap, yer time's 'bout up, We got another brindle pup ; I 'lows it's tough an' mighty hard, But a toothless dog's no good on guard; So trot along right after me, An' I'll put yeh out o' yer misery. Now, quit yer waggin' that stumpy tail — We ain't a-goin' fer rabbit er quail ; 'Sides, yeh couldn't pint a bird no more, Yer old an' blind an' stiff an' sore, An' that's why I loaded the gun to-day — Yer a-rittin' cross an' in the way. I been thinkin' it over ; 'tain't no fun. I don't like to do it, but it's got to be done ; Got sort of a notion, veh know, too, 154 WERNER'S READINGS The kind of a job we're goin' to do, Else, why would yeh hang back that a-way, Yeh ain't ez young ez yeh once wuz, hey ! Frisky dog in them days, I note, When yeh nailed the sneak thief by the throat, Can't do that now, an' there ain't no need A-keepin' a dog that don't earn his feed. So yeh got to make way for the brindle pup; Come along, old chap, yer time's 'bout up. We'll travel along at an easy jog — Course, yeh don't know, bein' only a dog; But I can mind when yeh wuz sprier, Wakin' us up when the barn caught fire — It don't seem possible, yet I know That was close onto fifteen year ago. My, but yer hair wuz long an' thick When yeh pulled little Salley out o' the crick ; An' it came in handy that night in the storm, We coddled to keep each other warm. Purty good dog, I'll admit — but, say, What's the use o' talkin', yeh had yer day. I'm hopin' the children won't hear the crack, Er what I'll say when I git back ? They'd be askin' questions, I know their talk, An' I'd have to lie 'bout a chicken hawk; But the sound won't carry beyond this hill, All done in a minute — don't bark, stand still. There, that'll do; steady, quit lickin' my hand. What's wrong with this gun, I can't understand; I'm jest ez shaky ez I can be — Must be the agey's the matter with me. An' that stich in the back — what ! gittin' old, too — = The — dinner — bell's — ringin' — fer — me — an' you. AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 155 PLEASURE EXERTION. Comedy Yankee Dialect Character Sketch Recital for a Woman. MARIETTA HOLLEY. Character : Josiah Allen's Wife, Speaker, present, who directs her conversation to audience. ALL summer long Josiah Allen had beset me to go to a pleasure exertion with him, and I have had to work head- work to make excuses and quell him down. But last week they was goin' to have one out on the lake, on a island, and that man sot his foot down that go he would. We was to the breakfast-table a talkin' it over, and says I : "I shan't go, for I am afraid of big water, anyway." Says Josiah : "You are jest as liable to be killed in one place as another." "Mebby I shall be drounded on dry land, Josiah Allen, but I don't believe it." "Wall," says he, "I guess I'll have another griddle-cake, Samantha." And as he poured the maple-syrup over it, he added gently, but firmly : "I shall go, Samantha, to this exertion, and I should be glad to have you present at it, because it seems jest to me as if I should fall overboard durin' the day." Men are deep. Now that man knew that no amount of re- ligious preachin' could stir me up like that one speech. I went. We had got to start about the middle of the night, for the lake was 15 miles from Jonesville, and the old mare bein' so slow, we had got to start an hour or two ahead of the rest. I told Josiah that I had jest as lieves set up all night, as to be routed out at two o'clock, but he was so animated and happy at the idee of goin' that he said that we would go to bed before dark, and get as much sleep as we commonly did. So we went to bed with the sun an hour high. And I was truly tired enough to lay down, for I had worked that day almost beyond my strength. But we hadn't 156 WERNER'S , READINGS more'n got settled down into the bed, when we heard a buggy stop at the gate, and I got up and peeked through the window, and I see it was visitors come to spend the evenin'. Elder Bamber and his family, and Deacon Dobbins'es folks. Josiah vowed that he wouldn't stir one step out of that bed that night. But I argued with him pretty sharp, while I was throwin' on my clothes, and I finally got him started up. I thought if I got my clothes all on before they came in, I wouldn't tell 'em that I had been to bed. And I did get all dressed up, even to my handkerchief-pin. And I guess they had been there as much as ten minutes before I thought that I hadn't took my night-cap off. They looked dretful curious at me, but I never said nothin'. But when Josiah come out of the bedroom with what little hair he has got standin' out in every direction, and one of his galluses a-hangin' most to the floor, I up and told 'em. I thought mebby they wouldn't stay long. But Deacon Dobbins'es folks seemed to be all waked up on thu subject of religion, and they proposed we should turn it into a kind of a conference meetin' ; so they never went home until after ten o'clock. It was most eleven when Josiah and me got to bed again. And then jest as I was gettin' into a drowse, I heerd the cat in the buttery, and I got up to let her out. And that rousted Josiah up, and he thought he heerd the cattle in the garden, and he got up and went out. And there we was a-marchin' round most all night. But as bad and wore out as Josiah felt bodily, he was all ani- mated in his mind about what a good time he was goin' to have. I wanted to wear my brown and black gingham and a shaker, but Josiah insisted that I should wear a new lawn dress that he had brought me home as a present. So, to please him, I put it on, and my best bonnet. And that man, all I could do and say, would put on a pair of pantaloons I had been amakin' for Thomas Jefferson. They was gettin' up a military company to Jonesville, and these pantaloons was blue, with a red stripe down the sides. Josiah took a awful fancy to 'em, and says he : • AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 157 "I will wear 'em, Samantha; they look so dressy." Says I : "They hain't hardly done. I was goin' to stitch that red stripe on the left leg on again. They hain't finished as they ort to be, and I would not wear 'em. It looks vain in you." Says he : "I will wear 'em, Samantha. I will be dressed up for once." So he put 'em on. I had good vittles, and a sight of 'era. The basket wouldn't hold 'em all, so Josiah had to put a bottle of red rassberry jell into the pocket of his dress-coat, and lots of other little things, such as spoons and knives and forks, in his pantaloons and breast- pockets. He looked like Captain Kidd, armed up to the teeth, and I told him so. But, good land ! he would have carried a knife in his mouth if I had asked him to, he felt so neat about goin', and boasted so on what a splendid exertion it was goin' to be. We got to the lake about eight o'clock. We was about the first ones there, but they kep' a-comin', and before ten o'clock we all got there. I had made up my mind from the first out to face trouble, so it didn't put me out so much when Deacon Dobbins, in gettin' into the boat, stepped onto my new lawn dress, and tore a hole in it as big as my two hands, and ripped it half ofren the waist. But Josiah got worked up awfully when the wind took his hat off and blew it away out onto the lake. I did the best I could by him. I pinned on his red bandanna handkerchief onto his head. But as I was a-fixim it on, I see there was sunthin' more than mortification ailed him. The lake was rough and the boat rocked, and he was beginnin' to be awful sick. He looked deathly. Pretty soon I felt bad, too. Oh ! the wretchedness of that time. I have enjoyed poor health consider- able in my life, but never did I enjoy so much sickness in so short a time as I did on that pleasure exertion to that island. When we reached there, we was both weak as cats. Finally, I got so I could walk straight, and sense things a little, and I began to take the things out of my dinner-basket. The but- ter had all melted and a lot of water had swashed over the side of 158 WERNER'S READINGS the boat, so ray cake and cookies looked awfully mixed up. But no worse than the rest of the company's did. The chicken and cold meat bein' more solid had held together quite well, though it was all very wet and soppy. We didn't feel so animated about eatin' as we should if we hadn't been so sick to our stomachs. But we felt as if we must hurry, for the man that owned the boat said he knew it would rain before night, by the way the sun scalded. Wall, all of a sudden I thought, where is Josiah ? I asked the company wildly if they had seen my companion, Josiah. They said, "No, they hadn't." But Celestine Wilkin's little girl says, 'T seen him goin' off towards the woods. He acted dretful strange, too; he seemed to be a-walkin' off sideways." "Had the sufferin's he had undergone made him delirious?" says I to myself; and then I started off on the run towards the woods, and old Miss Bobbet, and Miss Gowdy, and Sister Bam- ber, and Deacon Dobbins'es wife all rushed after me. Oh, the agony of them two or three minutes ! All of a sudden, on the edge of the woods, we found him. He sot backed up against a tree, in a awful cramped position, with his left leg under him. Miss Gowdy hollered out : "Oh, here you be. We have been skairt about you. What is the matter?" He smiled a dretful sick smile, and, says he : "Oh, I thought I would come out here and meditate a spell. It was always a real treat to me to meditate." Says I, "What is the matter, Josiah Allen?" "I am a-meditatin', Samantha." Says I, "Do you come down and jine the company this minute, Josiah Allen." The wimmen happened to be a-lookin' the other way for a min- ute, and he looked at me as