UNIV. OP CALIF. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELA
 
 JOHN BURTON'S 
 STAGE YARNS 
 
 = BY 
 
 ANNIE B. COOPER 
 
 < 
 
 BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 
 835 BROADWAY, MANHATTAN
 
 Copyrighted, 1906. 
 
 BV 
 ANNIE B. COOPER. 
 
 All Rights Reserved.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Knickerbocker Time 1 
 
 A Swap in Trousers 6 
 
 The First Session of the Carpet-bag Legislature.. 9 
 
 That Cured Him 12 
 
 An Unequal Division 13 
 
 Had Seen Him Before 14 
 
 Two Christmas Days 15 
 
 Murphy and Booth 17 
 
 A Joint Story of Murphy and M.iguire 19 
 
 Murphy's Slip 20 
 
 Murphy's Irish Friends 21 
 
 Pete Myers and the Cane 2^ 
 
 "Go on with Y our Monkey Doodh's" 24 
 
 Why Aunty was Sorry 25 
 
 Uncle's Opinion of My Acting 25 
 
 Troubles of a Fond Father 27 
 
 Trying Times 28 
 
 "Pop" Shiels 29 
 
 "Ought to have had Them on in the First Place". 35 
 
 Wanted to be Sure of His Work 35 
 
 McDonough's Indians 30 
 
 A Unique Strike 37 
 
 Frank Mayo 38 
 
 That Saved Him 42 
 
 Forrest's "Little Man" 415 
 
 What Puzzled Him 43 
 
 John Maguire's Dog 44 
 
 "Oh, the Wild Charge They Made" 45 
 
 "That's the Opera House Burning Down" 40 
 
 A Full Board but no House 47 
 
 Knew More Than He Could Sav 48 
 
 "Witness" . 50 
 
 2130329
 
 iv Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Banker's Daughter 54 
 
 I Registered for Myself After That 55 
 
 "You are Hereby Notified to Work the Streets".. 56 
 
 The Pride of the Town 57 
 
 Should Have Had a Better House 58 
 
 A Beggar by Accident 59 
 
 Attending one of Mr. Cleveland's Receptions 59 
 
 A Quick Bargain 61 
 
 "Dahlborn's Dairy" 62 
 
 He Earned, but never Wore the Wreath of Fame 63 
 
 How the Landlord Got Even 64 
 
 Left Behind 65 
 
 A "Damon and Pythias" Performance that's Never 
 
 Been Equalled 66 
 
 Was Willing to Help Him Make a Hit 68 
 
 The Donkey, also Received a Press Notice 69 
 
 "Boots" 70 
 
 "P. D. Q." 72 
 
 Florence's Quick Wit 73 
 
 My Valentine 73 
 
 Couldn't Fool Him 74 
 
 "Tricks in All Trades" 75 
 
 What God said to Her 76 
 
 A Young Critic 77 
 
 Getting Acquainted 77 
 
 "Uncle" Dick Sutton 78 
 
 A Queer Conceit 84 
 
 Charley Forbes and His "Hnnds" 84 
 
 One Way of Keeping a Secret 80 
 
 A Give- Away 86 
 
 Wash's Way of Putting Up Posters 87 
 
 "You Don't Know what you are Talking About".. 88 
 
 How Jack Worked Up My Applause 8!) 
 
 Bill Emmet's Announcement 90 
 
 "Say, Bill, you Rap for me, I Haven't any Cane". . 90 
 
 Shirley and the Bridge 92 
 
 A Stolen Theatre . 95 
 
 Audiences are Easily Deceived 90 
 
 How the King Euchred the Joker 98 
 
 The Power of Mind over Matter 99 
 
 A Choice Notice .. .100
 
 Contents. v 
 
 PAGE 
 
 As a Singer I am not a Success 101 
 
 Too Conscientious 102 
 
 A Queer Make-up 103 
 
 An Accommodating "Supe" 103 
 
 Stage Aspirants 10. ~> 
 
 An Innocent Manager 110 
 
 Why Uneeda Biscuits are High in Bismarck Ill 
 
 Not Looking for Coffins 112 
 
 "Who is He?" 112 
 
 Why New York Didn't Strike Him 114 
 
 Found Out 114 
 
 Buffalo Bill's Indians 115 
 
 Doctor Charlie's Method 117 
 
 Not Like the Indians He Knew 118 
 
 A Native Son 118 
 
 The Art of Memorizing 11!) 
 
 Too Anxious 122 
 
 "I Can Say it Now, Sir" 12:5 
 
 Seeking Engagements 125 
 
 What a Difference ! ' 127 
 
 A Consideration for Booth and Barrett 129 
 
 One on the Barber 130 
 
 "No Shave To-day" 131 
 
 How a Small Boy Fooled His Father and Tried to 
 
 Work Us 133 
 
 Wanted Information 134 
 
 The Absent-Minded Englishman 135 
 
 A Lively Reminder 135 
 
 Why They Didn't Laugh 137 
 
 Didn't Care for His Monologue 138 
 
 Who Killed the Baron 139 
 
 A Quick Answer 139 
 
 A School for Diction 140 
 
 Playing the Races 141 
 
 Not Much Comedy in It 142 
 
 Are We so Soon Forgotten When We are Gone?.. 143 
 
 A Visit to Honolulu 144 
 
 Professor Berger and the Cues 140 
 
 A Modest Request 147 
 
 Mosquito Proof 148 
 
 An Accidental Hit . . 149
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Refused to Make the Trip 150 
 
 Social Functions in Honolulu 150 
 
 John Burton Entertains in Honolulu 151 
 
 Bob Scott 153 
 
 The First Fourth of July in Honolulu 154 
 
 Our Homeward Voyage 155 
 
 Where the Trouble Lay 158 
 
 Mammy's Dilemma 159 
 
 The Gallery Boy 160
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHILE residing in Los Angeles, California, 
 it has been my pleasant task to prepare for the 
 public this series of stories, which 1 have tried 
 to give as nearly as possible in the words of the 
 narrator. I deeply regret that it is utterly be- 
 yond my power to reproduce them exactly as 
 I heard them, for I cannot put on paper the unc- 
 tion with which they were delivered to me; the 
 necessary accompaniment of unsurpassed facial 
 expression and the contagious good-natured smile 
 of this clever comedian are missing. 
 
 The greater part of these stories have never 
 before been in print, and have come directly un- 
 der Mr. Burton's personal observation. He 
 wishes, however, to give due credit and thanks 
 for the few which have been told him by others, 
 and which we have added to make the volume 
 more complete. These stories are not confined 
 to actors of note alone ; many of them, in fact, 
 the best of them, are told of people who have 
 achieved small fame in the theatrical line ; it is 
 their mistakes and peculiarities that have called 
 this book into existence. 
 
 You will find these "Yarns of Actors Past 
 and Present" to be in keeping with the quaint, 
 delightful because unconscious humor of the 
 man who tells them. ANNIE B. COOPER.
 
 JOHN BURTON'S STAGE YARNS. 
 
 MY KNICKERBOCKER TIME. 
 
 I was born many years ago, in a little city in 
 Wisconsin. My father was in his day a noted 
 criminal lawyer. 
 
 The educational facilities in the West not be- 
 ing what they are to-day, I was sent at a very 
 early age to an aunt in New York City, to at- 
 tend school. It was during the winter of 1864 
 that I first remember ever going to a theatre, 
 and, as my relatives were great theatre-goers, 
 I witnessed during that year a series of per- 
 formances such as one rarely sees in a lifetime, 
 and the effect upon me no doubt had a great deal 
 to do with my becoming an actor. I saw Les- 
 ter Wallack, Charles Fisher, George Holland, 
 Mary Gannon, dear old Mrs. Vernon, Mrs. 
 Hoey, and other artists ; witnessed the first per- 
 formance of "Rosedale" at Wallack's Theatre, 
 the first production in this country of "The Tick- 
 et-of-Leave Man," by Mr. and Mrs. Florence, 
 the farewell performance of Henry Placide in 
 "Grandfather Whitehead," the farewell perform- 
 ance in this country of Charles Kean and Ellen 
 Tree; the great light comedian, J. K. Morti-
 
 2 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 mer, in "The Streets of New York," and George 
 L. Fox, at Niblo's Garden. 
 
 Speaking of Fox, who was the greatest 
 pantomimist of those days, I vividly remem- 
 ber going with my uncle to see one of his 
 performances. I was very much interested. In 
 the last scene when the clown was hiding under 
 the table and a number of people were trying to 
 find him, all armed with sticks, searching every 
 place except, of course, where he really was, 
 and were about to give up without finding him, 
 I could stand it no longer, and cried out in a 
 loud, piping voice : 
 
 "There he is under the table !" The house 
 broke into a roar of laughter, and I think I can 
 put that down as my first "hit/' As I was be- 
 ing led out of the theatre by my uncle I made 
 the remark to him that I would be "one of them 
 some day." This premature outburst of youth- 
 ful ambition cut short my visit in the big city. 
 Although I was considered a good pupil at 
 school, my aunt and uncle became thoroughly 
 convinced that I had "theatre on the brain," so 
 at the end of the first year they sent me back 
 to my little Wisconsin home, where there were 
 no theatres to encourage me in my foolish de- 
 sire. Of course, this nearly broke my heart. 
 
 Nothing happened for the next few years, ex- 
 cept that my ambition for the stage came very 
 nearly being demolished by the advent of a re- 
 vivalist into our midst. He held his meetings 
 in a large tent, and among the many converts 
 he made was myself. I got religion, and I got 
 it good and hard so much so that I feared ever)
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 3 
 
 move I made would be wrong. The neighbors 
 rushed in to tell my mother of the beautiful 
 speech I had made. Mother, although a reli- 
 gious woman, did not have orthodox ideas and 
 did not believe in these revival meetings, but she 
 did not discourage me, doubtlessly thinking this 
 sudden attack would do me no serious harm. 
 Everything was going well until Van Amburg'sj 
 Circus came to town. One Sunday morning, 
 as I was accompanying my father and mother 
 to church, my father suddenly perceived that I 
 was walking sidewise, with my head twisted 
 around until he thought my neck would surely 
 break. 
 
 "My son," he inquired, "why are you walking 
 in that strange manner?" 
 
 I pointed over my shoulder, without looking 
 in that direction, to a large bill-board on the 
 other side of the street. 
 
 "The circus bills, father, I mustn't look at 
 them !" and I didn't ; but when the circus itself 
 appeared on the scene, the elephants and the mu- 
 sic so far eclipsed the preacher and the tent, that 
 I found myself with the other bad boys of the 
 town following the band wagon. I had fallen 
 from grace ! My father told this story with 
 great gusto until his dying day. 
 
 I was at this time attending a church school, 
 and was progressing very rapidly in my studies. 
 My father, as was natural, intended that I should 
 follow his profession ; in fact, at the age of six- 
 teen, I had read considerable law in his office ; 
 but about that time the fatal event occurred 
 which decided my future career.
 
 4 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 A theatrical company arrived in Janesville, 
 with Helen Western and the late James A. Herne 
 as the stars, Mr. Herne also being the manager. 
 I attended the performances very regularly, and 
 one night, when one of the men was sick and 
 could not play, the proprietor of the theatre hap- 
 penning to remember that I was somewhat of 
 an amateur, told the manager that he might be 
 able to secure my services, which he did. He 
 rehearsed me in a small comedy part in a farce 
 called "A Day in Paris." Of course, I was very 
 much frightened, but managed to play the part 
 to the entire satisfaction of Miss Western, Mr. 
 Herne, and also the audience. Mr. Herne en- 
 gaged me to go with the company, so there I 
 was a full-fledged actor ! I dared not say any- 
 thing to my father about this event; he had 
 heard that I played that evening, and was go- 
 ing to do all sorts of things which he did not 
 do, because I had left town before he could put 
 his threat into execution. I had been with the 
 company about a week or ten days, and we were 
 playing at a town only a few miles from my 
 home, when, sitting in front of the hotel, I was 
 very much surprised by seeing a carriage drive 
 up and my father jump out. He exclaimed like 
 the proverbial villain in the play, "Ah, I have 
 found you at last ! Get into this vehicle and come 
 home with me at once." 
 
 I explained that I owed a board bill in the 
 hotel and could not leave just then. He gave 
 me some money and said : 
 
 "You pay your board bill and get into this 
 carriage!" I did not have time to tell Mr.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 5 
 
 Herne that I was going, but I left a short note 
 describing the situation and told him I would 
 be back the next day. Of course, I did not pay 
 the hotel bill with the money father had so 
 kindly given me. We drove fourteen miles, dur- 
 ing which time I was told about the corruptions 
 of the stage and was warned of what I would 
 come to, if I continued to pursue the mode of 
 life I had started. I did not say a word dur- 
 ing the whole trip, but I kept my hand tight 
 on the money in my pocket and very meekly 
 went home, where I received another lecture. 
 This one was punctuated with an overflow of 
 tears from my dear old mother. But nothing 
 could stop me, and the next day I relieved my- 
 self of the board money by exchanging it for a 
 return ticket to the company. I think my poor 
 father, as he did not own a horse and buggy, 
 must have been one of the best patrons of that 
 livery stable, for he made at least a dozen trips 
 after me, until finally he gave up in despair and 
 said, if I wanted to go to the devil he couldn't 
 help it. 
 
 After a few weeks the company disbanded and 
 I returned home, very penitent and very glad of 
 a parental roof. But the next year, having an- 
 swered an advertisement in the New York Clip- 
 per, I went South to join a company managed 
 by the late G. V. Gilbert. Of course, I was so 
 far away this time that my father could not hire 
 a horse and buggy and come after me, so I felt 
 perfectly safe. 
 
 Gilbert was a typical Southern gentleman. He 
 had a beautiful residence at a place called Beer-
 
 6 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 sheba Springs, away up on top of the Cumber- 
 land Mountains. His wife and the entire fam- 
 ily were acting with him. They had an old band- 
 master named Professor Milne, who had been 
 band-leader in the Confederate Army. Milne 
 spent his time instructing all the people in the 
 company to blow horns, and by the time we left 
 the springs to go on the road we were all ac- 
 complished ( ?) musicians. Every evening be- 
 fore the performance the band used to play in 
 front of the door or in the balcony of 
 the theatre. The leading woman would have 
 to play an E Flat cornet for half an hour, and 
 then go on the stage and die of consumption 
 as "Camille"! 
 
 A SWAP IN TROUSERS. 
 
 At Selma, Alabama, I was cast to play an old 
 negro, and was looking around for some pecul- 
 iar clothes to dress the part. 
 
 Standing out in front of the hotel one day, 
 I noticed a negro driving up with a mule and a 
 cart. I wish I could describe that wonderful 
 turnout. The cart had reached the culminat- 
 ing point of dilapidation, and the mule was a 
 perfect picture of extreme melancholy. The 
 owner of this outlandish rig had unconsciously 
 gotten himself up for a Mardi Gras. He had 
 on a pair of trousers which would have answered 
 for either a Joseph's coat or a crazy quilt. I got 
 my eye on those trousers and determined that 
 I would have them at any cost. Trembling with
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 7 
 
 excitement for fear some one would get ahead 
 of me, I called the hotel porter : 
 
 "Ben, do you think you could get me those 
 trousers off that negro? I'll give him another 
 pair a good pair for them." 
 
 "Wall, I guess I ken, sah," answered the won- 
 dering porter, as he started toward the old darky. 
 After a short parley between Ben and the owner 
 of the melancholy mule, the latter eagerly ac- 
 cepted my liberal proposition and immediately 
 accompanied Ben to his little cabin, where he 
 could make the proper transfer. Then Ben ap- 
 proaching me said : 
 
 ''I've got him, boss, come on wid yore pants !" 
 
 I had a pair of blue trousers with a little gold 
 thread running down them, cut as they wore 
 them in those days very tight. I ran up to my 
 room, seized these trousers, and followed Ben 
 to his cabin. The hotel porter explained to the 
 owner of the melancholy mule that I wished to 
 exchange for his old ones, this beautiful pair 
 of trousers here Ben held them up for the other 
 to admire. They were seized in mid-air, and 
 Ben's speech cut short. In less time than it takes 
 to tell it, the old negro had on the striped trou- 
 sers which fit him skin tight, causing me to won- 
 der if the hull were not likely to burst and spill 
 its contents. I grabbed the discarded trousers, 
 tucked them under my arm, and hurried to my 
 room. While standing at the window gloating 
 over my coveted prize I heard a great hurrah- 
 ing below. Looking out, I saw my blue trou- 
 sers with the stuffing still in appearing on the 
 street. Everybody that saw the new owner com-
 
 8 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 menced to laugh, and as he approached the cart 
 I am confident even the melancholy mule smiled. 
 Off he drove down the street. The last thing 
 the porter said to him was : 
 
 "See yere, you nigger, when you gits home 
 you go in at the back dore, don't let yore ole 
 woman see you wid dem pants on !" 
 