if he would take my head off, and made the strangest motions towards 'em ; but the minute they looked at him he would pretend to smile, that deathly smi'le. Says I, "Come, Josiah Allen, we're goin' to get dinner right away, for we are afraid it will rain." AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 159 "Oh, wall," says he, "a little rain, more or less, hain't a-goin' to hender a man from meditatin'." Says I, "Do you stop meditatin' this minute, Josiah Allen !" Says he, "I won't stop, Samantha. I let you have your way a good deal of the time ; but when I take it into my head to medi- tate, you hain't a goin' to break it up." Jest at that minute they called to me from the shore and we had to start off. But, oh ! the gloom of my mind. Had the suf- fering of the night added to the trials of the day made him crazy ? I thought more'n as likely as not I had got a luny on my hands for the rest of my days. The distress of that pleasure exertion ! But I kep' to work, and when we had got dinner most ready, I went back to call Josiah again. Old Miss Bobbet said she would go with me. So we started up the hill. Says I, "Come, Josiah Allen, dinner is ready." "Oh ! I hain't hungry," says he. "The table will probable be full. I had jest as lieves wait." "Table full !" says I. "You know jest as well as I do that we are eatin' on the ground. Do you come and eat your dinner this minute!" "Yes, do come," says Miss Bobbet, "we can't get along without you." "Oh ! I have got plenty to eat here — I can eat muskeeters." The air was black with 'em, I couldn't deny it. "The muskeeters will eat you more likely," says I. "Look at your face and hands ; they are all covered with 'em." "Yes, they have eat considerable of a dinner out of me, but I don't begrech 'em. I hain't small enough, nor mean enough, I hope, to begrech 'em one good meal." Miss Bobbet started off, and after she had got out of sight, Josiah whispered to me : "Can't you bring forty or fifty more wimmen up here? You couldn't come here a minute, could you, without a lot of other wimmen tight to your heels?" It seems he had sot down on that bottle of rassberrv Jell. That 160 WERNER'S READINGS AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. red stripe on the side wasn't hardly finished, as I said, arid I hadn't fastened my thread properly, so when he got to pullin' at 'em to try to wipe off the jell, the thread started, and bein' sewed on a machine, that seam jest ripped right open from top to bot- tom. Wall, I pinned 'em up as wall as I could, and I didn't say a word to hurt his feelin's, only I jest said this to him: "Josiah Allen, is this pleasure?" "Throw that in my face again, will you ? There goes a pin into my leg! I should think I had suffered enough without your stabbin' of me with pins." I fixed 'em as wall as I could, but they looked pretty bad. Finally, I told him I would put my shawl onto him. So I doubled it up corner-ways as big as I could, and he walked back to the table with me. So he told the company he always loved to wear summer shawls ; he thought it made a man look so dressy. But he looke~3 as if he would sink all the time he was a-sayin' it. He was sick all the way back to the shore, and so was I. And jest as we got into our wagons and started for home the rain began to pour down. The wind turned our old umbrell inside out in no time. I says to Josiah : "This bonnet and dress are spilt, Josiah Allen, and I shall have to buy some new ones." "Wall ! wall ! who said you wouldn't ?" he snapped out. And there we jest sot and suffered. The rain poured down; the wind howled at us ; the old mare went slow ; the rheumatiz laid holt of both of us ; and the thought of the new bonnet and dress was a-wearin' on Josiah, I knew. I did speak once, as he leaned forward, with the rain drippin' off en his bandanna hand- kerchief. I says to him in stern tones : "Is this pleasure, Josiah Allen ?" As we drove up to our doorstep, and as he helped me out into a mud puddle, I says to him : "Mebby you'll hear me another time, Josiah Allen." And I'll bet he will. I hain't afraid to bet a ten-cent bill that that man won't never open his mouth to me about a pleasure exertion again. AND RECITATIONS NO. S3. 161 THAT LITTLE DOG. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. THAT little dog 'ud scratch at that door, And go on a-whinin' two hours before He'd ever let up ! There! — Jane, let him in ! ( Ha, there, you little rat ! ) Look at him grin ! Come down off o' that ! W'y, look at him! {Drat You! you, rascal, you!) Bring me that hat ! Look out! He'll snap you! He wouldn't let You take it away from him, now you kin bet ! That little rascal's jist natchurly mean. I tell you, I never (git out!) never seen A spunkier little rip ! (Scratch to git in, And nozv yer a-scratchin' to git out agin ! Jane, let him out ! ) Now, watch him from here Out through the winder ! You notice one ear Kindo' inside^outj like he holds it? Well, He's got a tick in it — / kin tell ! Yes, and he's cunnin' — Jist watch him a-runnin' Sidelin' — see ! — like he ain't "plum'd true," And legs don't "track" as they'd ort to do ! Plowin' his nose through the weeds — I jing! Ain't he jist cuter 'n anything! W'y, that little dog's got grozcn --people's sense ! See how he gits out under the fence: And watch him a-whettin' his hind-legs 'fore His dead square run of a miled er more — 'Cause Noey's a-comin', and Trip alius knows When Noey's a-comin' — and off he goes ! 162 WERNER'S READINGS Puts out to meet him and — there they come now! Well, sir ! it's raially singalar how That dog kin tell, — But he knows as well When Noey's a-comin' home ! Reckon his smell 'Ud carry two miled ? You needn't to smile — He runs to meet him, ever'-once-'n-awhile, Two miled and over — when he's slipped away And left him at home here, as he's done to-day — 'Thout ever knowin' where Noey wuz goin'. But that little dog alius hits the right way ! Hear him a-whinin' and scratchin' agin? {Little Tormentiri Hce!) Jane, let him in. You say he ain't there? Well, now, I declare! Lem me limp out and look ! . . . I wunder where — Heuh, Trip ! — Heuh, Trip ! — Heuh, Trip ! . . . There, There he is ! Little sneak! What-a'-you-'bout? There he is — quilled up as meek as a mouse, His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout, A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house ! Next time you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in, My fine little feller, the best way you kin ! Noey he learns him sich capers ! And they — Both of 'em's ornrier every day ! Both tantalizin' and meaner'n sin — Alius a — (listen there!) — Jane, let him in. O ! yer so innocent ! hangin' yer head ! (Drat ye! you'd better git under the bed!) Listen at that ! He's tackled the cat ! Hah, there ! you little rip ! come out o' that ! Git yer blame little eyes scratched out 'Fore you know what yer talkin' 'bout I AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 163 Here ! come away from there ! ( Let him alone — He'll snap you, I tell ye, as quick as a bone!) Hi, Trip ! Hey, here ! What-a'-you-'bout ! Oo ! ouch! ('Li, I'll be blamed!) Blast ye! Git out! . . . O, it ain't nothin' — jist scratched me, you see. Hadn't no idy he'd try to bite me ! Plague take him ! Bet he'll not try that agin ! Hear him yelp — (poor feller!) Jane, let him in. HE WANTED IVORY SOAP. Humorous Monologue for Man. CHARLES BATTELL LOOMIS. [Man enters, talking excitedly. ] LOOK wild, do I ? Well, I feel wild. I'm on my way to the — what do you call him? — the so-much-a-visit man to find out whether it's regular paresis or only inability to get my tongue on the right word. Been coming on for some time. First noticed when I forgot my own name at roll-call in the armory. Never could remember other people's names, but when I forgot my own, I thought it was getting serious. Easy name like mine. [Slaps forehead.'] By jolly, it's gone from me now! Wait a minute. Don't help me. Let me try my memory system. Great thing. Helps me to a word by the association of ideas. My name has something to do with a farm. I know that. Farm — -crops — grass — oh, Hay. Yes, my name is Hay, but I can't always make it. 'Pon my word, the other day I said to my boy — there his name's gone from me. It's in the Bible. Let me try my system. Bible — Testament — Matthew — Mark — Luke — oh, John! I said to John, "Put a shovelful of coal in the oven." Well, I've taught him to be obedient, and he rushed down — there, the word's gone again. Something to do with Greece. Greece — Greek philosophy — Attic philosophy — attic — oh, cellar ! Isn't it a great system? He rushed down cellar, and the next thing I knew there was an outcry from 164 WERNER'S READINGS the kitchen, and the cook came in to Mrs. Hay and said : "John's been after spoilin' the roast chicken, throwin' coal over it." You see, I meant furnace, but I said "oven," and that's where he put the coal. But the thing that made me decide to go and see the — er — what is it you say on your buttons when you're a boy? — Don't you know? — er — "Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor" — ah, doctor. The reason I went to see the doctor was because the other day Mrs. Hay told me to go to a department store and buy her a — now wait. Let me use my system. Pudding — pie — cake. Buy her a half-dozen — er — pianos — piano keys — Ivory Soap. A half-dozen cakes of Ivory Soap. [Writes it on cuff.] She wanted me to write it down then; but I said I guessed my brains would hold a half-dozen cakes of Ivory Soap, and she said she guessed that's what was in my head instead of brains — you know the way a wife of long standing will talk to a fellow. Well, I went down to the store, thinking of half a dozen ways of remembering — [consults cuff] — Ivory Soap,but I was too proud to write it out — then. I joined the mob of women — it was Mon- day, and they were all in a hurry to buy bargains in linen, al- though I'd rather have a bargain in wrapping-paper. I consulted the first floor-walker who wasn't surrounded by inquiring women, and I said, "I want to get some — er — something that floats " "Ships," said he. "Toy department in the basement." "No, no," I said; "not that. Life-preservers " "Oh, life-preservers ; they're in the sporting-goods department — * fourth floor." I left him in disgust and tried another. I didn't want life- preservers, but I was getting to — [consults cuff] — Ivory Soap by memory system. I said to the next one, "I want to buy six cakes — — " "Bakery department, sixth floor." "No, no. It's something that's in cakes — ■ — " "Carraway seeds — grocery department, same floor." "No, no. They're white cakes " "Angel food, same floor." AND RECITATIONS NO. S2. 165 "Hold on," said I. "They're made of pure vegetable oil " "Oil doesn't come in cakes; comes in bottles/' said he pitingly. "Same floor." "Wait a minute and give me a chance. Let's forget they're cakes," said I. "That won't be hard for you," said he, but I didn't deign to notice the insinuation. I began on a new tack. "Why, this thing is advertised everywhere " "Oh, why didn't you say so before? That's — breakfast food; same department." I shook my head, and, summoning all my wits, I remembered all I had ever read about — [consults cuff] — Ivory Soap, although I couldn't remember its name. I said, "Say, this thing floats by the baby in the tub, and you can't lose it " "What, the baby?" said he. "No, no, the cake. It restores blankets to their " "Owners?" said he. "To their pristine freshness; makes embroidery look like "Thirty cents?" "No, sir," said I. "You never saw embroidery treated by a cake of it, or you wouldn't say that even in a joke. Why, it comes in kitchen size " "Harlem or suburban?" said he. /Itried another tack. "Surgeons use it with great advantage — " "Surgical goods — seventh floor," said he, trying to walk away, but I grabbed his wrist, determined to make him understand. "It's good for the skin and " "The bunco-steerer?" "And the complexion," said I with dignity. "It comes in • a black-and-white wrapper " "You're sure it isn't a Mother Hubbard? Underwear depart- ment, second floor." And then I saw he was making fun of me, and so I left him. I soon came across another floor-walker who put up his hand to his ear as soon as he saw me opening my mouth to speak, and I realized that he was deaf. Imagine a deaf floor-walker ! 166 WERNER'S READINGS But to my joy one of the words I wanted came to me, and I said quickly, "I want to know where I can get soap." "What's that?" "Can — I — get — soap — here ?" "Can of what soup?" "Not soup. Soap." "All the soups are in the grocery department, but I don't think they carry that brand." "Brand nothing. I want soap." "Oh, you want to eat. Restaurant, top floor." "Eat nothing. I want soap." He shook his head and said to another floor-walker who came up just then, "No use, Jackson. I'll have to see an aurist. Deaf as a post. You find out what this gentleman wants." But by that time I had lost my temper, and I said to the latest floor -walker, "Oh, you wouldn't know what I want. It's only in every magazine in the world." "Is it gunpowder?" said he in a pacific tone of voice. "If it was gunpowder, I'd get it and blow this place to smither- eens. Making me lose valuable time just because there's no one here with brains enough to guess what I want, although I've de- scribed its qualities over and over again. It's what no house-wife should be without." "Why, my dear friend," said he, "there are fifty things in the grocery department that sell at that catch-line. You'd better take the store aisle by aisle — there's only 240 miles of aisles — and keep your eyes peeled; and, when you see what you are looking for, put your hand on it and ask for it." And then I had a brilliant idea. It struck me, that if I could get to the — er — market — drug on the market — drug department, I'd be likely to see some of the cakes ; but I couldn't think of the name of the department, and so I wandered aimlessly about for half an hour on various floors, and at last I came to the playing- card counter, where they have counters of ivory — I mean wooden counters, but the counters they sell are ivory ; and as soon as I saw AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 167 the ivory I gave a whoop and jumped up and down and shouted at the top of my lungs : "I want Ivory Soap ! I want Ivory Soap ! I want Ivory Soap !" In a minute a detective had seized me and was leading me struggling to the street, for he'd thought I'd gone mad ; but, on the way out, I happened to pass the very place where I'd been stand- ing talking to that "funny" floor-walker, and I said to the detec- tive, "It's all right; I'm not mad; there it is!" Then I stepped to a clerk standing behind a pyramid of the — [consults cuff] — Ivory Soap — and said : "Send six cakes of this soap to my house, C. O. D." And then I left the store in a hurry, although I thought I heard someone calling; and it wasn't until my wife asked me for the soap that evening that I'd remembered that I'd forgotten — remem- bered I'd forgotten to give them my name and address, so, of course, I didn't get the soap, after all ! So now I'm going to see the — er — doctor and get him to fix up my brain ; for while there's life there's — soap — I mean, hope. But I believe I'm the only man in the United States who could ever forget the name of such a useful commodity as — [consults cuff] — Ivory Soap. A BESETTING SIN. [as confessed by a youthful penitent.] EDMUND VANCE COOKE. I SHAN'T be bad no more, I shan't. I'm goan to be reel good; I heard a preacher-man an' he said ever'body could, Ef they jus' kep' a-tryin' an' a-tryin', day b' day, An' ef they didn't try they'd go — some place I mustn't say, Er mother says I mustn't, 'nd so, o' course, I shan't; Don't see why preachers says it, ef another feller can't! But I'm a-goan to be reel good. I shan't pull pussy's tail, Ner tie our nice, old Nodie to a nasty, old tin pail, 168 WERNER'S READINGS Like I did once when Tommy Johnson said I didn't dast: I'd like to fix that feller, but my fightin' days is past ! I shan't git mad when baby sucks the paint off all my blocks, Ner spend the cent pa gives me fer the missionary-box. I'm goan to be a martire, an' I shan't be bad one speck ; Ain't even goan to cry when mother makes me wash my neck. Most martire fellers wasn't much. Why, any circus man'll Guff them lions 'round an' do it just as slick as Dan'l. Aunt Becky thinks it's somethin' great to live in sacks 'nd ashes. / think that's fun ! An' hair-cloth shirts ! I bet they got the rashes 'Nd wear them skirts, to scratch 'em! Of course, that Jony feller Inside that big, old whale, all dark like down-in-our-cellar, He had a heap o' spunk, he had; but I tol' Aunty Beck He didn't alius have to go an' wash his dog-gone neck. That's goan to be the worstest thing, an' orful hard, I know, But I'm dissolved to do it ! ef I do hate it so. It's funny hatey things is good, but I suppose it's true, An' things you like is mostly things you hadn't ought to do. An' water's cold, er ef it's hot, it's het so much it's scaldy; An' 'sides, it wets yer collar all around yer Garrybaldy, An' runs all down yer back an' then the soap gits in yer eyes, Because the towel ain't where it was — an' then sometimes I cries. But I shan't cry no more, though p'r'aps I'll want to, I expec', But when I'm growed, I ain't a-goan to never wash my neck ! .But now I'm goan to do it, till I'm old enough, at last, To know what things I dassen't do, an' other things I dast. An' ef I have a little boy, as course I will, I 'spec', I bet you forty dollars that I'll make him wash his neck! "I want to be an Angel," Sung the choir, sweetly solemn; An editor in the audience said, "Put an ad in our want column." AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 169 THE ANGEL CHILD. Humorous Monologue for Woman. DOROTHY DIX. Characters: Mother, speaker present; her son, The Angel Child; Mrs. Smith, an invalid, supposed to be present. Scene: Mrs. Smith is supposed to be seated in rocking-chair near stage center. Sofa L., near stage front. Near sofa music-box on table. Rug on floor, book of etchings on center-table. [Enter zvith animation, holding Angel Child by hand, let- ting him go just as you reach Mrs. Smith.] OH, good morning, Mrs. Smith. I heard that you were sick and nervous and I just thought that I would run in and bring my little Willie to see you, for nothing does a person as much good when they are feeling bad as to have something that takes their mind off of themselves and cheers them up. That's what I always say to Mr. Brown. This morning at breakfast I said to him : "John," said I, "I hear that Mrs. Smith has nervous prostration, and I am going to take Willie and go over to see her. It will do her good just to have that angel child around." Willie, quit drumming with your heels against that sofa. Do you hear me? You are making such a noise I can't hear myself speak. Of course, I don't believe in people ordinarily taking their children with them. Goodness gracious, I'll never forget the time that Mrs. Smyser brought that horrid little Carrie of hers when she came to see me. I thought the little imp would run me crazy. She is just into everything Willie, quit prying into that music-box. You want to see the wheels go around and what makes the music come out of it ? Oh, well, I daresay you won't hurt it, and the dear child is so ingen- ious. Most children are so uninteresting — just grubby, little stupid 170 WERNER'S READINGS things, but Willie is so different. He says the cutest things. Real witty What's that you are saying, Willie? That you see a bald place in the carpet, and that they have put a chair over it ? Tee-hee ! Isn't that cute — just think of his being sharp enough to notice such things ! Sometimes I get real uneasy about him. I am afraid his brain is developing too fast. But you wouldn't believe, Mrs. Smith, unless I told you, the prejudice that the neighbors have got against that child. They are always complaining of him to the janitor, and one woman actually went to the agent and threatened to give up her lease, and all for nothing in the world but because Willie had made a to- boggan-slide by rubbing soap on the steps. Of course, I know it's envy and jealousy, because their children haven't got his in- telligence, for if there ever was an amiable, quiet, innocent little creature Willie, quit making th'at horrid noise. It sets my nerves on edge, and Mrs. Smith is sick. You can't do anything? Oh, well, go on then; we can hear each other if we talk a little louder. But, as I was saying, Willie is the best child, and never does anything the least wrong unless he is led into it by some bad boy. Why, he's got as many resources in himself as a grown person. Just look at him now. Just as happy and contented as he can be making finger-prints on the windows and blowing on the glass to see if he can make pictures. And he's such a lover of art, too. Seems to know just what is the best. You can see that by the way he seized at once on that book of fine etchings you have. Some people don't like for chil- dren to handle their rare books, because they get them dirty, but I always say that Willie's finger-prints are just as valuable as the artist's signature — maybe more so. I guess a picture with the imprint of George Washington's fingers when he was a little boy, or Napoleon's, or any of those big fellows, would fetch a pretty penny if you had it now, and Willie may be more famous than any of them, for he is so tal- ented, and AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 171 Yes, yes, Willie, I see. The booful lady in the chair is the Madonna del — yes, I see where you have torn the picture. Oh, well, it doesn't matter, and you mustn't do it again. Really, I am afraid we must go What's that you say, Willie? Look how nicely you have writ- ten your name? And you hadn't anything but a pin, either, and you scratched it with that on the mahogany table? I declare it's just wonderful how quickly he's learned to write. That "Willie" is just as plain as anything, isn't it, Mrs. Smith? Good-bye, good-bye; I'll come in again and bring Willie in a few days. I know how it must cheer you up; and, as I always say to Mr. Brown, what I think about it is this — that anybody that's got such a child as Willie ought not to be selfish enough to keep him to themselves. They ought to sort of divide him out with other people Come on, Willie, and quit kicking my shins — it hurts. Oh, well, if it amuses you . [Exits. 1 MR. DOOLEY ON A NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY. FINLEY P. DUNNE. IWANST spint a night in th' counthry. 'Twas whin Hogan had his villa out near th' river. 'Twas called a villa to dis- tinguish it fr'm a house. If 'twas a little bigger 't wud be big enough f'r th' hens, an' if 'twas a little smaller 't wud be small enough f'r a dog. It looked as if 'twas made with a scroll saw, but Hogan mannyfacthered it himsilf out iv a design in th' pa- aper. "How to make a counthry home on wan thousan' dollars. Puzzle: find th' money." Hogan kidnaped me wan afthernoon an' took me out there in time to go to bed. He boosted me up a laddher into a bedroom adjinin' th' roof. "I hope," says I, 'T'm not discommodin' th' pigeons." "There ain't anny pigeons here," says he. "What's that?" says I. "That's a mosquito," says he. "I thought ye didn't have anny here," says I. " 'Tis th' first wan I've seen," says he, whackin' himsilf on th' back iv th' 172 WERNER'S READINGS neck. "I got ye that time, assassin," he says, hurlin' th' remains to th' ground. "They on'y come," he says, "afther a heavy rain or a heavy dhry spell," he says, "or whin they'se a little rain," he says, "followed be some dhryness," he says. "Ye mustn't mind thim," he says. "A mosquito on'y lives f r a day," he says. " Tis a short life an' a merry wan," says I. "Do they die iv indi- gisthion?" I says. So he fell down through th' thrap-dure an' left me alone. Well, I said me prayers an' got into bed an' lay there, thinkin' iv me past life an' wonderin' if th' house was on fire. 'Twas warrum. I'll not deny it. Th' roof was near enough to me that I cud smell th' shingles, an' th' sun had been rollin' on it all day long, an' though it had gone away, it'd left a ray or two to keep th' place. But I'm a survivor iv th' gr-reat Chicago fire, an' I often go down to th' rollin'-mills, an' besides, mind ye, I'm iv that turn iv mind that whin 'tis hot I say 'tis hot, an' lave it go at that. So I whispers to mesilf, "I'll dhrop off," I says, "into a peaceful slumber," I says, "like th' healthy plowboy that I am," says I. An' I counted as far as I knew how, an' I'd just begun f'r to wondher how th' las' thing I thought iv came into me head, whin a dog started to howl in th' yard. They was a frind iv this dog in th' nex' house that answered him, an' they had a long chat. Some other dogs butted in to be companionable. I heerd Hogan rollin' in bed, an' thin I heerd him goin' out to get a dhrink iv wather. He thripped over a chair befure he lighted a match to look at th' clock. It seemed like an hour befure he got back to bed. Be this time th' dogs was tired an' I was thinkin' I'd take a nap, whin a bunch iv crickets undher me win- dows begun f'r to discoorse. I've heerd iv th' crickets on th' hearth, an' I used to think they were all th' money, but anny time they get on me hearth I buy me a pound iv insect-powdher. I'd rather have a pianola on th' hearth anny day, an' Gawd save me fr'm that ! An' so 'twas dogs an' mosquitoes, an' crickets an' mosquitoes, so that whin th' sun bounced up an' punched me in th' eye at AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. ' 173 four I knew what th' thruth is, that th' counthry is th' noisiest place in th' wurruld. Mind ye, there's a roar in th' city, but in th' counthry th' noises beats on ye'er ear like carpet-tacks bein' dhriven into th' dhrum. Between th' chirp iv a cricket an' th' chirp iv th' hammer at th' mills I'll take th' hammer. I can go to slape in a boiler-shop, but I spint th' rest iv that night settin' in th' bathtub. JOHN'S PAJAMAS. STANLEY SCHELL. Scene: Sewing-Room. Lady seated on floor surrounded by all sorts of old dresses and odds and ends of ribbon, etc. WOMEN are queer creatures [looks up from sorting over odds and ends of millinery], and yet we are not wholly unreasonable. [vS7o7?.y.] Before I married, I cherished high ideals of masculine nature. I thought men vastly superior to details — big-minded; never put out of temper by little things, and so on. Well [laughs, with quiver in voice], I've lived to learn that a man can be petty enough to disturb a household, to lose his self- control, to wound the feelings of a true, loving wife, simply be- cause his pajamas were hung, two nights in succession, in different places. [Sobs with all her might.] You mustn't laugh at me — it isn't a bit funny ! You see, John is very careless, and I thought I'd reform him. Why, he even hangs his best neckties on the gas-fixtures, puts his sponge on the mahogany table where it drips and drips all over the floor, lays his shaving-tools on the embroid- ered bureau-scarf, and tumbles his top bureau drawer into an awful mess. I could have stood all this, but he insisted on hang- ing his pajamas on the dressing-room door in plain sight of every- one, and when the wind caught them they waved like a flag in the air! [Confidentially.] I determined to break up all such habits. I found out that calling attention to them only caused him to make sarcastic remarks, so I engaged a decorator to do over John's room in dainty chintz and frilled muslin curtains. His 174 WERNER'S READINGS whole dressing-room was transformed into a bower. I hung a lovely cabinet and put hisshaving-tools there. I supplied lacquered boxes for his gloves, ties, handkerchiefs, etc. I put all his shoes into a window-seat box draped in chintz, hung his pajamas on a special hook in his closet, and when I was finished that room was a dream. A telegram was handed me just as I was going downstairs : "Mother is very ill. Come at once." I scratched off a note, and left it where John would be sure to get it. I stayed away three days and in that time had ten telegrams of the strangest nature from John. They were all inquiries about his clothes. That room, that dear little bower ! I wish you could have seen it ! I simply sat down and cried until John arrived ; and, instead of taking me into his arms, he stood at the door surveying me and the debris with a grim expression. In frozen tones he inquired if I would kindly tell him what I had done with his razor and strop. Why I had locked his neckties and pocket handkerchiefs away in those devilish boxes, and what I meant by robbing him of his shoes and hiding his nightgown. I put them in order, I told him. But he shouted at me, "They were simply in apple-pie order, madam ! Why, I knew just where I could lay my hand on everything I wanted." It seems he had come home shortly after I was gone. He had been appointed pall-bearer at a friend's funeral and all he could find was a striped sweater, a pair of tennis shoes, and a boyish cap. He had to send word he was desperately ill; and, because he couldn't find his shaving-tools, he shaved two days with a paint-brush and a case-knife. I gave him back all his things, turning them out of the boxes and cabinet, and I don't ever intend to disturb his things again. I've told the maid never to clean that dressing-room. Whenever I dust it, I lift up an article with one hand and dust with the other, then carefully replace the article where I found it. On chairs, table, bureau, and rack are shirts, ties,' gloves, shoes, and AND RECITATIONS NO. 22. 