 About three o'clock the following day as I was 
 "rounding out" my afternoon with a comforta- 
 ble nap, I was rudely awakened by hearing loud 
 noises right under my window. It sounded as 
 if a lot of insane people were holding a spirited 
 debate. I got up, looked out, and there beheld 
 a great crowd of negroes all carrying miscella- 
 neous bundles of coats and trousers. They were 
 standing in expectant groups around the hotel. 
 I did not know what to make of it, so I went 
 downstairs to find out. Every one in the office 
 was laughing, and the landlord, loudest of all ; 
 upon seeing me he took a new start. He finally 
 managed, between gasps, to ask: 
 
 "What do you suppose all those crazy negroes 
 want ?" 
 
 "I don't know," I replied. 
 
 "Why, they are looking for that man who is 
 giving away new pants for old ones!" here the 
 landlord collapsed hopelessly. 
 
 My friend with the melancholy mule had given 
 them all the tip, but I didn't mind that, for I 
 made good in the part, and I am sure those trou- 
 sers were responsible for my success.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 THE FIRST SESSION OF THE CARPET-BAG LEGIS- 
 LATURE. 
 
 In 1872 I was in Jackson, Mississippi, during 
 a session of the first carpet-bag legislature, which 
 was composed almost entirely of negroes, most 
 of whom could neither read nor write ; the few 
 white men who were connected with the body 
 seemed to be there to get what fun they could 
 out of it. I went into the gallery, where I had 
 a fine view of the whole performance. I have 
 never beheld a minstrel show that equalled the 
 one I saw that day. There was a fat darky, 
 with a long-tailed coat, a rusty silk hat, a carpet- 
 bag, and an umbrella, who, every time there was 
 a lull in the proceedings, arose to his feet and 
 said : 
 
 "Mr. Speaker," before he could get any fur- 
 ther one of the white members on the Democratic 
 side, who was there, as I said before, to have 
 some fun, would head him off with the announce- 
 ment that "the gentleman from Washington 
 County was out of order." The speaker would 
 then rap with his gavel, and inform the gen- 
 tleman from Washington County that he was out 
 of order, and the gentleman from Washington 
 County would immediately collapse. This oc- 
 curred possibly a dozen times during the session, 
 and each time it was received with an outburst 
 of laughter, which did not seem to affect "the 
 gentleman from Washington County" in the 
 least, as he looked all the more serious. But 
 finally overcome with these exertions, he fell
 
 io John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 asleep on his desk, umbrella, carpet-bag, and 
 silk hat by his side. 
 
 When the session was over and the speaker 
 had adjourned the house, one of the members 
 noticed that "the gentleman from Washington 
 County" was sound asleep. He reminded the 
 speaker that before they adjourned, this impor- 
 tant member of the convention should be heard. 
 After considerable effort on the part of several 
 members he was awakened, and the speaker in- 
 formed him that he now had the floor. One of 
 the white members whispered to him that his 
 time had come to be heard. Rising to his feet, 
 with the umbrella in one hand and the carpet- 
 bag in the other, he said : 
 
 "Mr. Speaker, I done bem -yere so long dat 
 I almos' forgit what I has to say, but, Sir, what 
 I wants to know is dis, I'se been in dis yere town 
 three days, and I'd like to know who's gwine to 
 pay my board!" 
 
 "Foxv" JOE. 
 
 We had in our company an old fellow by the 
 name of Joe Fox, a German by birth, who spoke 
 his native tongue much more fluently than he did 
 the English language. He was a sly old "fox," 
 very fond of practical jokes, provided they did 
 not cost him anything. Seeing that I was a 
 youngster and not much used to the ways of the 
 world, he chose me as his mark, and succeeded 
 in getting me into all kinds of scrapes. This 
 one, in particular, was rather amusing. It was
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. n 
 
 in Nashville, Tennessee, and, as was his time- 
 honored custom in every town we visited, he be- 
 came acquainted with the proprietor of a beer 
 hall. One day !:e invited me to join him in a 
 glass of beer. We went into a place, and he in- 
 troduced me to the proprietor, who smilingly 
 set out three glasses, one for himself, one for 
 Joe, and one for me. Joe made a few offhand 
 remarks in German, not one word of which I 
 understood. The proprietor produced three 
 more glasses of beer, Joe kept talking German, 
 and the proprietor kept producing beer and look- 
 ing admiringly at me. I was never before treated 
 with such marked deference; I couldn't under- 
 stand it. So after we had indulged in a large 
 sufficiency of beer and managed to get out into 
 the street again, I asked Joe what he had been 
 saying to the landlord : 
 
 "Oh, I was telling him vat a fine actor you 
 vas ; he has been to see you and has taken quite 
 a shine to you !" 
 
 "Nobody paid for those beers, Joe." 
 
 "Oh, he vouldn't take a cent, he vouldn't take 
 a cent!" Joe replied airily. 
 
 This continued during the entire week ; we 
 kept on drinking the landlord's beer, and Joe 
 kept on talking German, but somehow there was 
 never any money in sight. I wandered in there 
 one day alone, and told the landlord that as I 
 was going away, I thought I would come in 
 and bid him good-bye and thank him for his 
 kindness. He said : 
 
 "Oh, that's all right;" then went behind his 
 desk took out a paper, and presented me with
 
 12 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 a bill for all we had been drinking during the 
 week. I remonstrated with him and tried to ex- 
 plain that I was not responsible for the bill. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you are; yes, you are, Mr. Fox he 
 says so." So it finally dawned upon me that 
 Joe had been talking German to him all the week, 
 so I asked him what the old fellow had been tell- 
 ing him. 
 
 "Why, he said you are the manager and are 
 good for everything." Joe had intended the 
 joke to be on me, but I have very good reasons 
 to believe it turned out to be entirely on the ac- 
 commodating saloonkeeper, for I am blushing 
 yet to remember that I forgot to pay the bill. 
 
 THAT CURED HIM. 
 
 Among the members of our band was a young 
 man named Holmes. He played a slide trom- 
 bone, and his principal delight was to torment 
 that instrument all the time day and night 
 to the great annoyance of everybody. He used 
 to get at it in the smoking-car ; his strong forte 
 was religious tunes and long-drawn-out dirges. 
 He became such a nuisance that on one occasion 
 the boys grabbed him and put him out on the 
 platform, trombone and all. He waited until 
 the train stopped, and then climbed into the bag- 
 gage-car and made himself acquainted with the 
 baggage-man. The latter not having a sensi- 
 tive nervous system raised no objections when 
 the young fellow seated himself on a long box 
 and began to play. He had been at it for about
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 13 
 
 an hour when he returned to the smoker, look- 
 ing very pale; he put his instrument away in its 
 case, and sat moodily gazing out of the win- 
 dow, without saying anything to any one. But 
 the baggage-man gave the secret away. The 
 long box on which the youthful virtuoso had 
 been sitting in the baggage-car was a coffin con- 
 taining a corpse being shipped East. He had 
 been sitting on it playing that trombone a whole 
 hour before he found out what he had been hold- 
 ing down, and when he did, he fainted, with the 
 last note of the "Sweet Bye and Bye" still quiver- 
 ing through the car. 
 
 It cured him of annoying people with his trom- 
 bone. After that he played only when duty 
 called. 
 
 AN UNEQUAL DIVISION. 
 
 We were billed to open a new hall in 
 a little town in Mississippi. (They were halls 
 in those days, there were no theatres.) This 
 was a Masonic Hall, and actually contained a 
 good seating capacity and a stage, which was 
 a very rare thing. As soon as we arrived in 
 town we went up to look the building over, and 
 found to our astonishment that the walls had 
 not been plastered, but were merely lathed, and 
 were decorated profusely with the Masonic em- 
 blems. Our manager looked quizzically at the 
 bare walls and then at the committee that had 
 escorted him up: 
 
 "How's this," he said, "so many masons and 
 no plasterers?"
 
 14 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 HAD SEEN HIM BEFORE. 
 
 We were the first company that ever played 
 in Birmingham, Alabama; iron ore had then just 
 been discovered. O'Brien, who afterward built 
 the Opera House and became immensely rich, 
 had a little hall, and he himself painted the drop 
 curtain for the stage, the day we arrived. I re- 
 member we did a splendid business there, but 
 it was the roughest audience I ever played to 
 in my life. 
 
 We had a treasurer, the old man had picked 
 up somewhere, who had formerly been a sewing 
 machine agent. He was a good, honest soul, 
 but did not know much about the business. The 
 first night he was in the box-office the boys put 
 up a job on him; they told him that after he was 
 through there, he should go out in front and 
 work up the applause; so out he went and took 
 a seat. The seats which were intended for the 
 gallery were like the circus seats, built from the 
 bottom to the top of the building, and were oc- 
 cupied by the most unrefined element ; at the fool 
 of this bunch the treasurer planted himself, and 
 whenever there was a point made and fre- 
 quently when there was not he applauded in 
 a most generous manner, very often, alone. After 
 he had done this once or twice he attracted the 
 attention of a highly-disagreeable old fellow on 
 the top row ; every time the treasurer applauded 
 this man would scowl at him in the fiercest way. 
 Our friend noticed these unpleasant looks and 
 began to get nervous, but being a conscientious 
 man, he attended religiously to his duty, and
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 15 
 
 gave another vigorous applause. The old fel- 
 low on the top row could stand it no longer; in 
 a very loud voice he yelled to his companion, at 
 the same time pointing to our friend, the treas- 
 urer : 
 
 "Well, blow my eyes, may I never get out of 
 this place alive if that ain't the old mug who sold 
 the tickets !" 
 
 It took the treasurer about two seconds to get 
 out, and nothing could ever induce him to go 
 in front of the house again. 
 
 Two CHRISTMAS DAYS. 
 
 While we were playing at Shreveport, Louisi- 
 ana, in the fall of '73, the yellow fever broke out 
 in its worst form, and several members of our 
 company fell its victims. Olders' Circus was 
 there at that time, and the ravages of the disease 
 became so furious that nearly one-half of that 
 large organization were stricken down. We 
 could not begin to have funerals, the town was 
 quarantined and there were no means of getting 
 coffins, so we wrapped our dead in sheets and 
 carried them out in drays and express wagons. 
 
 Finally I fell sick and was taken to the little 
 stone church, which was used as a hospital. On 
 the cot next to me was a bright young fellow, 
 a schoolmate of mine, who was treasurer of the 
 Circus company. 
 
 Dividing her time between his cot and mint- 
 was little Miss Ross, one of the prettiest, best, 
 and most cheerful nurses in the hospital. She
 
 1 6 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 would flit from one to the other as quickly as a 
 sunbeam, her touch had the gentleness of an an- 
 gel's. During my friend's delirium she bent 
 over and watched his every movement with a 
 mother's solicitude. But the poor boy died ; I 
 was unconscious at the time barely lived 
 through it myself. 
 
 On Christmas morning my fever broke. 1 
 was pronounced by my faithful little nurse to 
 be out of danger. "You are going to get well !" 
 was her Christmas greeting. 
 
 On Christmas day, ten years later, I visited 
 this same little town. As I passed down the 
 street to where the old stone church still stood, 
 thoughts of the fair-haired little girl who had 
 nursed me back to life came to my mind. As I 
 drew near to the church I noticed a crowd pass- 
 ing out of the door. I asked of a bystander, 
 what was going on. 
 
 "Why, it's Miss Ross's wedding; she and our 
 pastor have just married." 
 
 "What, the nurse !" I unconsciously exclaimed. 
 
 He smiled sympathetically : "So you loved 
 her, too?" 
 
 I turned away with a peculiar feeling of lone- 
 liness, and as I took a parting look at the mem- 
 ory-haunted chapel I breathed a silent prayer 
 that God's richest blessings rest upon that brave 
 little woman who had nursed the wandering 
 Thespian back to life, and that her Christmas 
 might be as happy as mine had been ten years 
 before.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 17 
 MURPHY AND BOOTH. 
 
 My associations with the old California favor- 
 ite, Joseph Murphy, are among the most pleas- 
 ant of my career. 
 
 Murphy was indeed a remarkable man and 
 self-made in every sense of the word. Coming 
 to California in the early days a poor boy, he 
 landed at San Francisco without friends or 
 money and worked at anything at which he 
 could earn an honest dollar. From a fisherman 
 on the Sacramento river, he grew to be one of 
 the minstrel kings of the day. As a boy he was 
 possessed of a remarkably fine voice and was 
 bright and full of ambition. During his idle 
 hours he learned to play the bones in a most 
 skilful manner, and became, without any seem- 
 ingly great effort, a very clever dancer. About 
 thirty years ago he saw a great chance in the 
 dramatic world for an Irish comedian, and I 
 need not tell of his great success in that work, 
 for from the poor fisher-boy he has grown to 
 be the richest actor in America. 
 
 Murphy has always been misunderstood by 
 those who do not know him intimately. He is 
 a quiet, unassuming man who gives his charity 
 without advertising it. To illustrate the charac- 
 ter of the man I will relate one incident of his 
 life. 
 
 One day while he was a fisherman at Sacra- 
 mento, the humble place at which he boarded 
 caught fire and burned to the ground; every- 
 thing he had in the world was lost in the fire. 
 He was slowly walking along the banks of the
 
 1 8 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 river wondering where he was going to sleep 
 or get something to eat, when he came upon a 
 man lying on the river bank, whom the waters 
 from the incoming tide were slowly drowning. 
 Quick as a flash the Irish boy forgot his troubles. 
 
 "Hello there, what's the matter?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 Bending down he saw that the man was un- 
 conscious. Without delay he picked him up 
 and carried him on his back to the city tavern, 
 where he found congregated a lot of men, as 
 is usual in such places. As Murphy deposited 
 his living load upon the floor, the men around 
 the fire sprang up to see who it was, and one 
 of them exclaimed: 
 
 "Why, it's Ned Booth !" 
 
 It was Edwin Booth, who afterward became 
 the greatest tragedian of his day. The men 
 questioned young Murphy, and he explained how 
 he had found him. 
 
 "Where do you live and what do you do for 
 a living?" asked one of the men. 
 
 "I am a fisher-boy, sir," he answered, "and at 
 present am living outdoors ; my boarding-house 
 burned down this morning." 
 
 His simple, honest way so completely won the 
 hearts of those rough men that they took up a 
 collection for him and promised to get him work 
 the next day. 
 
 It was never positively known how Booth hap- 
 pened to be there, but in after-years, when he 
 and Murphy became close friends, and they used 
 to talk over the old days in California, Murphy 
 always omitted this little event, and Booth re-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 19 
 
 mained ignorant of the fact that the Irishman 
 had saved him from a watery grave. 
 
 A few years ago while sitting in the Baldwin 
 Hotel of San Francisco with a party of gentle- 
 men including Mr. Murphy, one of the party was 
 telling this story when a man walked into the 
 room ; Murphy looked up and said : 
 
 "Why, boys, there's the very man who was 
 landlord of that tavern," and calling him over 
 he asked, "Mack, how much money was in that 
 collection you took up for me?" 
 
 "About thirty dollars, I think, Joe," replied 
 Mack, and Murphy turning around said to the 
 party : 
 
 "God bless those men, it was my good luck, 
 I have never wanted for a dollar since." 
 
 A JOINT STORY OF MURPHY AND MAGUIRE. 
 
 John Maguire had an opera house at Missoula, 
 Montana, a very primitive affair, the only en- 
 trance both to the stage and the auditorium be- 
 ing a rickety stairway on the outside of the build- 
 ing. It was in the winter of '97 that Mr. Mur- 
 phy was booked for one night. On arriving in 
 town he and I proceeded to the opera house to 
 try to find Maguire. We met him in front of 
 the theatre just as we were scrutinizing the stair- 
 way and wondering how we were going to get 
 a horse into the theatre that night. The horse 
 was a very necessary actor in "Kerry Gow," the 
 piece we were playing, as Mr. Murphy had to 
 shoe him in a blacksmith scene, and he is after-
 
 20 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 ward ridden on at the end of the race, by the 
 winning jockey. Mr. Murphy, in his anxiety, 
 asked Maguire : 
 
 "John, how are we going to get a horse up 
 those stairs?" 
 
 "Oh," said John, "that will be easy enough, 
 I have the horse all right, there he is now," 
 pointing to a woebegone-looking bronco which 
 was tied to a post in front of the theatre. The 
 temperature was 20 degrees below zero and it 
 was snowing very hard; there was no telling 
 how long the poor animal had been tied to the 
 post, for before we met Maguire, Mr. Murphy 
 and I had been commenting upon the cruelty 
 of leaving a horse exposed to such terrible 
 weather. So when John told us that was the 
 horse, Murphy said : 
 
 "Why, John, you can never get that poor beast 
 up the stairs without breaking his legs or his 
 neck." 
 
 "Oh, that don't make any difference," replied 
 John, "he's only worth three dollars!" 
 
 MURPHY'S SLIP. 
 
 We had been rehearsing for some time "The 
 Donough" for its first performance at Hooley's 
 Theatre, Chicago. As Mr. Murphy did not 
 have a very good study, and was, of course, 
 nervous at the first performance, he naturally 
 rattled those around him, particularly his 
 brother, John. Now, John was playing a part 
 called Mike Coogan, and at the end of one of
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 21 
 
 the acts Mr. Murphy had to chase him around 
 the stage and finally corner him, and throwing 
 him to his knees say : 
 
 "I have you now, Mike Coogan !" 
 
 But having forgotten the name of Coogan, and 
 not being able to catch the word from the 
 prompter, he exclaimed : 
 
 "Ah, ha, I have you now, John Murphy!" 
 
 Of course this brought consternation to John 
 and knocked all the lines out of his head. There 
 was nothing for it but to end the scene, and the 
 curtain descended amidst roars of laughter from 
 the audience and all the actors. 
 
 MURPHY'S IRISH FRIENDS. 
 
 Murphy had a great hold upon the theatre- 
 going public. Not only did he draw the regu- 
 lar theatre-goers, but people came to see Mur- 
 phy who never came to see any one else. A 
 common occurrence in a first-class theatre where 
 the seats were two dollars and two and a half 
 was to see an old Irishman and his wife going 
 down the aisle to the very front seats but they 
 had come to see Murphy and did not care what 
 it cost them. 
 
 Once in Lawrence, Massachusetts, an Irishman 
 accompanied by his family approached the door- 
 tender, and holding his tickets in a vise-like grip, 
 as the door-tender reached out to take them, said 
 in the richest of brogues:
 
 22 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "Hould on, sur, hould on, I want to be shtire 
 I'm raight; tell me," and he held out the tickets 
 so the young man could look at them, "are these 
 tickets for the basement flure?" 
 
 I heard two Irish boys one Sunday in Chi- 
 cago discussing whether or not they should go 
 to the theatre, when one of them said : 
 
 "Jimmie, don't you know it's Lent? and me 
 mither says T can't go to the theatre in Lent." 
 
 "Oh," said the other little fellow, "I know it's 
 Lent, and me mither told me I couldn't go to the 
 theatre in Lent either, but she said it was all 
 right to go and see Murphy!" 
 
 PETE MYERS AND THE CANE. 
 
 During my absence from my native town a 
 real Opera House had been built Myers' Opera 
 House. Every actor who has ever played Wis- 
 consin will remember Pete Myers, the leading 
 figure of the town. He was a funny old Ger- 
 man whom I remembered from the time I was 
 a little boy as always wearing the same suit of 
 clothes ; they say he actually wore one hat over 
 twenty years. Once when a friend said to him : 
 
 "Pete, why don't you buy a new hat?" He 
 replied : 
 
 "What's the use, everybody knows me here?" 
 
 He never went out of town but once, and that 
 was on an excursion to Milwaukee. This same 
 friend then said to him :
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 23 
 
 "Now, Pete, you'll have to buy a new hat, 
 you are going to Milwaukee; you wouldn't be 
 seen there with that old hat on, would you?" 
 
 But Pete had his answer ready: 
 
 "What's the use, nobody knows me there?" 
 
 One of Pete's favorite remarks was that he 
 had put up more bricks than anybody else in 
 the town. 
 
 Well, the Opera House was a pretty nice one 
 for those days. Over the proscenium march the 
 scenic artist had painted a portrait of Shake- 
 speare. The first time Pete saw it he looked at 
 it a long while, then said : ''Who's that up 
 there?" 
 
 The artist replied, "That's Shakespeare, Mr. 
 Myers." 
 
 "Shakespeare !" exclaimed Pete ; "what did he 
 ever do for this town? You take that down 
 and put Pete Myers up there." 
 
 At the opening of the Opera House, which 
 was a great society event, as nothing like it had 
 ever been seen in that section, the citizens 
 planned to present Pete with a gold-headed cane. 
 I will here remark that Pete's family consisted 
 of three boys, who, while they have all grown 
 up to be fine men, were in those days the very 
 worst boys in town. 
 
 On this occasion Mrs. Myers had coaxed her 
 husband into putting on a clean shirt and brush- 
 ing his clothes. He occupied a seat in the cen- 
 ter of the stage surrounded by all the principal 
 men of the city. My father, in eloquent terms, 
 lauded Pete for what he had done and presented 
 him with the cane ; then some one whispered to
 
 24 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Mr. Myers that it was his turn to speak. After 
 considerable hesitation he finally arose, bowed 
 awkwardly to the speaker, then to the audience, 
 and said: 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, I am very much 
 obliged to you for giving me this gold-headed 
 cane. I don't know what I shall do with it, 
 but I guess it will come in pretty handy to lick 
 them d n boys of mine !" 
 
 "Go ON WITH YOUR MONKEY DOODLES." 
 
 Some years after, I was playing "Rip Van 
 Winkle." It was a bitterly cold winter's night; 
 the only heat we had in the theatre was a fur- 
 nace to the right of the orchestra box. The hall 
 was intensely cold, and you can imagine what 
 I suffered in the rags of Rip. I had just com- 
 menced the awakening scene, was sitting up 
 looking foolishly around, when Pete came down 
 the center aisle with a long poker in his hand 
 and yelled out to me : 
 
 "Hold on, John, a few minutes until I can fix 
 the fire ;" so there I sat shivering with cold, while 
 Pete poked the fire for about five minutes, and 
 the audience indulged in uncontrollable fits of 
 laughter. When he had finished his job he 
 turned and waved the poker at me, and said : 
 
 "All right, John, go on with you monkey doo- 
 dles!" 
 
 The same sign is still over that Opera House. 
 Old Pete has passed away. His youngest son, 
 who was not born at the time of these happen-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 25 
 
 ings, is now the manager, but the father will 
 never be forgotten by the people of that little 
 city. 
 
 WHY AUNTY WAS SORRY. 
 
 I had a maiden aunt who had never attended 
 a theatre. One night as we had an excellent bill 
 on and I was playing a good comedy part, I 
 induced Aunty to go. I watched her carefully 
 through a hole in the curtain, and from the stage 
 as much as I could during the performance, but 
 I was unable to quite catch the expression of her 
 face. The next day, however, I called to see 
 her, and in the course of conversation asked how 
 she enjoyed the performance. She said: 
 
 "Oh, I liked it very much, but was so sorry 
 for you!" 
 
 I asked her, "Why ?" 
 
 "Because," she said, "you were the only one 
 the;' laughed at!" 
 
 UNCLE'S OPINION OF MY ACTING. 
 
 My uncle came in from the country one day, 
 and I persuaded him to stop over and go to the 
 theatre. After the performance we went into 
 a restaurant for refreshments. As he did not 
 say anything about the play I started to draw 
 him out. He was a peculiarly reticent man, never 
 said much on any occasion. At last I blurted 
 out: 
 
 "Uncle, how did you like it?"
 
 26 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "I liked some parts of it very 
 well." 
 
 "What did you think of such and such a part, 
 or of Mr. So and So or Miss So and So?" 
 
 He said he liked them or didn't like them, 
 whichever the case might be. I went through 
 the entire list, never mentioning myself, for I had 
 made up my mind that I would not unless he 
 broached the subject first; finally, not being able 
 to stand the suspense any longer, I carelessly 
 remarked that I did not play as well as I usually 
 did, that my part was not as good as I was ac- 
 customed to have. 
 
 "Well," he drawled out, "they seemed to like 
 you very well from the applause they gave you." 
 Then he stopped, looked me straight in the face, 
 and asked : 
 
 "John, how much do you get?" 
 
 I think I was getting about twenty dollars, 
 but I told him fifty. 
 
 "What, fifty dollars a week!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "For doing what?" 
 
 "Why, for acting." 
 
 "Fifty dollars a week for doing what I saw 
 to-night!" He emptied his glass, set it down 
 on the table, reached over and patted me on the 
 shoulder, and said : 
 
 "John, my boy, don't let them lose you!"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 27 
 
 TROUBLES OF A FOND FATHER. 
 
 We came to my native town with a drama 
 called "Confusion," in which we had to use a 
 baby. Our agent was instructed -to procure one 
 in every town for the time we played there. Any 
 one who has seen "Confusion" will remember 
 the plot of the story hangs on the mixing up 
 of the baby and the pug dog which the servant 
 girl and the servant boy hide in the wrong com- 
 modes. The agent was having a difficult task 
 in securing a baby in my town. He finally heard 
 that my brother who resided there had a new 
 baby in the family, so he immediately called on 
 my sister-in-law, made known his wants, and 
 secured her promise to bring the baby to the 
 theatre that evening. At the appointed time she 
 was there, and accompanied by my little niece 
 five years old; the baby was brought behind the 
 scenes, and the little girl was placed in 
 charge of a lady in front, to witness the 
 performance. When the servant girl came 
 on with the baby my niece was all ex- 
 citement, as the scene progressed she grew 
 worse, and finally, when the nurse started to 
 place the baby in a drawer of the commode 
 the mother, of course, standing behind, unseen 
 by the audience, ready to take the baby she 
 could bear it no longer. Springing to her feet 
 she yelled at the top of her lungs : 
 
 "Oh, don't put my little brother in the box, 
 don't put him in the box!" 
 
 There was a tremendous laugh, the audience
 
 28 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 of course understanding the relationship between 
 the baby and myself. 
 
 My brother, who was a railroad man, was out 
 of town when this occurred; when he returned 
 the next day, he not only heard of it, but read 
 a long account in the paper of how his infant 
 had made a wonderful hit at the theatre. He 
 declared it was bad enough to be a railroad man, 
 
 but he'd be d d if John was going to make 
 
 an actor out of that kid ! 
 
 TRYING TIMES. 
 
 During several seasons I was first with one 
 little company, and then with another. My dear 
 old mother used to pack my trunk with all kinds 
 of nice things, things that no one but a mother 
 would think of. I had to watch her though dur- 
 ing this process very closely, for she thought 
 all my character wardrobe old rags ; one day 
 I found my Rip Van Winkle dress, and that 
 wonderful pair of trousers I had bought of the 
 negro with the melancholy mule, and several 
 other valuable articles that I could not possibly 
 replace, thrown over the back fence into a ditch. 
 She would not listen to my putting those dirty 
 old things with my nice, clean clothes, so I had 
 to get them myself, wrap them up in paper, and 
 put them in the bottom of my trunk. 
 
 I always had a dreadful time taking leave of 
 mother. She, having never been away from 
 home, seemed to think that each time I left, I 
 was going to the end of the world, and would 
 never come back ; but I used to turn up regularly
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 29 
 
 like the proverbial bad penny; and, although I 
 went away with good clothes and everything I 
 needed, I generally came back without a trunk 
 and very few clothes. 
 
 I remember on one occasion after my parents 
 had moved to Milwaukee I decided to make them 
 a little surprise visit. I was not exactly sure 
 of the number of their house. Father found me 
 walking up and down the sidewalk looking ear- 
 nestly at the different numbers. A stranger 
 would have mistaken me for a hobo or an ama- 
 teur burglar. Although it was January and the 
 thermometer was down to twenty below zero, 
 I was without overcoat, had on a little tourist's 
 cap, and a suit of clothes that had seen better 
 days. Father remarked, that from the looks of 
 things I must surely have my ambitions to be- 
 come an actor frozen out of me by this time. It 
 was not long though before I was warmly clad, 
 and before many days I had another engagement 
 and was back on the road. At last, my father 
 seeing that I was determined to remain in the 
 profession, procured me an engagement in St. 
 Louis. He became reconciled to the life I had 
 chosen, and was until the day of his death my 
 best friend and adviser. 
 
 "Pop" SHIELS. 
 
 All the boys who were about the theatres in 
 St. Louis from '72 to '75, will remember Wil- 
 liam D. Shiels, "Pop" Shiels, as he was then 
 known. He was a tall, angular Scotchman, finely 
 educated, had played in the best theatres in Lon-
 
 30 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 don and Edinburgh, had been to Australia, and 
 came to this country, making a great hit in New 
 York as "Bailie Nichol Jarvie," in "Rob Roy." 
 
 At the time of which I speak he was the first 
 old man at the Olympic Theatre, St. Louis, a 
 splendid actor, thoroughly familiar with his art 
 and all the technique of the stage, but he was 
 an eccentric genius. Although I tell these funny 
 stories of him, I always feel that I should ex- 
 tend to him my warmest thanks for his kind- 
 ness in teaching me many things about acting; 
 to him is due whatever amount of success I have 
 attained in the business. 
 
 He had a daughter of whom he was very 
 proud; he imagined she had a wonderful array 
 of talent. This young lady made her debut in 
 St. Louis as "Pauline," in "The Lady of Lyons" 
 of course, you are all aware that it must have 
 been either Pauline or Juliet. 
 
 Every Sunday (as we did not play in those 
 days on Sunday in St. Louis), the old man ar- 
 ranged to give performances in Bellville or East 
 St. Louis, just across the river. The boys 
 around the theatre would help him ; he would 
 give them a few dollars if he made anything, 
 if he didn't it was all right. "Pop" Shiels did 
 not believe much in wasting money on advertis- 
 ing, so he made it a point to go over in the mid- 
 dle of the week and do his own "boosting." He 
 had a large board that resembled a paddle, with 
 a handle to it; on one side was a photograph of 
 his daughter Alice ; on the other, a diagram of 
 the hall ; he carried this in one hand, and a bunch 
 of tickets in the other. He would go from store
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 31 
 
 to store, and in a commanding stage voice ask : 
 
 "A picture of my daughter Alice, a diagram 
 of the theatre, how many seats will you have?" 
 
 Thus he became a walking bill-board, a box- 
 office, and a lithographer. 
 
 We had a great deal of sport on these occa- 
 sions and always looked forward to them as a 
 gala time. 
 
 The next summer the old gentleman started 
 on the road as a full-fledged manager, with his 
 daughter as star, supported by your humble serv- 
 ant an incomparable company ! In recalling 
 this time I could fill this book with stories of 
 Shiels. 
 
 We had a large company, including a brass 
 band. Among the actors were several who have 
 since gained fame in their profession. We rarely 
 received a salary, but we all liked the old man so 
 well that we stuck by him an entire season. Our 
 band used to play every afternoon in the public 
 square or make a parade. Mr. Shiels was un- 
 usually fond of standing in the crowd and pok- 
 ing fun at the leader and the other members 
 of the band. The leader was an irritable little 
 Dutchman, but he could play an E Flat cornet, 
 and he did not like the old man's disturbing him 
 in the middle of one of his best solos. One day 
 when he had stood it as long as he could he sud- 
 denly turned into a practical joker himself, and 
 asked the city marshal, who was standing nearby, 
 to please arrest the old man for annoying the 
 band. The marshal did not know who "the old 
 man" was, it being our first day in town, so he 
 dragged him forcibly away, followed by an ad-
 
 32 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 miring crowd, locked him up in the city jail, 
 and we never got him out until night, then we 
 had to pay a three-dollar fine; neither the jus- 
 tice nor the policeman saw the joke at all. 
 
 Mr. Shiels had a very large and miscellaneous 
 wardrobe, from which he almost entirely dressed 
 his company. For instance, if one of the boys 
 went to him and said, "Mr. Shiels, I would like 
 to have twenty-five cents," he would ask, "My 
 son, what do you want with twenty-five cents?" 
 Of course, the young man would not like to con- 
 fess that he wanted it to buy a drink, so the easi- 
 est way out of it was to say he needed a pair 
 of socks ; then would come the old man's tri- 
 umph. With a look that was peculiarly his own, 
 he would gaze upon the young man a few mo- 
 ments, then go to the bottom of the stairs and 
 call up to his wife : 
 
 "Polly, throw down a pair of socks for Mr. 
 Brown." 
 
 On one occasion when we had an extraor- 
 dinarily good week's business I received a new 
 pair of trousers ; they were a large check and 
 I was jolly proud of them, but there was almost 
 a mutiny in the company when the boys heard 
 of it, and I did not dare wear them for fear 
 they would be taken from me. 
 