175 pajamas; and the other day he had them hanging out the front window. I've learned my lesson, but I wished I had never given a man the opportunity to teach me that lesson. Neatness and busy people never go together. John says, "It's only idle folks that are neat." John's pajamas taught me a lesson that I shall never forget. Hands off! AUTHOR'S READING IN SIMPKINVILLE. RUTH McENERY STUART. YES, it was the highest-class show we've ever had in Simp- kinville, this here author's readin' las' night, but I was a leetle bit disapp'inted in it ez a show. Of course, when I heard that we was goin' to have a book read out to us from the platform by the one that made it up out of her head, why, I nachelly looked for everything to be acted out. Time Jim Bradshaw done this same lady writer's piece about the chanticleer, now, when the boys was pleggin' 'im beforehand, he told 'em he'd guarantee that when it come to the chanticleer part, they could hear him chant clear over to the co't-house. An they did. They's some fun in goin' to a show like that, an', of co'se, when I heard that this lady authoress was comin' to give a readin' with tickets to be paid for most extravagant, why, I put out my money thess ez much to see her step out on the stage an' crow ez anything else. But she thess read along all through the ex- citement thess ez composed ez I would 'a' done for the home folks ; ca'mer, for that matter, for the very words an' the ricollec- tion o' Jim's performance would 'a' tempted me to some sort o' effort. Not that I'd 'a' perched on the chair-back an' stepped like a shanghai the way he done ; but I'd 'a' crowed some or died. An' then when it come to the co'tin' scene, well, to me, it was purty flat. She even refused to allow the lamps to be turned down ; said she was afeared she'd lose the spirit of it while the young man tiptoed round an' turned 'em down. No, her policy was the direc' opposite to what I looked for, 175 WERNER'S READINGS firs' to last. 'Stid o' makin' gestures an' callin' attention to the stage, f instance, seem like she tried to th'ow us off the track, constant. Why, sir, when she sort o' dropped her voice an' car- ried it along even, the way she done in that bean-arbor part, I seemed to forgit all about her a-standin' there, an' I could see the arbor an' the seat under it, an' the white patches o' moonlight with black shadders between 'em, all more or less the shape o' bean-leaves the way I've so often noticed 'em. Why, it even brought back to my mind a' ol' flowered muslin-de-laine dress She used to wear them days, with chiny asters on it an' blue ribbon bow-knots. I'd 'a' paid my entrance fee gladly thess to git back that dress-pattern. But for a pay performance I can't say ez I think it was exactly fair — not to the rest of the audience thet likely didn't git started on that track. Of co'se, I was mighty glad to see the lady an' realize thet I was face to face with a genuwine book-factory, femi-nine gender. I don't know, though, ez I'd 'a' s'picioned her ez a writer ef I's met her on the road. She ain't so opposite to the common run. I can't say thet I expected anything in p'tic'lar out o' the way, neither, but I sort o' ca'culated thet they'd be somethin' thet'd make a person look at her twice-t an' wonder what the trouble was. She stayed at Sally Ann's, an' Mary Elizabeth she sent over her silver bresh an' comb thet she got for her weddin' for Sally Ann to lay on the bureau for her. An' the Trimbles they sent over one o' their swingin' ice-pitchers; an' the other one they set on the table beside her on the platform at the readin' with Tomp- kins's little nigger, Montague, waitin' behind the big pa'm, ready to tilt it for her ef she turned thet way or claired her th'oat. He's a mighty smart little darky, Montague is, an' when the evenin' had wo'e on consider'bk. an' looked like she wasn't never goin' to make no motion, why, he stepped up in one o' the pauses, an' tilted out a gobletful, an' set it by her. An' then he made a second trip, an' fetched the polar-bear slop-bowl an' put it beside the goblet. An' I was tickled to see him do it. She mightn't AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 177 never come this way ag'in, an' like ez not she'd heerd it was a howlin' wilderness. Sally Ann says she seemed purty tired when she got home las' night after the readin', although she ain't done a stroke o' work sence she come. Even ef she'd fetched a little crochet or knittin' along with her, she ain't had no chance to do it. Them reporters thet come down from the towns around they took her by turns soon ez she come, an' when she had thess got into her nigh'gownd to lay down an' collect her thoughts, why, the girls thet had the 'rangement o' the platform they called to see her, an' she had to git up an' dress, an' time they went, in come Joe Leggett to talk over how he was to introduce her. I cert'n'y was proud when I see what a flow o' language Joe's got. Why, he spoke sixteen minutes by my watch, an' he never faltered. He's a graceful man, Joe is, an' a powerful lawyer. When I pay my dollar, though, I'd ruther listen to the paid performer an' take Joe on a' off day. How long was the readin'? Oh, I should say maybe a' hour or a little over ; that is, the readin ', mind you. The shozv, it lasted three mortal hours. Of co'se, I think native talent ought to be encouraged, an' yet, when Anna Larkin had played "The Maiden's Prayer," an' done it perfec', I didn't see no p'tie'lar use in clappin' 'er out ag'in an' makin' 'er do it over. It was nine minutes past eleven when Polly Johnson give her last encore. Sally Ann says the author lady seemed to be real wo'e out when she come home, an' she didn't see why. She didn't do a thing but set on the plat- form an' rest! Sally Ann says she'd like to see a person like that tackle a week's wash. She laid abed late this mornin'. Sally Ann waited breakfast tell nearly nine o'clock, an' then she sent it in to her. But she didn't mind that so much ez she did disapp'intin' the school- chil'ren. A dozen or so o' them thet didn't git a chance to go to the readin' ast ef they couldn't come in on their way to school, an' Sally Ann had fixed it for 'em to come breakfast-time an' set down an' see her eat. Sally Ann opened the bed-room door an' let 'em tiptoe th'ough one by one, they felt so bad 'bout missin' her. 178 WERNER'S READINGS The poor thing- looks awful haggard an' peaked, an' I somehow think this travelin' 'round the country while it must be fine for a change from that ten-story house in New York in which they say she lives, can't tickle her ez much we thought we would, but we've done our best by her. An' she knows we all feel proud to a' had her in Simpkinville. AT THE "BOAER" COUNTER. Monologue for Woman. J. L. HARBOUR. Scene : Department Store. "Lady seller" is talking to customer. BOAERS? Yes, we've a new lot just in — beautiful ones they are, too — beautiful. I'll show 'em to you soon as I give this lady her change. What makes 'em so slow with that change? If it ain't here in a jiffy I'll speak to the floor-walker. It's awfully annoyin' to have to wait an' wait an' wait an' — here 'tis, at last — ten, fifty, eighty-two, that's right. You gave me a five-dollar bill, you know. Awfully sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Yes'm, the things will be sent in time to reach you to-night. I've made a rush order of it, an' it won't be my fault if you don't get 'em. But you will, all right. It ain't as if it was in the busy season like Christmas. I wouldn't dare promise it to you under forty-eight hours then, but it will go all right now, for we ain't half so busy as Oh, boaers? About what priced boaer would you like? We have 'em from five dollars up. Of course, the five-dollar ones haven't the style nor they won't wear so well as the high-priced ones, and — no, indeed, boaers are not going out. We sell just as many as ever we did. I sold an alagant one this morning to one of the most fash'nable ladies on Riverside Drive — an alagant one, an' she wouldn't be found dead with one on if they'd went out o' style. But they ain't, an' they ain't likely to. They're so dressy — especially the light ones for evenin' wear. I got me a new one AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 179 the other day just to wear evenin's when I want to look real dressy. Mine's pale blue ostrich-feather one, an' the ends come most to the floor — an alagant thing - . Ev'rybody says it's awfully becomin', but if I look well in anything, it's blue, I'm so light, you know. Now, you — well, you could wear blue all right — certain shades. I don't know as I'd advise you to get a real light blue — not as light as the new Alice Blue, for Oh, you didn't want a blue one? Well, to tell the truth, I don't think it would be as becomin' to you as some other color. Of course, any one can wear black, an' black is always appropriate, an' then it's so serviceable. I half wish I'd got me a black boaer instead of a blue