 On one occasion Tom McDonough, the prop- 
 erty-man, went to "the old man," and asked for 
 the usual twenty-five cents no one ever thought 
 of going over twenty-five. Tom happened to 
 want something the old man did not have, and 
 as it was against his rules to give up money, Tom 
 resigned his exalted position of bass drum. As
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 33 
 
 the band could not go on parade without this 
 piece, "the old man" announced that he would 
 beat the bass drum himself ; and as he did not 
 know anything about it, not even one tune from 
 another and had no idea of time, the boys all 
 knew what would happen. But we started on 
 parade, Shiels with the drum in the rear, and the 
 boy ahead with the banner announcing theatre 
 night ; the leader started the first tune, the bass 
 drummer went thumping along irrespective of 
 time, and talking furiously to himself about the 
 way the property-man had treated him. Sud- 
 denly we came to a turn in the street, the boy 
 with the banner, not knowing we were going 
 to change streets, kept on straight ahead, the 
 leader turned the corner and the rest of the band 
 followed him. Mr. Shiels, who was still talk- 
 ing to himself, totally oblivious of what was 
 going on around him. kept straight ahead, fol- 
 lowing the boy with the banner, and pounding 
 away at the bass drum. People rushed out of 
 their stores to see this dignified gentleman beat- 
 ing the drum through the streets all alone. He 
 had gone fully half a block before he discovered 
 he was "alone in the world," and by the time he 
 got back to the band, out of breath and stream- 
 ing with perspiration, he had burst one side of 
 the drum and had lost the drum stick. There 
 followed a very heated conversation between him 
 in Scotch and the leader in Dutch, in which the 
 leader came off a decided victor ; and it is need- 
 less to say that Mr. Shiels never again appeared 
 in the role of a bass drummer. 
 
 He was noticeably fond of making speeches
 
 34 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 wherever he went, especially if he had a good 
 house. He would describe their beautiful lit- 
 tle town as reminding him of some place in Scot- 
 land or Australia ; would say a few words to the 
 gentlemen in the audience and then commence 
 to eulogize the ladies; just as he would begin 
 to speak about them in the sweetest manner pos- 
 sible, he would suddenly jump to the front of 
 the stage, place his hands on his coattail, and 
 announce that his wife, behind the curtain, had 
 stuck .a pin in him. Whenever he made too 
 long a speech and we thought he ought to stop, 
 we would move the tables and chairs and beat 
 the floor behind the curtain. I have seen the 
 old gentleman become so enraged that he would 
 leave the stage damning everybody the au- 
 dience included. 
 
 Finally a change came over him. He began 
 to read, when stopping at the hotels, tracts and 
 religious papers. One day he went to a revival 
 meeting and the next day he announced that he 
 had professed religion ; said we were all a lot 
 of sinners, and disbanded the company at short 
 notice. I met him some time afterward ; he 
 had become a devout Baptist minister, sincere 
 and firm in his belief. When last I heard of him 
 he had a church in a little town in Kansas, but 
 I suppose the dear old fellow is dead now. Peace 
 to his ashes 1
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 35 
 
 "OUGHT TO HAVE HAD THEM ON IN THE FIRST 
 PLACE." 
 
 When McDonough, our property-man, first 
 joined the company he took the part of the old 
 Signal Man. in "Under the Gas Light." He 
 comes on in one scene wheeling a box or trunk, 
 has a few words with the leading lady, who is 
 sitting on a pile of freight, then goes back into 
 the station and immediately returns with another 
 box. On his first entrance he wore a gray wig 
 and had a smooth-shaven face; on his second 
 entrance, having been gone from the stage only 
 a few moments, to the great surprise of every 
 one he had added a pair of slugger whiskers to 
 his make-up. I asked him at the first oppor- 
 tunity : 
 
 "Tom, for heaven's sake, what did you do that 
 for?" 
 
 "Damn it, I ought to have had them on in the 
 first place," he growled. "That's what a fel- 
 low gets into when he has to handle all the prop- 
 erties he forgets his own." 
 
 WANTED TO BE SURE OF His WORK. 
 
 On another occasion we were playing "Col- 
 leen Bawn," and I was acting the dual role of 
 Danny Mann and Myles Nacopleen. not an easy 
 task, as any actor will understand. When I 
 came to the cave scene where Danny is supposed 
 to be shot by Myles above and falls into the wa- 
 ter, as I was playing Danny, and, of course,
 
 36 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 could not kill myself, I had the property-man fire 
 the gun on the outside, then I used to fall off 
 the rock and while crawling along take off my 
 coat, change my wig, and in a few seconds ap- 
 pear on the rock with a gun as Myles, which 
 was the great climax of the play. On this oc- 
 casion the gun which McDonough had, failed to 
 go off and I had to fall into the water without 
 being shot; of course, the scene was ruined. I 
 went at poor Tom with language not too polite. 
 He promised that a like offense should never 
 occur again. The next night when we came to 
 that scene there was the most terrific report I 
 ever heard in my life. Tom had two guns, two 
 pistols, and a large fire cracker in a barrel. Every 
 lamp in the house we used lamps in those days 
 was extinguished, the place was filled with 
 smoke and the smell of powder. Women fainted 
 and screamed, and in the midst of it all I heard 
 Tom sing out : 
 
 "Well, I guess that lobster is dead this time." 
 
 McDoNoucn's INDIAN. 
 
 While playing an engagement in Florida we 
 needed some supers to represent miners. All 
 they had to do was to stand on the stage and 
 cheer several times when the heroine came on 
 in certain scenes ; but on this occasion there were 
 no supers to be had, and not knowing what else 
 to do the manager said he would go on, and 
 with him a Semelo Indian boy a^ed seventeen, 
 whom he had picked up in the town. The lat-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 37 
 
 ter he turned over to McDonough to get ready 
 for the part. McDonough told the boy that all 
 he had to do was to hurrah whenever that man, 
 pointing to the manager, did. This boy was 
 a typical Indian, with straight, black hair and 
 a swarthy face ; McDonough made him up with 
 red sluggers. As soon as he came on and the 
 audience caught sight of him they began to 
 laugh ; the actors looked at him and they were 
 also forced to join in the laughter; the heroine 
 came on, started to speak her lines, had one 
 look at the Indian, and it was all off. Finally, 
 they came to the first cue for the shouts ; as there 
 were only two of them to do this shouting, the 
 manager cheered ferociously, and after it was all 
 over the Indian looked at him and bawled out, 
 "Whoop!" just one yell, his face never chang- 
 ing expression. After the third time it was sim- 
 ply of no use in trying to continue the play, there 
 was pandemonium in the audience, and the lead- 
 ing lady was hysterical. McDonough led the 
 poor Indian off the stage, saying to him as they 
 went out : 
 
 "Did your part fine. Hit of the show. Go 
 buy yourself a drink. Going to star you next 
 season !" 
 
 I don't know what he did with him. One 
 thing is sure, we never again saw the Indian. 
 
 A UNIQUE STRIKE. 
 
 Once in Butte, Montana, in the same play, in 
 dear old John Maguire's theatre we had secured 
 some regular miners to act as supers. They
 
 38 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 were seated on the stage on stumps and boxes; 
 I was sitting among them supposed to be enjoy- 
 ing a song and dance by the soubrette. I was 
 startled during the lady's singing by hearing 
 a big, husky miner calling over to me in a loud 
 whisper, "Boss, how much do we get?" I said 
 quietly, "Fifty cents," and endeavored to pacify 
 him so he would keep still during the remainder 
 of the song, but he was evidently in for an ar- 
 gument. "Aw, naw, we want a dollar." I re- 
 plied, "We can only give you fifty cents." He 
 said, "Naw, a dollar or we get out," and as I 
 couldn't see the dollar, they deliberately walked 
 by the soubrette and stepped down off the primi- 
 tive two-foot stage and took seats among the 
 audience, leaving me to do the shouts alone 
 I didn't even have a Semelo Indian. 
 
 FRANK MAYO. 
 
 An interesting example of a self-made man 
 and his advancement in the profession is that of 
 the late Frank Mayo. He entered Maguire's 
 Opera House, under the regime of Tom Maguire, 
 acting as super and occasionally getting a small 
 part to play. Once during an engagement of 
 Edwin Forrest, Mayo was among a mob who 
 were supposed to shout at given cues, but the 
 young man became so excited over Forrest's act- 
 ing that he shouted alone very loud at the wrong 
 time, and completely spoiled a fine scene. For- 
 rest became very angry, ordered Mayo off the 
 stage and out of the theatre. Mayo tried to
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 39 
 
 apologize; Forrest not only refused to accept 
 it, but told Mr. Maguire, the manager: 
 
 "That young man will have to leave the the- 
 atre or I will." 
 
 Now, Mayo was quite a favorite with the man- 
 agement, so Mr. Maguire went to him and in 
 order to make it as easy for him as possible said : 
 
 "Frank, Mr. Forrest says that either you will 
 leave the theatre or he will. Of course, just at 
 present, we can spare you better than we can 
 Mr. Forrest." 
 
 Mayo, after thinking a moment, replied : 
 
 "Give Mr. Forrest my best regards, tell him 
 he does me a great honor, but if it is a question 
 of Mr. Forrest's or my leaving the theatre, why, 
 I will cheerfully resign." This answer so pleased 
 the manager that he told Forrest of it, and For- 
 rest, who was quick to recognize the ready wit 
 of the young man, not only had him re-instated 
 in the theatre, but arranged it so that he could 
 get some parts to play, and a friendship sprang 
 up between the two that lasted during Forrest's 
 lifetime. 
 
 After leaving Maguire's Opera House Mayo 
 went into the California Theatre with a company 
 that has very likely never been surpassed, num- 
 bering among its members William and Charles 
 Mestayer, John Wilson, Harry Edwards, 
 Tom Keene, Owen Marlowe, Lawrence Bar- 
 rett, John McCullough, J. H. Barnett, Jennie 
 Lee, May Howard, Mrs. Judah, and others, 
 comprising names that have become illus- 
 trious in the history of the American 
 stage. That was indeed Frank Mayo's first
 
 4O John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 rung on the ladder of fame, and he climbed up 
 this ladder in the same theatre, from the hum- 
 ble capacity of super to the position of leading 
 man and the greatest romantic actor in America. 
 
 Any one who has seen it can never forget his 
 beautiful creation of Davy Crockett. Nature 
 it is in the rough, an ideal poem of the back- 
 woods. 
 
 One evening during a performance of Crock- 
 ett, he was visited by that wonderful marksman, 
 William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill). Mr. Cody was 
 then just branching out as an actor in a play 
 written by Ned Bunting, and was supported by 
 Wild Bill and Texas Jack, all great men of the 
 plains with the lasso and the rifle, but none of 
 them knew much about the art of acting. Now, 
 Mayo, on the other hand was well coached in 
 acting, but knew almost nothing about the han- 
 dling of a rifle. On this occasion Buffalo Bill 
 called on Mr. Mayo in his dressing-room, and 
 looking upon Davy Crockett as a backwoods- 
 man like himself, he naturally directed the con- 
 versation into his favorite channel. Mayo knew 
 as little about such things as any man in the 
 world, but he managed to hold his own. Finally 
 Bill rose to go, and giving Mayo a hearty shake 
 of the hand said in the most patronizing tone 
 imaginable : 
 
 "Well, Frank, you and I are a great deal 
 alike, if we can't act we can shoot." 
 
 The great scene in Davy Crockett is the end- 
 ing in the third act, where the heroine and Crock- 
 ett are in his hunting cabin, he having carried 
 her there out of the snow and storm, pursued
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 41 
 
 by a pack of hungry wolves. He has laid her 
 tenderly on a couch of furs, and in his efforts 
 to make a fire to warm her has used every piece 
 of wood about the place, including the large oak 
 bar on the door. The sound of the wolves is 
 heard coming nearer and nearer, and finally when 
 they are just at the door, he places his bare 
 arm through the sockets and bars it. 
 
 Mr. Mayo had always had stuffed wolves' 
 heads, and these were shuffled through the aper- 
 tures and worked by the property-man, and the 
 men of the company were trained to imitate the 
 howls of the wolves so that the effect was al- 
 most perfect. For a long time he nourished 
 the idea that the introduction of the real thing, 
 that is, live wolves, would be a successful nov- 
 elty, so he procured several that were tame and 
 harmless. When they were pushed into the aper- 
 tures during their rehearsal they howled "for 
 further orders," but when night came it was a 
 different story. The lights evidently fright- 
 ened them, for instead of howling they shrank 
 back, and no sound could be gotten out of them ; 
 and to make matters worse, after they were put 
 back in their cages, and during a particularly 
 quiet scene they set up such a howling that they 
 ruined the whole performance, it being impos- 
 sible to stop them. Never afterward did Mr. 
 Mayo indulge in the novelty of live wolf actors. 
 
 His manager, in writing for a date to a local 
 manager in a provincial city, sent one of the 
 Davy Crockett programmes ; in the synopsis 
 were the words : 
 
 "Act 3. The wolves at the door."
 
 42 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 The local manager answered back that he did 
 not think he could play Mr. Mayo's troupe, that 
 they had had a wolf show there the week before, 
 "The Wolves of New York." (Kind remem- 
 brances of dear old Fel.) 
 
 THAT SAVED HIM. 
 
 It was at the California Theatre, San Fran- 
 cisco, during an engagement of Forrest that a 
 young man who was cast to play a small part 
 in which he had to make a very important and 
 difficult speech, failed at rehearsal to speak the 
 lines as the great actor wished them. The young 
 man became very much excited and frightened, 
 and as Forrest kept scolding him he grew worse 
 instead of better. Finally Forrest looked at him 
 in disgust and said: 
 
 "Young man, stand over there and listen to 
 me read that speech." Then Forrest proceeded 
 in his full rich voice to deliver the speech as 
 only he could, and when he had finished, turned 
 to the trembling young man and said : 
 
 "There, can't you speak it like that?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Forrest," said the young man, "if 
 I could I would not be working for six dollars 
 a week." This answer completely knocked For- 
 rest out, and when he recovered he asked: 
 
 "Is that all you get?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the timid young man. 
 
 "Then read it any way you damn please," was 
 Forrest's curt reply.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 43 
 
 FORREST'S "LITTLE MAN." 
 
 Forrest was playing "Rolla" in "Pizarro." 
 During the play he has to carry a child on his 
 back over a bridge. Being very fond of children 
 he was always careful to reassure the little fellow 
 in order that he might not be excited. On this 
 occasion when he was about the middle of the 
 bridge and the little fellow was holding on to 
 his neck with a vise-like grip, he said in his 
 deep bass voice : 
 
 "Don't be frightened, my little man, I won't 
 let you fall." He was so astonished that he 
 nearly fell off the bridge himself when the "lit- 
 tle man" replied in a voice as deep as his own, 
 
 "You'd better not, you son of a gun !" 
 
 It seems that the child they had engaged for 
 this part had disappointed them at the last mo- 
 ment and the only available substitute they could 
 find was a little dwarf about forty years of age, 
 who worked in a cigar store next door. 
 
 WHAT PUZZLED HIM. 
 
 Who has ever travelled over the Montana Cir- 
 cuit without meeting genial John Maguire? At 
 the time of which I speak he was managing the 
 theatres at Butte, Anaconda, Helena, and Mis- 
 soula, with headquarters at Butte. 
 
 An agent one day called on Maguire's local 
 manager at Anaconda and asked what time he 
 had his orchestra called.
 
 44 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "Oh," said the manager, "any time you want 
 them, they are always here." 
 
 "How many pieces have you?" asked the 
 agent. 
 
 "Three," said the manager. 
 
 "What are they?" 
 
 The manager looked at him with one of those 
 cheerful smiles which the local manager gen- 
 erally has, and said, "A piano, a stool, and a 
 cover !" 
 
 The agent laughed until he was humpbacked, 
 thought it the best story he had ever heard. 
 When he reached Butte he started to tell it to 
 Maguire; after he had finished, to his great sur- 
 prise, it did not have any effect upon John at 
 all, he merely scratched his head thoughtfully 
 and said in his drawling way : 
 
 "Well, I knew they had a piano and a stool, 
 but where the devil did they get the cover?" 
 
 JOHN MAGUIRE'S DOG. 
 
 John had a dog called Tag a most wonder- 
 ful animal. It knew more than one-half of the 
 men in town. I could tell a great many remark- 
 able things this dog did, but I shall only relate 
 this one little incident. Tag was always about 
 the theatre and was in the habit of going in and 
 out during a performance at pleasure. But on 
 one occasion when a strange company was play- 
 ing, the man on the door did not know Tag from 
 any other dog, and every time he tried to walk 
 in the man drove him out. When Tag found
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 45 
 
 out he couldn't get in he stood and watched the 
 people for a short while. In one corner of the 
 lobby was a small pile of papers thrown out the 
 night before. So Tag, after watching a while 
 longer, walked over to this pile of rubbish, 
 scratched around in it until he found what looked 
 like a ticket, trotted with assurance back to the 
 door, and presented this bit of paper to the 
 keeper, who accepted it with a good-natured 
 smile, and the dog marched proudly in and saw 
 the show. 
 
 "On, THE WILD CHARGE THEY MADE:" 
 
 They gave John Maguire a great benefit once 
 in Butte, the most remarkable benefit ever given 
 to a man in this country. It did not take place 
 in a theatre, but at the fair grounds, and the re- 
 ceipts amounted to between twenty and thirty 
 thousand dollars. The stores and business 
 houses all closed and it was a great holiday. 
 
 As Maguire, in his early days, had aspired to 
 be an actor I believe he once played "Raphael," 
 in "The Marble Heart" (as an Irishman) he 
 was down on the bill to recite "The Charge of the 
 Light Brigade." Not only was John unfamiliar 
 with the lines but he had been out with a lot of 
 good fellows and was feeling a little groggy. Of 
 course, on his entrance he received a splendid 
 ovation ; he bowed his thanks and started to re- 
 cite "The Charge of the Light Brigade," some- 
 thing like this : 
 
 "Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the
 
 46 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 left of them, oh, the wild charge they made ; into 
 the Valley of Death rode the six hundred, oh, 
 the wild charge they made." This was about all 
 he knew of the piece, and as he was tendered a 
 most voracious applause he started, as soon as 
 he recovered his breath, to repeat the lines. 
 Finally he reached such a point that all he could 
 say was : 
 
 "Oh, the wild charge they made, oh, the wild 
 charge they made!" Suddenly a bright thought 
 struck him, "Ah, this is where I can work in 
 a little business," and at once proceeded to an- 
 nounce in his inimitable bland manner: 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, the next attraction in 
 my theatre will be Mr. Lawrence Barrett, the 
 celebrated tragedian. I am bringing him to this 
 city at a very large expense, and for this en- 
 gagement the price of seats will be as follows, 
 the parquette and dress circle, three dollars ; the 
 balcony, two dollars ; and the gallery, one dol- 
 lar. Mr. Barrett is, I assure you ," just 
 then John was interrupted by a small boy in the 
 crowd shouting at the top of his lungs: 
 
 "Oh, the wild charge they made!" 
 
 "THAT'S THE OPEHA HOUSE BURNING DOWN." 
 
 Our company had been doing a discouraging 
 business in Montana. We came at last to a 
 small town, I think it was Great Falls it did 
 not amount to much at that time. We were in- 
 formed upon our arrival that there was a great 
 convention of cattlemen and sheepherders in
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 47 
 
 town, and were assured of a large house ; in fact, 
 we were notified before we reached the town that 
 the entire 1 )use was sold. To be sure we were 
 highly elated. When we arrived we found the 
 report to be correct, and visions of big salary 
 loomed up before us. 
 
 About six o'clock we were standing on the 
 veranda of the hotel, the manager bubbling over 
 with happiness at our unexpected good fortune, 
 when suddenly he exclaimed : 
 
 "Look at that extraordinary red glow ! Isn't 
 that the most gorgeous sunset you ever saw in 
 your life?" He waxed fairly enthusiastic over it; 
 just then one of the natives who was standing 
 there, calmly remarked : 
 
 "Why, boss, that ain't a sunset, that's the 
 opera house burning down !" and our blasted 
 hopes mingled their ashes with that of the de- 
 stroyed building. Oh, the hollow mockery of a 
 burning air castle ! 
 
 A FULL BOARD BUT NO HOUSE. 
 
 In another little town of Montana the same 
 manager and I walked into the bookstore where 
 they sold the reserved seats for the theatre. .The 
 diagram of the hall in those days generally con- 
 sisted of a large board showing the arrange- 
 ment of the seats, and whenever they sold a seat 
 they put a tack in the board. We were usually 
 very careful when we walked into the store and 
 looked at the diagram to appear indifferent as to 
 whether any seats were sold or not; but on this
 
 48 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 occasion an unexpected sight met our gaze. The 
 entire board was filled with tacks, and of course 
 we knew the house was sold. The manager in 
 his great delight took me out and bought me a 
 drink something he never did before. 
 
 Night came ; we went joyfully to the theatre 
 and prepared for the performance. Eight o'clock 
 not a soul in the house. We thought this is 
 the old story, they come late in this town. Eight- 
 thirty no one in sight. 
 
 "Well," said the manager, "this beats all!" 
 so he went to the local manager and asked : 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "I guess no one's coming," answered the local 
 manager. 
 
 "How about the reserved seats sale?" 
 
 "Why, there were no reserved seats sold." 
 
 "What," said the manager, "that board was 
 full of tacks!" 
 
 "Oh, you don't understand our way of do- 
 ing. You see we fill the board with tacks, and 
 when we sell a seat we take one out!" 
 
 KNEW MORE THAN HE COULD SAY. 
 
 There was in Debar's Theatre, St. Louis, a 
 young man of the name of Johnnie Brown. 
 Johnnie was a sort of fixture there. He would 
 have been a good actor if he could have talked, 
 but he stuttered so you could not understand a 
 word he said. Very small bits or servant parts 
 were all we trusted to him. Johnnie once re-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 49 
 
 marked that he knew as much as any other young 
 man in the company, but he couldn't say it. 
 
 When Madame Modjeska first came to the 
 theatre to play her initial star engagement in St. 
 Louis she opened in "Adrienne Lecouvreur," and 
 Johnnie was cast to play the servant who an- 
 nounces the Manager of the Theatre Comedie 
 Franqaise. The speech was as follows : 
 
 "Monsieur Michelette of the Theatre Comedie 
 Franchise." Every one, Johnnie himself in- 
 cluded, knew that he would never get it right and 
 wondered what he would say. Night came ; 
 there was a wonderful welcome for the great act- 
 ress, the house was crowded to the doors. Every- 
 thing in the play was going smoothly until 
 Johnnie came on for his announcement. He ap- 
 peared in the center door, clad in a handsome 
 livery ; started to speak, stammered, rolled his 
 eyes, and finally with one great effort completely 
 convulsed the audience, and stopped the per- 
 formance for fully five minutes by announcing: 
 
 "M-m-is-ss-ter M-m-i-t-t-chell of the T-t-t-hea- 
 tre Comeek !" and then hurried off the stage. 
 (The aforesaid Mr. Mitchell was running a vari- 
 ety house on Pine street at the time.) 
 
 On another occasion, much against his will, he 
 was cast to play second actor in "Hamlet." 
 Johnnie loudly protested that he could never 
 speak the lines, but as they had no one else for 
 the part he had to go on. I think he made his 
 bravest effort that night ; he started : 
 
 "T-h-h-oughts b-b-bl-ack, h-h-a-n-d-s ap-pt, 
 d-r-r-ugs f it oh, hell, I knew I'd make a mess 
 of it!"
 
 5O John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Several years afterward I met Johnnie in New 
 York City one day. He stammered more hope- 
 lessly than ever. 
 
 "Johnnie," I said, "you stutter worse than you 
 did in St. Louis." 
 
 "W-w-w-e-1-1, J-j-o-h-h-n," he replied, 
 "t-th-h-is is a b-b-bigger t-t-t-own th-h-h-an 
 Sain-t-t L-11-o-uis !" 
 
 "WITNESS." 
 
 Back in the early '8o's I was part manager of 
 a little company that started out during the sum- 
 mer season in quest of glory and, incidentally, a 
 little money. We received all the glory we 
 wanted, but very little money. 
 
 My partner went ahead and doubled back to 
 play two or three parts and sell tickets. While 
 on one of his "prospecting" tours looking for a 
 place to play, he came across a small town in 
 Illinois, I have forgotten the name, but they 
 manufacture reapers there. The landlord of the 
 only hotel owned the hall, and my partner made 
 with him the most wonderful contract share rnd 
 share alike, that I have ever seen, before or since ; 
 to wit : The landlord was to furnish one-half the 
 board in his own hotel, one-half the hall rent of 
 his own hall, one-half the salaries (we never 
 paid any), one-half the printing and other ex- 
 penses including bar bills, for which he was to 
 receive one-half of the net proceeds. What 
 would the present-day syndicates say to terms 
 like this?-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 51 
 
 On the first night of the show I went to the 
 landlord and asked him if he wanted to sell 
 tickets or take them. 
 
 "Oh, I ain't got no time for that," he answered 
 curtly, "you boys must run that vourselves," and 
 we did. The old man did not have, or at least 
 did not take, the time to run his hotel properly. 
 He had a young man in the office who worked 
 in the capacity of clerk, porter, and waiter on 
 table. He was excessively familiar with all the 
 regular boarders, who were principally men 
 working in the reaper factory. 
 
 My partner, in order to look as much like a 
 manager as possible, wore a tall white hat and 
 linen duster ; and this hat was a mark for the 
 sallies of the aforesaid young man, who never 
 lost an opportunity of passing some joke about 
 it. My partner stood it until one day just at the 
 noon hour, when all the boarders were assembled 
 in the wash room preparing for dinner, the young 
 man, thinking it a good occasion to take a crack 
 at the hat, did so, and my partner took a crack 
 at him, giving him a beautiful black eye, and 
 otherwise disfiguring his face. He could not ap- 
 pear to wait table, but he hied away to the jus- 
 tice ; they got out a warrant on the man who had 
 abused the joker's optic, had him arrested, and 
 carried off to jail. The trial was set for that 
 afternoon. I was informed that the justice was 
 very severe, was never known to let any one off ; 
 I also found out that most of the boarders had 
 been up before him, and, furthermore, that they 
 had little love for the porter. So I told my 
 partner to keep still, and I undertook to prepare
 
 52 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 his defense. As I have said previously, my 
 father was a famous criminal lawyer, and I was 
 brought up in his office. 
 
 Well, all the boarders who were present were 
 summoned as witnesses. I happened to be stand- 
 ing at the bottom of the stairs shortly before the 
 case was called, and noticed that as each wit- 
 ness went up he looked at me and winked. Now, 
 I knew there was something doing, but I could 
 not tell what. I went into court with great mis- 
 givings. My partner was there looking like the 
 fellow who stole the sheep in "The Mutton 
 Trial." The young man's attorney made a 
 speech telling how his client had been grossly 
 assaulted, etc., and wound up by denouncing 
 show people in general, and us in particular. The 
 plaintiff then went on the stand black eye and 
 all and related his story; he told nothing but 
 the truth, and it looked pretty dark for my part- 
 ner. Then the first witness was called. He 
 looked wise, swore he was in the room at the 
 hour mentioned, and that there was no visible 
 trouble; he saw no one struck, and if anybody 
 had been he surely would have seen it. A dozen 
 others went on the stand and swore to the same 
 thing. You should have seen the faces of the 
 judge and the lawyer and the porter, ye gods! 
 he looked like a frightened ghost. My part- 
 ner likewise seemed a trifle startled, but soon 
 managed to regain perfect composure. When it 
 came my turn to speak I merely said, as if I 
 knew it was all a mistake: 
 
 "Why, judge, this young man has been dream- 
 ing or must have fallen out of bed or been walk-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 53 
 
 ing in his sleep, for here are a number of re- 
 sponsible people all swearing that nothing of the 
 kind happened." The judge looked puzzled, and, 
 after wiping his glasses several times, said : 
 
 "This is the strangest case I ever had. The 
 young man most certainly has been dreaming or 
 else there has been the tallest amount of lying 
 done ever on record. The evidence shows no 
 assault although the plaintiff does. The defend- 
 ant is discharged." 
 
 My partner and I were warmly congratulated 
 and we all went out and had a drink, for which 
 the landlord paid half. 
 
 That night at the show, not going on until 
 late, I was "on the door." There was a big 
 crowd waiting for the doors to open. We thought, 
 "here's where we make good." Well, they started 
 to come in. For a long while every man who 
 passed me looked wise and said to me in a stage 
 whisper : 
 
 "Witness!" 
 
 Most of them had brought their families and 
 they took particular pains to deposit them in the 
 best seats in the theatre. We had a fine house, 
 in fact, "standing room only," and I cannot re- 
 call a performance that ever went so well. I 
 think we took in money that night to the amount 
 of sixteen dollars and fifty cents of which the 
 landlord got half.
 
 54 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 THE BANKER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 In the same town a petition was sent to us 
 signed by the mayor and all the leading citizens 
 to play "The Banker's Daughter." They had 
 never seen or heard of "The Banker's Daughter" 
 until a Chicago travelling man told some lady 
 there that it was the greatest society play of the 
 day, and she, naturally, told her neighbors and 
 they kept circulating it until the entire town was 
 interested in "The Banker's Daughter." To be 
 sure, we wished to oblige them as they had been 
 so kind to us, but not having the manuscript 
 nor the right to play it if we had it, we set about 
 devising some means of satisfying them. Finally 
 we produced Bartley Campbell's play entitled 
 "Fate," and called it "The Banker's Daughter." 
 It resembles about as -much the "The Banker's 
 Daughter" as "Hamlet" does the farce comedy. 
 But from the rise of the curtain until the fall, 
 the audience was in raptures. As we approached 
 the end of the play it suddenly occurred to me 
 that there had been no allusion made whatever 
 to the subject we were supposed to be playing; 
 I was making the effort of my life to think of 
 something to say, when, just as the curtain was 
 about to fall the leading lady, an extremely 
 bright girl who has since attained a high place 
 in the profession, threw her arms around my 
 neck and exclaimed : 
 
 "Thank heaven, I am a banker's daughter!" 
 and the audience departed, thinking they had 
 seen the long-talked-of play, and declaring it 
 to be the best that had ever been in the town.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. $$ 
 
 I REGISTERED FOR MYSELF AFTER THAT. 
 
 Another summer I went out with this same 
 partner, to play parlor engagements in the 
 smaller towns. The company consisted of my 
 partner, his wife, and myself. We had no sala- 
 ries to pay, and, of course, got along swim- 
 mingly. 
 
 We stopped one day in a little town in Ten- 
 nessee. My partner went in and registered, as 
 he generally did, for the party. The landlord 
 looked at the register and immediately there was 
 a great commotion in the quiet hotel ; mine host 
 gave up his own rooms to my partner and his 
 wife ; the negro servants hustled around and se- 
 cured dainty trifles, and fresh flowers were 
 placed in great profusion in their rooms. And 
 mine well, I was put up in a gloomy, comfort- 
 less garret in a tiny room with a bed and a 
 chair, with not even a place to wash. At din- 
 ner my partner and his wife were seated at a 
 separate table with two or three servants to wait 
 on them and had extra fare from what was 
 served to the rest of the boarders ; while I was 
 seated over in a little corner by myself and had 
 hard work getting anything. To use a common 
 expression, I was "sore." After the meal I went 
 out and walked around the hotel a couple of 
 times, came through the office and finally 
 brought up against the counter. I was deter- 
 mined to find out from the landlord why it was 
 I had been treated so shabbily and my partner 
 had been given the best in the hotel. Just then
 
 56 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 my gaze fell upon the register everything was 
 explained. My partner had written therein these 
 words : 
 
 "Lord de Mortimer, lady, and valet." 
 
 "You ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED TO WORK THE 
 
 STREETS." 
 
 \ 
 
 We kept on during the summer and finally 
 located for a rest in Peru, Indiana, a pretty lit- 
 tle city. We used to play there once a week as- 
 sisted by local amateurs. The natives looked 
 upon us as residents of the town, so much so 
 that when the poll tax collector came around 
 and we refused to pay the tax we were served 
 with the following notice: 
 
 PERU, INDIANA, Sept. 2, 1876. 
 MR. J. W. BURTON : 
 
 You are hereby notified to work the streets 
 next Tuesday and Wednesday, the 5th and 6th 
 days of September, and bring with you a shovel 
 or pick. Meet at corner of Main and Lafay- 
 ette Streets at 8 o'clock a. m. I. HEHL, 
 
 Street Commissioner. 
 
 I never found out whether it was a joke or 
 the real thing, but we did not appear with the 
 "pick and shovel," and nothing more was ever 
 said of it.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 57 
 
 THE PRIDE OF THE TOWN. 
 
 Coming out over the Northern Pacific with 
 Patti Rosa our train was delayed by a wreck 
 in the Bad Lands. There could not have been 
 a more desolate place on earth to pass away the 
 time, but fortune favored us a little, for we hap- 
 pened to be at the station near a very small town. 
 John Dunn and I were walking up and down the 
 platform bemoaning our fate when it suddenly oc- 
 curred to him to have a little fun with some 
 of the natives who were gathered around the 
 depot. Now, John always spoke very slowly 
 and with a slight drawl. He got his eye on an 
 individual that I shall never forget; he was 
 six feet high and so thin, he absolutely looked 
 as if he would break in two. John approached 
 him and said in his peculiar way : 
 
 "My friend, where is your hall?" 
 
 This thin piece of humanity instantly straight- 
 ened up until he fairly looked down on John, 
 and in the most patronizing tone mingled with 
 disgust, said : 
 
 "Hall hell we got opery !" 
 
 John had no more to say, he was knocked out 
 in the first round. When the train started and 
 we moved down the track, sure enough, there 
 was a dilapidated building that had undoubtedly 
 been in its palmy days a skating rink. Over 
 the door in large letters it said "Opera House."
 