one, but then, you see, when it gets soiled I can have it dyed, for — oh, yes, indeed, they dye beautifully — beautifully! My sister had an alagant thing — paid six dollars an' eighty-nine cents for it, marked down from ten, an' it was a sure- enough mark-down, too, for a friend of ours is in that department in the store where my sister got it, an' she said that that very same identical boaer had sold for ten dollars the day before my sister got hers. It was just a little imperfect, but it would have taken a spy-glass to have discovered it. Oh, it was an alagant thing! She goes a good deal, my sister does. She's married to an awfully nice fellow who has his twenty-nine dollars a week, so she ain't pinched none for means, an' he lets her get anything she wants. I tell you, she dropped into a tub of butter when she married. Her husband b'longs to the Brothers o' this an' the Sons o' that, an' to all sorts o' leagues, an' they're always having balls an' sup- pers, so my sister goes most ev'ry night, so, of course, it was hard on a white feather boaer, but when it got real soiled she had it dyed black an' it come out beautiful, — beautiful! You wouldn't believe that it had ever been white, an' — now here's a beautiful plum-colored one that would look well on you, an' plum is all the rage this year, an' mos' anyone can wear it even if they are as sallow as you — er — er — you think it is too young for you? Not a bit of it. You don't look at all young in it. Of course, I don't mean that — that — how would you like this yellow one? You 180 WERNER'S READINGS don't like the yellow one? No? Well, I do not. Maybe it is a little gay for a person of your age, but you know that real old people dress real gay now. I sold a lady that couldn't of been a day under seventy a red boaer the other day. Of course, she looked like the Old Scratch in it, an' I thought some o' the girls at this counter would die laughing when she walked off with it on. She looked turrible in it, but, then — say Mag, git on to that dress that woman over there at the glove counter has on ! Ain't that stunnin'? You'd like to see some black boaers ? We've some alagant ones here, just alagant, an', as I say, just anyone can wear black. Now, here's a beautiful thing — beautiful. Marked down from nine dollars to six dollars an' forty-nine cents. You'd get a real bargain if you took this. There ! My ! but that looks nice on you ! One thing about a boaer is that it hides a scrawny neck so. You see that comes up almost to your ears, an' just a little of the front of the neck shows. In fact, if you tie it up close none of the neck shows, an' them long ends hangin' down look awfully dressy. If I was you I'd Of course, I haven't got your pencil, May ! If you'd form the habit of tuckin' the pencil in your back hair you'd always know just where it was. I declare I think you must be in love, the way you lose things ! Hum ! I'd hate to be the fellow to ask you if I didn't mean it for — oh, say, did you know that Sadie has her engagement-ring? She showed it to me on the car last night. She thinks it's a real solitary diamond, but I have my doubts about it. He don't get but eleven dollars a week, an' I'll tell you how I know. My brother Joe works in the same place he does, an' they do the same work an' git the same pay, so I have it straight about his wages. Joe says he got the ring on payments. You'd think to hear Sadie talk, that she'd caught a Vanderbilt. She told me last night she thought they'd board for a while in some apart- ment hotel, an' that "Sam thought of buildin' some place in the suburbs." Don't that jar you? An' him with 'leven a week! I guess he'll keep on thinkin' about buildin'. No, the time for the weddin' isn't set yet, but Sadie says that AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 181 Gray boaer? Now, that would look real well on you. Gray is like black, 'most anyone can wear it, an' it's always in good taste, an' it — no, I don't think that you are too pale to wear gray. My goodness ! lots of paler ladies than you wear gray. Then this isn't a real light gray. I sold one just like this to the awfullest washed-out woman yesterday, an' if she could wear it I'm sure that you could, for — you think it makes you look sallower in it than you do in anything else. Ever try buttermilk for clearin' out your skin? A friend o' mine drinks a quart ev'ry day an' washes her face in it ev'ry night an' let's it dry on, but I don't see that it is helping her very much. Still, you might try it. One man's meat is another man's poison, as they say. But as for that boaer makin' you look any sallower than you are, I don't think it, for — say, May, don't you think this boaer is awfully becomin' to this lady? She thinks — of course, it don't exactly match your hair. What boaer would? If you only had enough hair to wear it pompadoor it would be becomin' to you. You thought some of getting a lace and chiffon boaer? Oh, they've all gone out. Feather boaers are the thing to get, if one wears a boaer at all. Of course, furs are the thing, but, my soul an' body, it takes a fortune to buy any that you want to wear. They charge three hundred just for a muff alone, an' then you can't tell it from a good imitation. The beauty of furs is that they can be imitated so that you can't tell the real from the imita- tion. One of the girls over on the lace-counter has a muff an' tippet that she got for nine dollars that you can't tell from a real sable across a room. Of course, if you could afford a fur tippet it would be more stylish than a boaer, but you can wear a boaer when you can't wear a tippet. They wear them with evenin'- dress. My cousin has a pale pink one that she wears with evenin'- dress. She has a pink feather fan to wear with it, an' a pink silk sash, an' a pink set o' pompons for her hair, an', I tell you, when she comes out in 'em all you'd never guess that she works in a candy fact'ry at nine a week, an' she wouldn't get half that, if she wasn't forelady. You know, she says that she doesn't care 182 WERNER'S READINGS any more for candy than she does for bread. My! but I'd like to have a chance to eat candy until I felt like that. You think you'll try on some lace an' chiffon boaers? They are on another counter — third aisle to the left, half-way up. But I think you'd find it to your advantage to get a feather one. As I say, the others ain't worn but very little now, an' feather boaers will always be fash'nable — always. Oh, very well, if you prefer one of the other kind. But as I say Thank heaven, she's gone! I don't believe she wants to get a boaer of any kind. Don't I get good an' sick o' those women that stand an' try on things for half an hour an' talk you to death an' then never buy a thing! Say, Mag, what time is it? Why it's time to go home ! Let's go ! [Exit.] AS JIMMIE SEES IT. CHARLES C. JONES. I'M goin' to th' Baptis' church an' be a Baptis' boy, I guess I'll go to Sunday-school as nice as nice kin be; I'll sit so still an' quiet-like that I jest won't annoy Th' sup'rintendent when he speaks to all th' kids an' me ; I'll be th' very best I kin, Until their summer picnic's been, An' then I'll ketch that preacher's kid an' square things up, you see ! I'll bring my ma a lot o' wood an' keep th' front yard clean, I'm goin' to behave myself an' work a awful lot; I'll stay at home on Mondays, too, an' run th' wash-machine, An' scrub th' porch an' all th' walks, no matter if 'tis hot; But when that picnic ain't no more, I'll take that kid that lives next door An' lick th' very stuffin' out o' him, as like as not ! AND RECITATIONS NO. S3. 183 I'll run to Smiley's store an' git my ma a lot o' things, Like thread an' stuff, an' see-gars, too, fer pa an' Uncle Jim; I'll be a "busy little bee," like kindergartners sings — No one '11 git a chance to say that I'm "a lazy limb"; But when that picnic's gone again, I'll git that groc'ry boy, an' then — Doggone th' luck! — he's jest so big, I'm skeered to tackle him! THE SILVER VEDDING. Comedy, German Dialect, Monologue for Man. VE hadt a silver vedding at our house last veek. Not dot I've been married twenty-five years, but I needed der silver. Somehow or other, everypody brought lead pipe. I guess dey dought it vas a cinch. Everyvon vas dere. O'Brien vas dere. O'Brien iss a silver man. Dey tell me dot he vas born mit a silver spoon in der house. His old man got arrested for it, too. His right name iss Brien, but he's got so many cred^ors around der house dot ve call him O'-Brien. But you should haff been at der banquet. I haff never seen such a spread. All der indelicacies of der season. Ve hadt sauer- kraut und lemonade, pigs' feet und buddermilk, Velsh rarebits made oud of Limburger cheese, red herring, und cocoanut pie und Worcester street sauce. Und besides, ve hadt Beewer's Orchestra; und, vile der people vere eating, dey played appropriate moosic, like "Get Your Money's Vorth." After der banquet vas over, all der married men got up on der hind legs und told how happy der married life vas? I got up mit der rest und lied chust like dey did. But let me tell you von ding. Dere iss a time in every man's life ven he dinks he iss chust about der whole shooting-match, der whole thing, ven he imagines dot he iss valking on diamond- dust clouds und dot feadders are sticking oud all over him. Dot's ven he iss a father for der first time. 184 WERNER'S READINGS How ridiculous a chump a man iss ven he first becomes a papa ! He doesn't know it, but everypody else does. By golly ! I often vonder how George Vashington felt ven he first became der father of his country. Chee-viss, ven a man first becomes a father, he acts so foolish ! But I can excuse 