 _$8 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 SHOULD HAVE HAD A BETTER HOUSE. 
 
 It was on that same tour that another amus- 
 ing incident occurred. One bitter cold night the 
 stage manager had gone early to the theatre to 
 have it lighted up and to rehearse a new lady 
 who had joined the company. He was going 
 through the scenes with her as we did not have 
 time for a general rehearsal. 
 
 There was a large stove near the door, which 
 was throwing out volumes of heat, making every- 
 thing warm and cheerful within. Outside it was 
 snowing a perfect blizzard. In the hallway was 
 a solitary man wrapped in a large fur coat ; as 
 he had evidently come to attend the perform- 
 ance the manager asked him to step inside and 
 take a seat. The curtain was up and the young 
 lady was reciting her part, all of which the 
 stranger watched with the keenest interest. 
 Finally, after the rehearsal was over, the curtain 
 was let down preparatory for the coming per- 
 formance. Then the stranger got up, walked 
 over to the manager, and said : 
 
 "Pretty good show ; should have had a bet- 
 ter house ; here's ten dollars to help you along," 
 handing the amazed manager a ten-dollar bill, 
 "but it's a bad night, you'll do better next time ;" 
 with that he started to go. As soon as the man- 
 ager recovered from his surprise he explained 
 the situation to him, but it took considerable per- 
 suading to get him to come back and see the 
 show.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 59 
 A BEGGAR BY ACCIDENT. 
 
 During one of those awfully hot spells in New 
 York City, when it was as warm at midnight as 
 at midday, and people were lying on the roofs 
 and sidewalks trying to get a breath of fresh 
 air, I came down from my room one night in 
 my shirt sleeves and was standing on the cor- 
 ner, leaning against a lamp-post, fanning my- 
 self with my straw hat. I suppose, being so 
 tired, I must have unconsciously gone into a 
 doze, when I was suddenly awakened by the 
 falling of something into my hat. Looking up 
 I saw that a benevolent stranger had dropped 
 a nickel into it. Realizing the situation at once 
 I called after him : 
 
 "Here, sir, this is a mistake!" 
 
 Without stopping, the stranger waved his 
 hand back at me, saying: 
 
 ''That's all right, old man, I was once poor 
 myself. God bless you in your poverty." 
 
 I have really never been "broke" since, for 
 I have always kept that nickel. 
 
 ATTENDING ONE OF MR. CLEVELAND'S RECEP- 
 TIONS. 
 
 It was while playing an engagement in Wash- 
 ington, during President Cleveland's first ad- 
 ministration, that my friend, Gerrold Griffin, and 
 I went to attend one of the president's regular 
 receptions. W r e arrived at the White House 
 and were ushered into the drawing-room, where
 
 60 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 we found a large crowd in line, which we joined 
 with much misgiving, for we noticed that every- 
 body wore a grave and ministerial air. A gen- 
 tleman standing by the President was announc- 
 ing the names of each party as they approached 
 to shake Mr. Cleveland's hand; we soon found 
 out to our greater discomfiture that we were 
 in the midst of a lot of Methodist ministers and 
 their wives, whom Mr. Cleveland was giving a 
 special reception. Grif was badly frightened, 
 but I whispered to him that we would play it 
 out, and as we were both cleanly-shaven we put 
 on very dignified looks, and there was not much 
 trouble in passing ourselves off as members of 
 the Conference. The striking resemblance be- 
 tween actors and ministers has often been com- 
 mented upon. Well, the line kept getting nearer 
 and nearer to the President. The gentleman was 
 announcing the Rev. Mr. So and So and Mrs. 
 So and So of Illinois, the Rev. Mr. So and So 
 and Mrs. So and So of Philadelphia, and so on. 
 The President himself looked very solemn and 
 uncomfortable and shaking hands with them in 
 a most impressive and awe-inspiring manner; 
 in fact, there was an atmosphere of frozen dig- 
 nity enveloping the whole crowd that made them 
 closely resemble a procession of undertakers. All 
 this time Grif and I were drawing nearer to the 
 President; at last, it was up to me. The an- 
 nouncer, as he did not know us, expected me to 
 hand him our cards, but I did not. I merely 
 grasped the outstretched hand of the President 
 and gave him a most cordial shake, and said to 
 him in an undertone:
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 61 
 
 "Two plain, every-day actors, Mr. President." 
 Mr. Cleveland's face broadened into a smile 
 as he replied in the same tone of voice : 
 "I am awful glad to see you !" 
 
 A QUICK BARGAIN. 
 
 While playing at McVickers' Theatre in Chi- 
 cago, Edwin Thorne came there to fill a star en- 
 gagement in a piece called "The Spy." It was 
 a miserably bad drama, and the business was 
 also bad everything on a par with the play. 
 
 Ed was a noted wit and a great practical joker. 
 He soon found out what an inferior piece of 
 property he had on his hands, but he determined 
 to make the best of it. The great climax at 
 the end of the third act was where Mr. Thorne 
 as the American spy escapes across a log over 
 a deep chasm, pursued by an officer and detach- 
 ment of British soldiers. As he flung the log 
 into the chasm and stood defiantly on the other 
 side, the officer, in rage, said : 
 
 "A hundred pounds for the spy," and Ed's 
 reply was to hurl back some heroic words com- 
 prising allusions to George Washington and the 
 American flag. But on this occasion, when the 
 officer shouted : 
 
 "A hundred pounds for the spy!" Thome's 
 answer came as unexpected and as quick as a 
 flash: 
 
 "It's yours, my boy, manuscript and parts!"
 
 62 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "DAHLBORN'S DAIRY." 
 
 I remember an old and well-known actor 
 named Waldemar Dahlborn, a Dane by birth, 
 who was toasted and petted during his early 
 days ; and yet in his old age was allowed to take 
 his last sleep in the garb of a pauper. 
 
 He played first with a German company in 
 the old Bowery Theatre, New York, was after- 
 ward a member of the original Madison Square 
 company, and later went around the world with 
 Bandmann. 
 
 He fell dead a few years ago on Clark street, 
 Chicago, a victim of starvation and neglect. For 
 many years he kept a diary, and a few hours be- 
 fore his death he wrote his last entry in it read- 
 ing as follows : 
 
 December 6th, dinner, Madison Street... .10 
 
 " car fare to the theatre 10 
 
 " coffee and rolls, Halsted St. .05 
 
 7th, dinner 10 
 
 " barber 05 
 
 " coffee and rolls 05 
 
 8th, dinner, Madison Street... .10 
 
 " car fare to the theatre 10 
 
 " coffee and bread, Waverly. .03 
 
 9th, dinner, Madison Street... .10 
 loth, dinner, Clark Street 05 
 
 Fifteen years ago, according to the earlier 
 pages of this diary he ate at Delmonico's in New 
 York, where it was his custom to pay from two
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 63 
 
 to four dollars for a meal. Later pages show 
 where at times he was on the highway to pros- 
 perity. Then we turn over the leaves and find 
 him out of engagement and subsisting on five 
 cents a day. An entry made in the latter part 
 of November shows where, though in abject pov- 
 erty himself, he gave five cents to a beggar. 
 Here are a few more entries from the diary : 
 
 Week ending Oct. i6th, total expenditures. $1.74 
 Week ending Oct. 25th, total expenditures. 1.17 
 Week ending Oct. 3ist, total expenditures. .60 
 Week ending Nov. 6th, total expenditures. .76 
 
 Probably the most pathetic page in his diary 
 is that of Christmas, 1896. When nearly every 
 person in the big city of Chicago was eating 
 a good dinner of turkey and plum pudding, and 
 had their friends assembled with them around 
 the festive board, the old actor's book shows 
 that his dinner cost him on that day the munifi- 
 cent sum of five cents. 
 
 HE EARNED, BUT NEVER WORE THE WREATH OF 
 FAME. 
 
 Speaking of the early-day actors in Califor- 
 nia, I vividly remember poor Harry Brown. He 
 was the companion of Edwin Booth, Jim Starke, 
 Bill Mestayer, and all the celebrities of that pe- 
 riod a splendid actor but never pushed him- 
 self to the front, so that to the general public, 
 outside of California, he was little known.
 
 64 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Brown was very fond of playing the fiddle, 
 as he called it, and this accomplishment proved 
 an useful one, for in the provincial theatres 
 throughout the far West, in those days, there 
 was no orchestra. It was a common occurrence 
 for Harry, made up as lago, to sit behind the 
 curtain and play an overture on his fiddle; he 
 would also give the cue music during the per- 
 formance when he was not on the stage, and 
 many a time, while enacting the role of villain, 
 when he was killed, he would fall half-way off 
 the stage, that is, his legs exposed to the au- 
 dience, and lying in that position, take up his 
 fiddle and play slow dying music to bring the 
 curtain down. 
 
 Poor Harry, his ambition never rose higher 
 than the little barn-storming companies. One 
 day, in a small hotel in St. Louis, he was found 
 dead, sitting in a chair with his fiddle by his side. 
 
 How THE LANDLORD GOT EVEN. 
 
 We had been playing one-night stands through 
 the State of Iowa, living and sleeping mostly 
 on the train, and as the business was good and 
 salary regular we had been patronizing the din- 
 ing-car freely. One night we stopped at a small 
 town, I cannot remember the name, but I think 
 it was Watcheer. The hotel was a miserable af- 
 fair, and the boys sat around the stove in the 
 office comparing it to the dining-car they had 
 been living in during the last few days. Now, 
 the landlord was a remarkable character; he sat
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 65 
 
 there and listened to all these roasts; he heard 
 nothing but dining-car all that day, from morn- 
 ing till night, but it never phazed him. The 
 next morning about 5 o'clock an ungodly hour 
 for actors to get up he walked slowly down 
 the long hall solemnly ringing a large bell and 
 calling in a stentorian voice : 
 
 "Breakfast is now ready in the dining-car !" 
 
 LEFT BEHIND. 
 
 As we had to leave town after the performance 
 the next night, the manager made arrangements 
 for the Limited train to stop and take us on. 
 We hurried through the performance and rushed 
 down to the depot with our baggage. The night 
 was the darkest I ever saw ; there were no lights 
 at the depot, nothing but an old negro with a 
 lantern. We saw the light of the engine as the 
 train approached, and I said to the negro : 
 "Uncle, are you sure that train will stop here ?" 
 "Oh, yes, sah," he said, " 'tis shore to stop 
 here." 
 
 Just about that time the train shot by us like 
 a streak, leaving us standing in a bewildered 
 state on the platform. I turned to my colored 
 friend : 
 
 "Why, Uncle, that train did not stop!" 
 "No, sah," he answered, "it didn't even hesi- 
 tate!"
 
 66 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 A "DAMON AND PYTHIAS" PERFORMANCE 
 THAT'S NEVER BEEN EQUALLED. 
 
 In a little town in Indiana the Knights of 
 Pythias were making a brave effort to build 
 a hall, and in order to raise the necessary funds, 
 they made an offer to our manager to give a 
 performance of "Damon and Pythias." The 
 management, knowing that the play would draw 
 a large house, and as business was none too 
 good, jumped at the idea. We fortunately had 
 two Damon and Pythias books, so the parts were 
 copied and we went to work to rehearse and 
 study them. 
 
 As for dresses, the ladies procured some white 
 cotton cloth which they made into togas, trim- 
 ming them most beautifully with red calico. Soap 
 boxes covered with white cloth made the Senate 
 seats. It was a remarkable performance, both 
 the man playing Damon and the one playing 
 Pythias were Irishmen, and spoke with a pro- 
 nounced brogue. 
 
 As we did not have men enough for the sen- 
 ate scene two of the ladies were required to put 
 on togas and "play men" for a while. Now, 
 these two ladies were married, Mrs. M. and 
 Mrs. R., and both had little babies, whom they 
 used to bring to the theatre, as they could not 
 leave them at home, put them to sleep and tuck 
 them away in their theatre trunks. 
 
 Well, the house was packed that evening, and 
 everything was going splendidly until we came 
 to the senate scene, and Damon was in the midst 
 of his great speech,
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 67 
 
 "Can ye but dig your own dark graves, creep 
 into them and die?" 
 
 One of the senators should have said: 
 
 "I have not sanctioned it," 
 and another senator : 
 
 "Nor I," 
 and another still : 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 But the senators had failed to respond ; all 
 they heard was the unmistakable cry of a baby ; 
 it grew louder and more emphatic each minute, 
 thus causing much uneasiness among the female 
 senators ; Damon, nothing daunted, went on with 
 his lines : 
 
 "Oh, thanks for these few small voices, but 
 alas, how lonely do they sound " 
 
 The baby on the other side, awakened by the 
 cry, set up an awful yell, and Mrs. R., whose 
 mother-love was stronger than her histrionic am- 
 bitions, made a hasty and undignified exit, just 
 as Damon was saying : 
 
 "Do you not all start up at once and cry out 
 Liberty ! or are you bound in fetters of mind 
 that you sit as if you were yourselves incorpo- 
 rate with the marble?" 
 
 When he came to the line : 
 
 "Old men that have been grandsires, women 
 
 with their children " the first baby, waxing 
 
 impatient at his mother's indifference to his 
 wants, grew louder and more energetic in his 
 demands ; "and these old men who lift their 
 shivering voices and palsied hands, and those 
 affrighted mothers " here Damon turned and
 
 68 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 looked the remaining female senator squarely in 
 the face: 
 
 "Who hold their innocent infants forth and 
 
 ask " Baby Number One was giving out 
 
 cries that were really deafening. As Damon 
 turned once more to address the senators he 
 saw, gliding like a shadow through the east 
 wing, the rapidly-disappearing figure of the 
 Grecian senator, Mrs. M. Instead of saying : 
 
 "Could you make slaves of them?" shaking 
 his fist at the vanishing form, he shouted : 
 
 "What the devil did you bring it for?" 
 
 Philistius, though, rose beautifully to the oc- 
 casion ; with grave dignity he ended the scene : 
 
 "As there is not a quorum present and we have 
 no way of stopping the yells of the populace, I 
 hereby dissolve the senate !" 
 
 WAS WILLING TO HELP HIM MAKE A HIT. 
 
 We were playing "Damon and Pythias" in 
 Minneapolis. Theodore Hamilton was playing 
 Damon, and a very good one he was. We had 
 a man in the company very small in size but 
 possessed of a surprisingly large voice ; his am- 
 bition was to play leads, but he hardly ever got 
 anything but small bits. On this occasion he 
 was cast as Lucullus. Now, Lucullus is Damon's 
 slave, who, when he finds that Damon is going 
 back to give himself up to die for Pythias, kills 
 his master's horse to keep him from going; and 
 when Damon rushes on and says: 
 
 "My horse, slave, my horse!"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 69 
 
 Lucullus replies : 
 
 "Forgive me, noble master, for I slew your 
 horse !" 
 
 Then Damon waxes wroth, seizes Lucullus 
 by the neck and pounds him about the stage. 
 On this occasion Mr. Hamilton ended by giving 
 him a toss which threw him off into the entrance. 
 The young fellow took it all good-naturedly. 
 After the performance was over and while we 
 were all assembled in the cafe, Hamilton said: 
 
 "Young man, do you know what I am going 
 to do with you to-morrow night?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Hamilton," he replied, "what are 
 you going to do with me?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I am going to wipe the stage up 
 with you and when I am through I am going 
 to throw you out into the back alley." 
 
 Mr. Hamilton thought this would completely 
 terrify the young aspirant, but instead he only 
 smiled and said : 
 
 "Well, Mr. Hamilton, I suppose you will have 
 to do something to make a hit in that part!" 
 
 THE DONKEY, ALSO, RECEIVED A PRESS NOTICE. 
 
 I shall never forget the first night of our pro- 
 duction of "Ali Baba ; or. The Forty Thieves." I 
 was playing the poor woodchopper ; and my com- 
 panion was a diminutive donkey which was very 
 well known in Minneapolis, as for years he had 
 dragged a little cart around the city, but he had 
 never been on the stage worse luck to him. 
 When I made my entrance and endeavored to 
 lead the donkey on he was suddenly seized with
 
 70 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 stage fright and refused to move. The young 
 man who was with me assisted in pulling at the 
 bridle rein. We tugged away with all our 
 strength, while the stage hands from behind 
 attacked him with hammers and stage braces. 
 In the midst of it all he quietly, without giving 
 us due notice, walked out on the stage, leaving 
 my friend and myself lying flat on our backs, 
 caused by the relaxation of the bridle. Though 
 mortifying to us it was great fun for the au- 
 dience. When the short scene was about over 
 my friend said to me in a whisper: 
 
 "John, how are we going to get him off?" 
 