'em. By jingo! I like babies mineself; und ven I see a man who doesn't like babies, I've got my supersticions of him. I'll bet dot ven he vas a baby dot somepody liked him, und I don't care how ugly he vas, neither. Ve are very happy, my vife und me. Ve naff got fourteen children in our house. Ve have got one, und an Italian family dot lives upstairs has thirteen. Ve haven't got an alarm-clock in our house. Ven I vant to get up early in der morning I fix der clock so dat ven it strikes five it sets off a spring, der spring hits a shawl-pin, der shawl-pin hits our baby, our baby sets in on a solo, Liddle Italy hears it upstairs; dey set up a chorus from La Boheme, und ve avake in a minute. Ven a father iss a father for der first time, he's alvays dinking about der little baby, as if his baby vas der only baby on der earth, und he der only father. Vy, he never gives his vife credit at all ! (t Some morning, chust ven der baby iss new, he vakes it up at two o'clock, oud of a sound sleep, chust to see it laff. But you can chust bet your bottom dollar dot he doesn't do it twice ! Ven my child grows up, I vill be very careful about his school- ing. Schools are not like dey used to be. Vy, what has become of McGuffey's or Sander's Fourth Reader? Vy, ven I vas a boy ve had reading lessons someding like dis : "Oh, mother, look at der liddle vite rabbit." "Iss it a vite rabbit, my child?" "Yes, mother, it iss a vite rabbit." You see, you couldn't make a Velsh rabbit oud off it, even if you had der cheese. Und den the arithmetic — vy, it's so simplified now-a-days, dot a child can learn it in two lessons. But ven I vent to school it vas different. In dose days ve had vulgar fractions, und decent fractions, und also problems, Ve had problems to figure on, someding like dis ; AND RECITATIONS NO. 22. 185 "Two men go oud fishing. Von goes to der Fishing Banks und der oder goes to Sandy Hook. Dey meet dot night in a saloon. Problem: Vich iss der biggest liar?" Here's another problem dot I heard just now : "Vy does a girl like Pike's peak? Because der iss a Manitou at der bottom of it." Und ve used to haff problems like this : "A man buys a sausage und eats it. Der next day he gets a letter telling him der sausage was made oud of dog's meat; answer: who gave him der pointer?" But I like to dink of der Sunday school. More dan a thou- sand times haff I passed der door of dat Sunday school ! Und dose beautiful adverbs dey used to unfold to us as we sat in der Sunday school listening to der birds a-twittering und der brook- trouts' purrink. Vile we sat dere der kind teachers would teach us dot — "Dere's many a slip between der upper lip und der dipper." "Birds of der same kind of feadders go by demselves." "Ven der Tom-cat has gone oud, der kittens got some fun." "A bird in der hands beats a flush." Oh, vadt fine cinnimints ! COLORED LAUNDRESS'S DIPLOMACY. Comedy Negro-dialect Monologue for Woman. ALICE R. FORSYTHE. Characters: Laundress, speaker present; Mis' Jos'feem, supposed to be present. [Colored woman, entering with basket of clothes, acts shy at first, then, apparently discovering Mis' Jos'feem, stops, puts basket down and, placing hands on hips, talks as follows:] MIS' JOS'FEEM, I done brung yo' washitr home, an' mom- mer say you'll sho'ly 'scuse hit bein' so fuh behin' time w'en I done tol.' you 'bout po' li'l Johnsonilla's 'fliction. De doctah am pernounce hit de gustibrashun in de stummick, an' mommer 186 WERNER'S READINGS say to 'splain dat's huccome she so long a-gittin' yo' clo'es done up, kaze dat chile tek so much fixin' an' doin' fo'. Wat? Fo' de Lawd sake! Mis' Jos'feem, yo' don' 'spicion us high-toned culled folks would be a-weahin' people's clo'es w'at we washes fo', does you? I won' say but w'at dey am low-down niggahs w'at does hoi' 'em ovah to weah, but — Huh? Yo' say yo' done saw me wid Mis' Stone's linen suit on, yo'se'f ? Er — w'y — say, honey, dere ain' nuffin' 'scapes dem bright eyes ob yo'n, an' so I'll des up an' tell yo'-all huccome I done sech a thing. Hit's disaway. Mis' Stone sen' huh clo'es a-Monday, an' don' aixpec' 'em back befo' a-Sat'day, an' w'en de Babtis' picnic come erlong a-Wed'sday, behol' yo' I ain' got.er tack to muh back a-fitten to go out in wid Mistah Aljuhnon Attahbu'y Metropolitan Sykes, an' dat linen suit des fit me. I ain't hut hit a speck, an' mommer had it all fresh 'gainst noon de nex' day. No'm, Mis' Jos'feem, we wouldn' nebbah do hit wid no one else's clo'es, neb- bah ! Hones' truf ! Anyhow, honey, you knows yo'se'f dat Mis' Stone ain' real quality lak ouah othah w'ite folks; she's Noan'thun! Er — yas'm ■ — haw ! haw ! haw ! I does know dat yo' is fum de Nawth, but 'peahs lak I nebbah kin recommembah dat fac', an' mommer, too. She alius say Mis' Jos'feem sho' is des lak ouah own w'ite folks clown Souf, an' dey wuz de qualifiedest kin' ob quality. Yas'm, we-all knows bettah dan to tek libbuties wid yo' clo'es ! Mommer tol' me fo' to ax you to len' us yo' big persurbin' kittle, 'kaze she hatter cook up a mess ob watahmillion persurbs fo' de night watchahs. LiT Johnsonilla gwine tek a heap ob nussin', day an' night, to escranchuate huh back fum de jaws ob death. De preachah he say so las' night, an' he comin' agin to-night tuh 'minister consiblation to de 'flicted, an' eat fried chicken an' cur'n' jell. An' Mis' Jos'feem, honey, mommer say she reckon yo'-all done got all de weah yo' want outen dat ol' pink necklerjay ob yo'n, an' she lak to show dat stuck-up Mis' Hudgins, w'at alluz come dodgin' in dress fit to kill w'en she see de preachah a-comin' — mommer lak to des let huh see dat we suttinly am a tony fambly AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 187 an' knows how to kenstruck de appeahance ob sech undah de sar- cumstances ob tribblashun an' dezease. An' de necklejay des fit mommer lak hit be'n made fo' huh, 'deed hit do, Mis' Jos'feem. Yas'm; thank you, ma'am; mommer'll suttinly be 'bliged to yo\ honey. SUB ROSA. * Monologue for Man. EDITH F. A. U. PAINTON [edith palmer putnam]. Characters: Husband, speaker present; wife, Helen, supposed to be present in Scene II. Costumes: Dressing-gown for Scene I. worn over masquerade costume (royal costume of time of Henry VIII. of England) for Scene II. Dressing-gown may be quickly removed, and crown and mask adjusted while curtains rise to disclose Scene II. Stage-Setting: Stage is set for two scenes by using dividing curtains across center of stage from side to side. Scene I. requires small table at right of stage front C, rocking-chair at left of table, but at C. of stage front. Scene II. requires anteroom opening into ball-room. Settee placed in front of potted plants at stage R. Back entrance picturing adjacent ball-room. Time of Presentation : 30 minutes. [As stage-setting for this monologue is same as that for "En Masque." the two monologues may be given effectively at same entertainment, one following the other.] SCENE I. [Husband enters, smoking cigar. Puffs as he crosses room, and flings himself into rocking-chair. Smokes awhile in silence, looks all around room, listens a moment, and begins to speak.] WONDER where Helen's taken herself to ! That's the worst of a woman, anyway — they've always got to be on the gad somewhere. Not that I've got any great kick coming. Helen is a dear little thing, perfectly devoted to me, I am sure, even if she does like to receive a little attention from other men. She is young, and so charming that I suppose the fellows can't help it; •Companion to "En Masque" [$.25], monologue for woman, published by Edgar S. Werner & Co., New York. 188 WERNER'S READINGS but I wish she didn't show her satisfaction over the sensation she creates quite so openly — that's all. Of course, I'm not in the least bit jealous — I wouldn't lower myself to the point of jealousy, whatever happened. Jealousy is a mean, ignoble trait, altogether unworthy of a place in the make- up of any human being calling himself a man. But, for all that, nobody likes to think that his wife is a flirt. Of course, I can trust Helen — bless her little heart ! but — oh ! I don't know ! She is so much younger than I am that I can't help wondering sometimes if she is altogether satisfied with her bargain; and then, when I saw her waltzing around in the arms of a conceited young puppy like that Frank Brown, it did hurt a little, I'll admit. And I think she knew it, the tantalizing little witch ! and just delighted in tormenting me. I told her firmly that she must not dance the second waltz with him, because it made her too con- spicuous. What a mocking courtesy she made me, as she said, "So sorry, my liege lord, but, you see, I have already given my word; and you know, Harry, I must keep my word good, or I shall be unworthy of bearing your name !" And then away she whirled with Brown ! Confound him ! I contented myself with giving Helen a good piece of my mind, and I have reason to hope that I shall see signs of reformation. Helen is young, and will doubtless outgrow it. I am sorry she is not going to Mrs. Slau- son's masquerade on the tenth. I really should be glad of the opportunity of watching her. But she says, she positively can't go, and so, of course, there is no more to be said. I know that her "can't" means "won't." But the worst of it is that she says I must go just the same, for Mrs. Slauson is so sensitive, etc. — fidgety old thing ! — and that she has shown us so many favors that it's really my duty to go. [Makes zvry face.'] I suppose it is. It must be my duty, seeing it's so deuced unpleasant. I hate mas- querades, anyway. They are too free and easy, altogether too unconventional to suit me. Everybody feels at liberty to do and say just what he pleases, and the women expect every man they see to flirt with them. They get slipped up on that when they AND RECITATIONS NO. 32. 189 come in contact with me ! Flirt ? I'd like to see myself trying to shine around any of them ! I never forget that I'm a married man — no, never ! I don't intend that any of the fair ones shall forget it, either. I'll put my little Helen up against them all. [Rises.] I wish the tormented blow-out was over! Well, I'll just show myself for a little while, and then slip out. [Feels pockets.] Con- found this cigar ! Where are my kindlers ? Not a match to be found! I'll go and replenish. [Exit.] SCENE II [Husband enters from back entrance to soft dance music, coming apparently from adjacent ball-room. He pauses 'in doorway and speaks.] There ! I've danced with three dowagers, and two old maids. That ought to entitle me to a diploma. I wonder if Helen wouldn't think I had done my duty now, and let me off? It's such a bore ! I haven't seen one attractive figure here to-night, positively not one. Ah ! who is that little fairy in the Parthenia gown, I wonder ? She's something worth while — slight, tall, graceful and piquant — just what a woman ought to be. Wish she didn't have that mask on ! Wonder if I can't find Mrs. Slauson and get an introduction — oh, I forgot; we don't need any such preliminary to-night. I'll just brace right up to her. Plague take it all — haven't I seen her before somewhere? There's something familiar about her. I hope if it is any one who knows me, that she won't recognize me. But I haven't much fear. My disguise is well chosen. Shall I speak to her, or shall I not ? Ah ! she is looking this way — she sees me — there's no chance to retreat now. I'm in for it, but I don't imagine it will be any great hardship. She certainly is mighty tempting. [Advances to front of settee, and makes lozv and courtly bozi'.] Good-evening, madame ! May I have the pleasure of a dance? You are not dancing? That is certainly too bad — for me! I am certain you would make a delightful partner. 190 WERNER'S READINGS Thank you, I believe I will sit down. Some temptations are too strong to be resisted — this is one! [Sits on settee.] I see you are Parthenia. Yes, indeed, I should dearly love to be your Ingomar, if you — oh, of course, I know it wouldn't be polite to say otherwise, but I assure you, my dear madame, I am in earnest — terribly in earnest. [Sighs sentimentally.] You think the earnestness will soon be gone? Now, madame, you misjudge me. [Reproachfully .] True, man-nature is the same the world over; and, if you will permit me to say it, I feel sure that if you knew men as well as you think you do, you must know that we are not all deceivers. But, pardon me, are you alone? Of course, I don't mean just at this particular minute, but did you come alone? Pretty girls should not be out alone after dark. How can I guess your looks? Ah, madame, [tenderly] "So sweet a voice, such charming grace, Could only match a pretty face!" Now don't laugh at me ! A fellow surely has a right to be sentimental once in a while, and — well, really, the present scene, the present music, and the present companion would make a poet out of the most confirmed cynic. My wife? [Starts, speaks aside.] By Jove! if I hadn't for the moment forgotten all about Helen! [Aloud.] Now, what in the world makes you think I have a wife? You can always tell a married man ? Nonsense ! How, pray tell ? Oh, come now, you are a little hard on married men. I don't think they flirt one-half so much as bachelors do. You say you know man-nature, permit me to retaliate, and say that I know woman-nature thoroughly; and one of her most predominating characteristics is the determination to have her own sweet way always and forever ! And she has it, too ! Oh, yes, trust her for that ! You still persist in crediting me with a wife? Well, if you will have it so, let's, just for the sake of argument, suppose that I have one — what then? Because a man is married, is he to be denied the privilege of admiring another pretty face? AND RECITATIONS NO. $2. 191 Oh, come now, my dear lady, I haven't said so much that is out of the way. Surely, there is no harm in a little fun ! You think it may not always end with a "little fun"? You seem determined to quarrel. I am broken-hearted over your coldness. Why should it go too far? We are masked to-night, and who will be any wiser? [Looks into ball-room.'] What do I think of that little lady in pink? Oh, she does very well, I dare say; but I very much prefer, if I must talk of the ladies, to talk of you. What do I think of you? Now, that's hardly a fair question. My opinion of you, fair lady, is too deep for expression. Now that wasn't evasion at all, but your question seemed so unnecessary, when you have known all the time that I think you perfectly charming. Don't scold, please don't. May I not have the delight of attending you at supper? Of course, I know that we are to unmask before supper, but you needn't fear any disillusion on my part. I am willing to risk all chances — oh! very willing, indeed ! I may take you in then? Thanks, dear lady, thanks ! I am dying for a glimpse of your face. Oh, perhaps the case is not exactly fatal. Men don't "shuffle off this mortal coil" quite so easily in this prosaic age ! But do you know, there is something about you that has impressed me most strangely. I can't explain it, but I am haunted by the idea that I have seen you somewhere, though I haven't the slightest notion when or where. No doubt, as you say, it is only a chance resemblance. At any rate, I trust Fate will make it possible for me to see you again. Oh, come now ! you know, I'm not at all afraid of being disenchanted ! Dear lady, I wish I had the power to express the thoughts that are in my heart to-night. Do you believe in love at first sight? Love before sight? Why, what do — ah! I understand. [Sighs.] You are cruel, madame, oh, very cruel ! Have you not ever proved the sweet truth of the theory of affinity? You do not believe in it ? Ah, I am sure, if you would only allow me, that I could teach 192 WERNER'S READINGS you to. No ? Cruel, cruel madame ! I most certainly do believe in love at first sight — to-night ! Ah ! twelve o'clock, so soon ? How rapidly and happily time has sped ! I assure you, fair lady, I shall never, never forget this delightful evening. [Unmasks.] Come, madame, do let me assist you to unmask ! [Leans far over.'] Just one peep into your face ! [Starts back in chagrin.] Helen! you? [Rises excitedly, mask in hand. Speaks impatiently.] For goodness sake, what does this mean? [Assumes guilty look.] Flirting? Oh, see here, now, Helen, you know it was only a little — amusement — a little diver- sion — altogether harmless, you know, dear, and — yes, go on ! wait for me in the hall. I'll be along in a minute ! [Watches ivife off, looking much embarrassed. Turns to audience.] Thunder and lightning ! This is a deuce of a scrape ! Who'd ever have dreamed of such a thing ? Plague take a woman, any- way ! You never can tell what mischief they'll be up to next ! And, oh, there'll be no use of my ever trying to interfere with Helen's flirtations again ! She'll worry the life out of me ; and, of course, I won't hear the last of this as long as I live. [Sighs.] And I imagined it all so entirely sub rosal Well, I'll put on as bold a face as I can. But I'm in for it with a vengeance ! May heaven have mercy on me. [Exits slowly.] WERNER'S BOOK OF PANTOMIMES Known also as " Werner's Readings and Recitations No 41" 192 Pages. 31 ELABORATE PANTO/IIMES with full directions for action-work, stage-setting, scenic effects, stage-properties, costumes, etc. Book contains also 19 Action Poems Suitable for Children. 1 Price 60c. in P a P er binding ) p - d $1.00 in cloth binding ) y NOTE. — All selections pantomimed are in verse. Text 0/ pantomimes is printed first complete as a recitation, then printed again ■with pantomimic directions. This arrangement meets needs of reciter, in case he wants selection by itself only; and also meets needs o/pantomimist, who has pantomimic directions next to text. BOOK CONTAINS FOLLOWING PANTOMIMES : AMERICA. ("My Country 'Tis of Thee.") Poem by Samuel F. Smith. Patriotic Recitation or Song and Pantomime. Any number. ANGELS' SERENADE. Dialogue and Pantomime between mother and dying child. ART WILL HAVE NO RIVAL. Romantic Acting Pantomime (without words) and _ Statue-Posing. Grecian sculptor and his statues (women in Greek gowns). Can be expanded into elaborate spectacular entertainment, depicting vari- ous emotions as Accusation, Agony, Appeal, Aversion, Joy, Love, Shame, etc. 2 men, 12 women, or all women. BELLS OF SHANDON. Poem by Francis Mahoney. Child- hood Reminiscent Recitation and Pantomime. 1 or several persons. BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. Romantic Acting Pantomime (without words). 1 girl, 1 man. BLUE AND THE GRAY. Poem by Frances M. Finch. 10 or 12 young women. Memorial Day or Confederate Day Recitation and Pantomime. BRIDGE. Poem by Longfellow. Reminiscent Philosophical Recitation and Pantomime. Any number. BUGLE SONG. Poem by Tennyson. Fanciful Recitation (with voice-effects) or Song and Pantomime. 6 to 10 girls. COLUMBIA, THE GEM OF THE OCEAN ("The Red, White, and Blue.") Poem by David T. Shaw. Patriotic Recita- tion or Song and Pantomime. 1 boy or girl; or several bovs or girls. COURTING UNDER DIFFICULTIES. Humorous Romantic Acting Pantomime (without words). 1 woman, 1 girl, 1 man , 1 bov. CUSTER;S LAST CHARGE. Poem by Frederick Whittaker. Heroic Indian Battlefield Recitation and Pantcmime. 1 man; or any number of men. ~~~~ *~~ ~~~ " rovF«f" *M