 I said: 
 
 "We'll carry him," and sure enough we did. 
 We picked him up bodily and carried him off the 
 stage. 
 
 The next morning one of the daily papers 
 kindly remarked that the hits of the play were 
 made by John Burton and another Jack-ass." 
 
 "BOOTS." 
 
 Little did I think when I saw Mr. Florence 
 in 1864 that I would ever be a member of that 
 gentleman's company, yet I look back with pleas- 
 ure over the two seasons I spent with him and 
 his charming wife. Dear genial Billy Florence ! 
 who does not remember him as "Bardwell Slote" 
 in "The Mighty Dollar"? 
 
 Always ready with a joke and just as ready 
 to take one, the soul of wit and the soul of honor. 
 Like a great many artists he was highly sen-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 71 
 
 sitive to the slightest iscrse or interruption dur- 
 ing- his performance, au<$ having played the part 
 so long the least little thing would throw him 
 off his lines. I think it was in Erie, Pennsyl- 
 vania, I was playing a very important scene with 
 him. All of a sudden he stopped in the mid- 
 dle of his speech, his eye seemed fixed upon some 
 object far away in the gallery. As soon as I 
 realized that he had stopped I gave him the line, 
 as I was familiar with the entire play, but with- 
 out looking at me at all, he merely said : 
 "Boots !" 
 
 I gave him the line again, and once more he 
 said : 
 "Boots !" 
 
 I was at a loss to know what he meant, when 
 it suddenly occurred to me that "Governor," as 
 we all called him, had gone mad, so I said to 
 him in a quiet tone : 
 
 "What's the matter, Mr. Florence?" 
 He only said : 
 "Boots !" 
 
 But this time he pointed with his finger 
 straight ahead ; my eyes following the direction 
 indicated discovered a large pair of boots hang- 
 ing over the rail of the gallery ; then he said 
 to me : 
 
 "I cannot go on, John, until those boots are 
 removed from sight ;" so I was obliged to leave 
 the stage, send a man to the front of the house, 
 and that man had to find an officer, and the of- 
 ficer had to go up into the gallery and remove 
 that awful pair of feet that were incased in those 
 boots. All this time Mr. Florence stood with-
 
 72 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 out moving, his eyes fixed on the boots, but as 
 soon as .he saw them disappear a look of intense 
 satisfaction spread over his face, the lines came 
 back to him, and the play went on. 
 
 "P. D. Q." 
 
 Those who have seen "The Mighty Dollar" 
 will remember that one of the great hits of the 
 play was the way in which Mr. Florence abbre- 
 viated his words, that is, he would use the first 
 letter of three or four words, and then quietly 
 explain it; "p. d. q.," one of his contractions, 
 soon became a common by-word in those days. 
 
 We were playing in a little town in Pennsyl- 
 vania. Our orchestra consisted of a piano and 
 a violin ; the pianist was a resident of the town. 
 a bright young lady whom our leader admired 
 very much. During the evening when he was 
 not playing he was endeavoring to be polite to 
 the young lady pianist by explaining to her the 
 little points of the play; he had been so long 
 with Mr. Florence that he knew the piece back- 
 wards. Unfortunately, the leader was fright- 
 fully deaf, and like all people so afflicted, spoke 
 in a high-pitched voice. When Mr. Florence 
 said "p. d. q.," the old man leaned over and 
 shouted in the ear of the young lady: 
 
 "Pretty damn quick !" 
 
 The young lady thinking he wanted her to 
 play, commenced to pound the piano as if her 
 life depended upon it, the leader got furiously 
 red in the face and endeavored to stop her, but
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 73 
 
 he was too late, the audience was roaring, and 
 Florence and the rest of us were so conyulsed 
 with laughter that the play had to stop for sev- 
 eral minutes before we could proceed. 
 
 FLORENCE'S QUICK WIT. 
 
 One of the actors in Mr. Florence's company 
 being sick one night, the young man having 
 charge of the properties went on for his part. 
 In the scene where all the guests come off the 
 steamboat and Mr. Florence introduces them, he 
 took this young man by the arm and led him 
 down to the front, saying as he did so: 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a great man, 
 a man of property " then quietly in an un- 
 dertone that broke us all up on the stage "A 
 property man !" 
 
 MY VALENTINE. 
 
 I have always been very fond of children, and 
 the little ones I have come in contact with in and 
 out of the profession have ever been a source 
 of keen delight to me, with their funny little 
 sayings and doings. 
 
 Several years ago a little six-year-old sent me 
 a valentine ; on the inside of it was written in 
 a baby hand : 
 
 "My dear Mr. Burton, if you don't get this, 
 please let me know."
 
 74 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 COULDN'T FOOL HIM. 
 
 Very often when our company is travelling 
 and a child is required in a play, not having one 
 as a member of the company, we are obliged 
 to borrow one, so to speak, and it is the stage 
 manager's duty to look up a smart youngster 
 and instruct him in the part. I remember I was 
 playing Farmer Allen in a play called "Dora." 
 In the last act the old man has a very impres- 
 sive scene with the little boy, who is supposed 
 to be his grandson. If I could get the little fel- 
 low to say a line or two I was content. I used 
 to say to him : 
 
 "How old are you, my little man ?" and he was 
 supposed to reply : 
 
 "I'se four years old." 
 
 Then I would say to him : 
 
 "Who is your father, my little man?" and he 
 was instructed to merely hang his head and say 
 nothing. 
 
 Then I would add : 
 
 "Poor little fellow, his father is dead." 
 
 Now, on this occasion we had an exceedingly 
 bright boy who spoke his lines, "I'se four years 
 old," so loud you could have heard them in the 
 next town. But when I said, "Poor little fel- 
 low, his father is dead," he commenced to cry, 
 and pointing to a large man in the orchestra 
 said: 
 
 "No, he isn't, there he is playing the big fid- 
 dle!"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 75 
 
 "TRICKS IN ALL TRADES." 
 
 We were playing "East Lynne" at a matinee in 
 Knoxville, Tennessee. The stage manager had 
 neglected to provide a child to play "Little Wil- 
 lie," so, at the last moment, we had to take the 
 only available one we could find about the thea- 
 tre. We dressed him in a clean, white night- 
 gown and placed him between the snowy sheets 
 of the little bed. As ever one knows, who has 
 seen "East Lynne," Little Willie is supposed to 
 be dying of consumption, and the scene between 
 Madame Vine and the child is a most pathetic 
 one. As this Little Willie could not speak the 
 lines he was tucked up in the bed so that the au- 
 dience could not see anything but that there was 
 a figure there. One of the ladies of the com- 
 pany was placed behind the bed to read the lines 
 of the child, imitating the baby voice. Every- 
 thing went smoothly, the audience was none the 
 wiser until Mr. Carlyle entered to pay a visit 
 to his sick child, and after greeting Madame 
 Vine, sat down on the edge of the bed ; but this 
 Mr. Carlyle, being a very large man, weighing 
 something over two hundred pounds, caused the 
 bed to break down, thereby producing one of 
 the most ludicrous scenes I have ever witnessed 
 on the stage. As the bed came down the un- 
 derstudy was discovered lying on her stomach 
 with a book in her hands ; Little Willie fell out of 
 bed, struck the floor, and rolled nearly down to 
 the footlights ; and the audience instead of seeing 
 an ethereal, delicate child of the Little Willie
 
 76 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 type beheld a chubby pickaninny, with an expan- 
 sive grin upon his face, looking as if he had just 
 spied a big watermelon. He gathered his night- 
 dress up to his knees and ran off the stage amid 
 the yells and screams of the audience. It was 
 no use, the play ended right there. 
 
 WHAT GOD SAID TO HER. 
 
 The late Sol Smith Russell told me a very 
 amusing story of his little girl. Her mother, 
 an intensely religious woman, had adopted an 
 original method of correcting the children. 
 Whenever any of them did wrong she imme- 
 diately sent them upstairs and made them say 
 a little prayer to God, asking his forgiveness for 
 the offense. Miss Alice being disobedient one 
 day, was sent upstairs to pay the penalty. When 
 she returned her mother asked her : 
 
 "Well, Alice, did you pray God to forgive 
 you?" and Alice, with a saucy look in her eyes 
 which she probably inherited from her illus- 
 trious father replied : 
 
 "Yes, mother, and what do you think God 
 said to me?" 
 
 Mrs. Russell was greatly astonished at this re- 
 mark, but managed to ask her what He had said 
 to her. 
 
 "He said," replied the child, "'Why, Alice 
 Russell, you've got an awful nerve to take up so 
 much of my time when there are so many other 
 little girls in Minneapolis much worse than 
 you.' "
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 77 
 
 A YOUNG CRITIC. 
 
 A few months ago it was my pleasure to meet 
 in her home little Blythe Shores, a bright, en- 
 tertaining maiden of seven years. Blythe is ex- 
 ceedingly fond of music, and attended an Or- 
 pheum matinee recently to hear a noted tenor. 
 Upon returning home her big sister asked her 
 how she liked him. 
 
 "Oh," she replied, "his singing was beauti- 
 ful, but he had such a discouraging face!" 
 
 GETTING ACQUAINTED. 
 
 I was invited to have luncheon with some 
 friends not long since, and during the afternoon 
 experienced an odd meeting with the neighbor's 
 small boy. The young lad, having learned that 
 I was an actor, and thinking it an unusual oc- 
 currence for actors to be seen off the stage and 
 in broad daylight, came over to make a quiet 
 study of one. 
 
 He sat down in front of me in awed silence, 
 kept his eye on me fully ten minutes, said "Good- 
 bye" in a timid little voice, and walked solemnly 
 out of the room. In a few minutes he returned 
 with a complete change in dress ; he sat down 
 again, stayed the limited ten minutes, said "Good- 
 bye," and went out for another "change." He 
 was evidently bent upon impressing me with the 
 size of his wardrobe. He made at least a dozen 
 round trips between the two houses, each time
 
 78 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 appearing with something different on ; I think 
 he put on all the clothes he had and then ex- 
 hausted his brother's supply. At last he came 
 in clad in a blue sweater ; he sat down in front 
 of me for the last time it was getting late and 
 I was preparing to leave. As I turned to my 
 hostess to express my thanks for her hospital- 
 ity, I heard some one just behind me say "Good- 
 bye." I "about-faced" in time to see my queer 
 little friend walking slowly out of the room. The 
 last thing I saw as I left the house was a small 
 boy in a blue sweater hanging on to the gate, 
 and the evening breeze wafted to my ear his 
 farewell message, "Good-bye." 
 
 "UNCLE" DICK SUTTON". 
 
 "Uncle" Dick Sutton, for some years lessee and 
 manager of Button's Family Theatre, and Sut- 
 ton's Broadway Theatre, in Butte, Montana, is 
 a character quite unique among American the- 
 atrical managers. He has been practically ex- 
 communicated by the congress of managerial car- 
 dinals of the present-day method of transacting 
 theatrical business. Instead of paying by 
 means of bank checks, bills that have been in- 
 curred, he usually carries with him a roll of cur- 
 rency bigger than an ordinary man's wrist. This 
 roll he carries in his back pocket, in the same 
 pocket in which he usually carries smoking and 
 chewing tpbacco, chewing-gum, toothpicks, jack- 
 knives, and important contracts. He is the ex- 
 High Priest of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" perform-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 79 
 
 ances, and a Thirty-third degree-er in the mat- 
 ter of giving semi-dramatic entertainments, or 
 rather dramatic performances that are semi- 
 entertaining, in towns that are usually re- 
 ferred to in theatrical parlance as "tanks." 
 In addition to running the theatres, he 
 always has on the road a cheap rep- 
 ertoire company, the total expense of which is 
 under forty dollars a day, and he arranges his 
 dates so that his company is sure to make rail- 
 road connections with freight trains. He boasts 
 the fact that he arranges his railroad schedules 
 almost wholly with freight time-tables. This 
 company travels in a muchly-advertised special 
 car of the vintage of 1871. The highest-priced 
 member of his company is the advance agent, who 
 gets fifteen dollars a week. Aside from taking 
 pride in presenting "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Mr. 
 Sutton still retains an unquenchable glory in a 
 tall silk hat, and an ebony cane with a massive 
 gold head. When "Uncle Dick" is arrayed in 
 his best impresario clothes the tall hat, the big 
 gold-headed cane, a cigar no larger than a man's 
 little finger in his mouth, and a long Chinchilla 
 overcoat with an immense fur collar, complete 
 the picture. He has several oil paintings of 
 himself in this uniform of the cross-roads man- 
 ager. As the capstone to this get-up, he never 
 fails to wear an eight-caret yellow diamond, 
 glued into a shirt front immaculate only upon 
 rare occasions. Peculiar in dress, he is never- 
 theless generous to a fault, and charitable to all 
 those who seek his aid. Pie knows *the tall hat, 
 the big diamond, the fur-collared coat, and gold-
 
 80 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 headed cane are not pertinently appropriate to 
 the suave, genteel methods of to-day, but he says 
 the ruralites expect that style of dress in a the- 
 atrical manager, and "he's seen his duty and 
 done it." 
 
 In his early experience as an "Uncle Tom's 
 Cabin" manager, before he had arrived at the 
 dignity of paying regular salaries, six and eight 
 per, he had a lady in the company who played 
 the role of Ophelia ; she had a son who, although 
 he was fifteen or sixteen years of age, was of 
 a very diminutive stature, and she used to dress 
 him up with golden ringlets, and he would play 
 Little Eva. One day she went to Uncle Dick 
 with a request for fifteen cents. 
 
 "What for?" asked Uncle Dick in an injured 
 tone. 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth," replied the lady, 
 "Willie has got to be shaved or he can't play 
 Eva to-night." 
 
 "Can't help it," said Uncle Dick, "no money 
 in sight to-day." 
 
 "Very well," retorted the lady in a loud and 
 angry voice. "You will either have Willie 
 shaved or change the bill to 'Ingomar' !" 
 
 On one occasion the landlord of a country ho- 
 tel was ushering Uncle Dick through the house, 
 showing him the rooms he had reserved for the 
 company, when they came to a large room with 
 eight beds in it. 
 
 "This," gaid the landlord, "is for the married 
 folks."
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 81 
 
 "Great heavens !" exclaimed Uncle Dick, "the 
 married people can't all sleep in the same room." 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked the landlord, 
 "don't they speak to each other?" 
 
 Uncle Dick's aggregation of Uncle Thomas 
 was billed to play in a little town where there 
 was a brand new opera house. This opera house 
 was the pride of the owner, who also possessed 
 a saw-mill, and he used to tell everybody how 
 he had built the opera house out of the lumber 
 he himself had sawed. When he first started 
 this mill he wrote to a firm in San Francisco for 
 prices on large buzz-saws. He received a let- 
 ter in return telling him that the size he wished 
 would cost Five Hundred Dollars. "That's a 
 good bargain," thought the old man, and he im- 
 mediately wired the San Francisco office to ship 
 the saw at that price. Five Hundred Dollars. As 
 soon as the firm received his telegram they real- 
 ized that a mistake had been made, and looking 
 up the copy of their letter, discovered that the 
 typewriter had left off a cipher, making it $500, 
 when it should have been $5,000. They wrote 
 him in a polite manner telling him of the error 
 and saying that if he wished the saw at their 
 price, $5,000, they would be most happy to ship 
 it at once. The old gentleman's answer to this 
 was brief and to the point : 
 
 "If I had $5,000, what in hell would I want 
 with a saw-mill?" 
 
 When Mr. Sutton's company arrived in town 
 they discovered there were no lithographs or
 
 82 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 bills up, and this unpardonable oversight so an- 
 gered the manager that he hastened to find the 
 owner of the opera house. As he was not at the 
 theatre Uncle Dick was directed to the saw-mill, 
 where he found him busy at work. 
 
 "Are you the owner of this opera house?" 
 asked Uncle Dick. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I built that house out of the boards 
 I sawed right here in this mill." 
 
 "Well, you can keep your opera house and 
 your mill. I don't play here to-night, I am go- 
 ing on to the next town." 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked the bewildered 
 manager. 
 
 "Matter!" snorted Uncle Dick, "why, what 
 did you do with all those lithographs I sent you 
 to put up?" 
 
 "Them what?" asked the manager. 
 
 "Lithographs ! lithographs !" yelled Uncle 
 Dick. 
 
 "Oh, you mean them colored pictures?" 
 
 "Yes, them colored pictures," replied Uncle 
 Dick, sarcastically. 
 
 "Well," said the manager with a patronizing 
 smile, "I sent them around to all the houses and 
 had them hung up in the parlors. Mighty nice 
 pictures they were !" 
 
 As this was rather a new way of "lithograph- 
 ing," it completely staggered Uncle Dick, so he 
 told the man he would go uptown and think it 
 over. On the way back he met a lot of men, 
 carrying chairs, and asked what they were go- 
 ing to do with them. 
 
 "Why," said one of the men, "we are carry-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 83 
 
 ing them over to the opera house ; you see we 
 need a lot of extra seats as the house has all 
 been sold for the last three days." 
 
 Now, Uncle Dick weighs over two hundred and 
 has very short legs, but a professional sprinter 
 never made the time he did getting back to that 
 saw-mill manager and telling him "it was all 
 right, they would play there that night." 
 
 It was a risky thing to play "Uncle Tom" in 
 the South in those days, but still the people 
 came to see it out of mere curiosity, and Uncle 
 Dick was doing an enormous business ; but there 
 was one manager in a town in which he wanted 
 to play who refused to play him on the terms he 
 was getting elsewhere. Letters did no good so 
 Uncle Dick went to see him personally. The 
 manager was very impudent in spite of Button's 
 telling him of the big show he had and of the 
 tremendous business they were doing. His un- 
 varying answer was : 
 
 "If you play here, you will play on my terms, 
 Mr. Sutton," and as Uncle Dick could not afford 
 to go by that town he reluctantly accepted the 
 terms. Just as he was going out of the office 
 the manager said : 
 
 "Now, see here, I want all of this 'Uncle 
 Tom' show ; you have six acts, mind, you don't 
 leave any of them out !" 
 
 "All right," said Uncle Dick, "you shall have 
 them," and they added that stipulation to the 
 contract. 
 
 On the night of the show the house was
 
 84 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 packed, over half the people there had never seen 
 "Uncle Tom" before, and none of them as it 
 was played that night; they played the first act, 
 then the last one, the fourth act, then the sec- 
 ond one; in fact, they played "Uncle Tom" up- 
 side down ; neither the manager nor the au- 
 dience detected anything wrong, but Uncle Dick 
 had his revenge for being compelled to play at 
 reduced terms. 
 
 A QUEER CONCEIT. 
 
 The young lady who played "Topsy" in Uncle 
 Dick Button's company was much infatuated 
 with her own acting. One night after she had 
 made her exit from the scene Uncle Dick was 
 greatly surprised to see her standing against the 
 wall clapping her knee with her hands and laugh- 
 ing in an uproarious manner. 
 
 Thinking she was having some kind of a nerv- 
 ous fit Mr. Sutton approached her and asked : 
 
 "What's the matter, young woman?" 
 
 "Oh, I can't help it," she giggled, "I am so 
 funny !" 
 
 CHARLIE FORBES AND His "HANDS." 
 
 Another "Uncle Tom" manager who was well 
 known in the far West during the early '8o's 
 was Charlie Forbes, a strikingly picturesque 
 character. He used to sit at the door of the the- 
 atre, pat all the little children on the head as
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 85 
 
 they went in, and give them pop-corn and candy. 
 
 Once or twice a year he used to appear in Chi- 
 cago; whenever a friend met him and said: 
 
 "Hello, Charlie, what are you doing in town?" 
 he would alway reply: 
 
 "Oh, just looking for a few hands." 
 
 He always designated his actors as "hands." 
 He would get hold of a man, offer him six dol- 
 lars a week, and tell him of all the money he 
 could save: 
 
 "We give a matinee every day and travel the 
 rest of the time no chance to spend your money, 
 my boy." 
 
 He had one man with him who played Uncle 
 Tom, an old fellow named Archer, who they say 
 never washed the cork off his face the whole 
 season. 
 
 His advance agent was Wash Blodgett. Every 
 one in the West knew Wash ; he was in a class 
 all by himself ; deaf as a post but one of the wit- 
 tiest and best informed men that ever travelled 
 ahead of a show. He knew every city, town, 
 and water tank from Maine to California. On 
 one occasion a real estate agent on Clark street, 
 Chicago, rushed out of his office and grabbed 
 Wash as he was walking along the sidewalk, 
 saying to him : 
 
 "Wash, where is such and such a place?" 
 Wash stopped and thought for a few moments, 
 scratched his head, and said : 
 
 "I never heard of it." 
 
 "Then," said the agent, "there is no such 
 place in the world."
 
 86 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 ONE WAY OF KEEPING A SECRET. 
 
 When I was with "The Black Crook," Wash 
 having left Forbes, joined our company at Dal- 
 las, Texas. We had a very large house that 
 night, and after the performance I met Wash in 
 the lobby of the hotel ; I was the only one of 
 the company whom he knew personally, and 
 wishing to be sociable, I said : 
 
 "Big house, Wash." 
 
 "Great," he yelled at the top of his voice, as 
 all deaf men do, causing everybody in the office 
 to look up. After a pause of a few moments 
 he said, in the same loud tones : 
 
 "John, don't you tell any of these folks I 
 was with Forbes." 
 
 A GIVE-AWAY. 
 
 In St. Paul, Minnesota, the dressing-rooms in 
 the old Grand Opera House were on one corri- 
 dor and all open on top. After the show Wash 
 came along the corridor looking for me. He 
 was calling out at every step, in his usual high- 
 sounding voice : 
 
 "Where's Burton? Where's Burton?" 
 
 Suspecting that he would sooner or later get 
 his foot into it, I said : 
 
 "Here I am, Wash, what is it?" 
 
 He hollowed back to me : 
 
 "Want to go out with me to-night, John? I 
 have been on the gallery door."
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 87 
 
 We had an immense house that night, and the 
 "scoop-in" had been a rich bit of business for 
 Wash. This came very nearly costing Wash his 
 job, as one of the managers of the company was 
 dressing with me and heard the whole thing; 
 but I managed to square it for him, and there- 
 after when Wash came around he talked with 
 his hands. 
 
 WASH'S WAY OF PUTTING UP POSTERS. 
 
 When Wash Blodgett was head of the Geor- 
 gia Minstrels he used to have great sport put- 
 ting up his yellow bills in the windows ; for in- 
 stance, he would go into a millinery shop, show 
 these big negro heads on yellow paper and ask 
 to be allowed to put one up. The milliner would 
 invariably say "No," but Wash would go right 
 on putting it up and delivering an oration some- 
 thing like this : 
 
 "All right, thank you. Nice weather. Do 
 good business?" and all the time the woman 
 would be yelling: 
 
 "No, no, you cannot put it up !" 
 
 Wash, when he had finished, would point at 
 the bill in admiration and say : 
 
 "Fine picture, everybody that stops to look 
 at it will come in and buy a bonnet. Good- 
 day." And nine times out of ten, through his 
 cunning, Wash's pictures were allowed to stay.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "You DON'T KNOW WHAT You ARE TALKING 
 ABOUT." 
 
 Wash once hired a town band to play in front 
 of the theatre at night in order to draw a crowd. 
 To avoid being imposed upon by any one who 
 might claim he was a member of the band and 
 gain admission into the show unlawfully, he gave 
 each one of them a ticket. During the afternoon 
 the band had been playing at a German picnic, 
 and when they came to play at night they showed 
 unmistakable evidences of too much "lemonade." 
 Wash was on the door; everything went along 
 all right, each man presented his ticket, until it 
 came to a little fellow without a horn or any 
 other instrument, who started to walk right in. 
 Wash stopped him : 
 
 "Ticket !" 
 
 "I am the bass drummer," answered the lit- 
 tle fellow. 
 
 "Well," said Wash, "where is your ticket? I 
 gave everybody in the band a ticket." 
 
 The young man went through his pockets but 
 could not find the required bit of paper; he in- 
 sisted that he had lost it. 
 
 "Look again!" yelled Wash. 
 
 He looked again and again, but no ticket was 
 forthcoming. 
 
 "I have lost it, I told you I had lost it." 
 
 "Lost it!" cried Wash, "you couldn't have 
 lost it!" 
 
 "Why, you don't know what you are talking 
 about. I have lost the bass drum !"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 How JACK WORKED UP MY APPLAUSE. 
 
 While with "The Black Crook" one season, we 
 happened to play in my native town. Forgetting 
 that I had not been there for a great many years 
 and that the population changes in a small city, 
 I was nursing sanguine expectations of getting 
 a good hand that night, and asked old Jack Ver- 
 non, who was playing "The Crook," not to be 
 in a hurry to speak the opening lines in the scene 
 in which he as the Crook is stirring the caldron, 
 and I, the slave Greppo, who had been asleep 
 on the hearth, am sitting up and rubbing my 
 eyes ; but to wait for my reception. Contrary 
 to my fond hopes there was not a sound from 
 the audience. I "rubbed my eyes" until they 
 were sore, then whispered in mortification : 
 
 "Jack, go on, go on !" 
 
 "No, sir," he replied, giving me a withering 
 look, "I am waiting for your reception." The 
 audience saw the point and I do not think I 
 have ever received such another welcome in my 
 life. Jack had certainly worked it up for me. 
 After it was over he looked at me approvingly, 
 as much as to say : 
 
 "There, young man, you see how popular you 
 are, with my assistance !" and then went on with 
 the lines of the play.
 
 9O John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 BILL EMMET'S ANNOUNCEMENT. 
 
 Speaking of the Uncle Tom's salaries reminds 
 me of Bill Emmet during his regime at the 
 Academy in Chicago. While Bill paid his reg- 
 ulars very good salaries, whenever he wanted 
 an extra man, it was eight dollars per week and 
 every one knew it, so Bill used to hang the part 
 out of his window on a fish-line, and the first 
 actor that came along Halsted street and wanted 
 work, took the part off the line and walked into 
 the office. 
 
 When Bill wanted to make an announcement 
 he used to walk right out on the stage in the 
 midst of a performance, no matter what was go- 
 ing on. On one occasion George Thompson was 
 playing a dying scene, when Bill walked out and 
 said: 
 
 "Hold on, George, don't die yet, I want to 
 make a few remarks to the audience;" then he 
 made his little speech, which he always ended 
 with: 
 
 "Yours truly, Bill Emmet," then turning to 
 George, and waving his hand, said : 
 
 "You can go on and die now, Mr. Thomp- 
 son," and bowed himself out. 
 
 "SAY, BILL, You RAP FOR ME, I HAVEN'T ANY 
 CANE." 
 
 While telling these old-time Chicago stories 
 my memory goes back to my dear old friend, 
 Billy Manning. 
 
 To my mind, he was the greatest negro come-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 91 
 
 dian in the days of the old Dearborn Theatre, 
 with Emerson, Arlington, Cotton, and Kemble. 
 Who can ever forget Manning in "The Mutton 
 Trial"? He played the man who was accused 
 of stealing the sheep, and all he had to do was 
 at intervals to baa like a sheep, but so well did 
 he do this that scarcely a citizen of Chicago 
 failed to see it, and it was looked upon as a fad 
 as much so as to go to hear Patti or any of 
 the great smgers. 
 
 In after-years when poor Billy was dying of 
 consumption, and had not a dollar in the world, 
 he was seated one night with a number of his 
 old cronies, who were all prosperous, well- 
 dressed swells, wearing diamonds and carrying 
 gold-headed canes. In contrast Billy looked 
 poor and seedy, but he was the same bright, 
 witty fellow, even in his poverty and ill-health. 
 Drinks were going fast, and whenever one of the 
 party wanted a new round, in order to attract 
 the waiter's attention, he would rap his gold- 
 headed cane. Billy observed this, and after sev- 
 eral rounds said quietly in his low weak voice 
 to Mr. Emerson, who was sitting next to him : 
 
 "Say, Bill, you rap for me, I haven't any 
 cane." 
 
 A few months before he died a great bene- 
 fit was given poor Billy at the Adelphi Theatre. 
 He went on to do one of his old sketches which 
 the people of Chicago had laughed over hun- 
 dreds of times, but his voice was so weak it 
 could only be heard in the boxes and front row. 
 At the close of the act he was called upon for a 
 little speech. His remarks though flavored with
 
 92 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 his old-time quaintness had a touch of pathos 
 that brought tears to the eyes of all when he 
 said: 
 
 "That's all right, boys, work it up; much 
 obliged for all this applause, I may never get 
 another chance to play for a benefit like this," 
 and he never did. 
 
 He is buried in the little town of Piqua, Ohio, 
 and the Minstrel boys never fail whenever they 
 stop there to pay a visit to Billy's grave, and 
 while they strew it with sweet flowers, the band 
 plays : 
 
 "For He Was a Jolly Good Fellow," and 
 "Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 Such is the tenderness and love the artists of 
 our profession have for each other. 
 
 SHIRLEY AND THE BRIDGE. 
 
 A certain well-known stage manager whom I 
 will call Shirley came to Chicago to act as stage 
 manager at the Adelphi Theatre, during the re- 
 gime of Leonard Grover. Like a great many 
 other New Yorkers he had very limited ideas 
 of what the great West was ; he imagined he 
 ought to see in Chicago wigwams instead of the 
 tall buildings that loomed up on all sides, and he 
 expected too, that he would have wild Indians 
 as stage hands. Like all Eastern people he was 
 looked upon as a tenderfoot and was treated to 
 all styles of practical jokes. 
 
 Before the people of Chicago rose up in their 
 might a few years ago and had the Chicago
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 93 
 
 River turned backwards, there used to be old 
 wooden bridges that were turned by hand, and 
 these were kept open certain hours each day to 
 allow vessels to pass through, during which time 
 ]>eople had to stand and wait until that was done. 
 To break the monotony they vied with each other 
 in swearing and worrying at being kept away 
 from their offices ; but they were helpless, there 
 was nothing for it but to stand and inhale the 
 fragrance of the river. Whenever an actor was 
 late at rehearsal his standard excuse was he had 
 been "bridged." A few mornings after Shir- 
 ley arrived in Chicago one of his actors, Tom 
 Langdon by name, came in late. Now, Tom 
 was great on perpetrating practical jokes of all 
 kinds and sizes. After apologizing to the new 
 stage manager for being tardy he added that 
 when he reached the bridge that morning he sud- 
 denly discovered that he had no change in his 
 pocket to pay his toll, so he had to return home 
 and procure some, thereby causing considerable 
 delay in arriving at the theatre. Everybody 
 grinned but the stage manager ; he swallowed 
 the little speech like a true tenderfoot, said he 
 was sorry and hoped it would not occur again. 
 Some weeks afterward, when Langdon and the 
 stage manager had become quite intimate friends, 
 Langdon invited Shirley to take dinner with 
 him. They started together for his home on 
 the West side ; when they reached Madison 
 Street Bridge Tom, on the spur of the moment, 
 called to mind the old excuse he had made to 
 Shirley, so he said to him : 
 
 "By George, I haven't any money with me."
 
 94 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Shirley looked mortified and declared: 
 
 "I'll be blessed if I. have any either." 
 
 "It's all right," Tom cheerfully added, "I can 
 fix it. I know the fellow who owns the bridge ;" 
 and he walked over to the old man who had 
 charge of the bridge, said something to him in 
 a casual way about the water or the weather, and 
 then motioned Shirley to come on. When they 
 got to the other side, Tom remarked : 
 
 "You see I am pretty solid with all these peo- 
 ple." 
 
 Well, they got home all right and had a good 
 dinner, but as Shirley had to return to the thea- 
 tre early, he started back alone. When he 
 reached the bridge he happened to remember 
 that he had no money, and it was too late for 
 him to go back to his friend's. A sudden in- 
 spiration struck him ; he walked over to the fel- 
 low on the bridge, and in a beseeching tone, said : 
 
 "I am Langdon's friend ; in my haste I came 
 away from home this morning without any 
 change in my pocket, but if you will pass me 
 over I will pay you the next time I see you," 
 etc. 
 
 The old man was so used to all sorts of cranks 
 crossing the bridge that he did not wonder at 
 the strange request, but good-humoredly said : 
 
 "That's all right, sir, go right on." 
 
 When Tom reached the theatre that night he 
 was in great anxiety to know how Shirley got 
 across the bridge, and if he (Langdon) had 
 been exposed ; but Shirley quickly reassured him 
 on that score by saying : 
 
 "I tell you, that's a splendid man on the bridge.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 95 
 
 You must be awfully solid with him; why, he 
 passed me right over and never said a word." 
 
 This was too much for Langdon. The joke 
 got all over the theatre that night, and by the 
 next day it had spread all over the town. It 
 caused Shirley many a round of champagne, and 
 I doubt if he has ever quite forgiven Tom for 
 that jest. 
 
 A STOLEN THEATRE. 
 
 You have doubtless heard of all kinds of rob- 
 beries and hold-ups, but did you ever hear of 
 any one stealing a theatre? 
 
 There was an old theatre in Chicago on Hal- 
 sted street called the Halsted Street Opera 
 House. It was owned by two Jews, and patron- 
 ized principally by servant girls and their beaux. 
 This Opera House was a Mecca for all the poor 
 actors who drifted into town and wanted a lit- 
 tle work to eke out an existence. 
 
 After a long season of prosperity it closed its 
 doors ; it had been shut up for several months 
 when the owner found a new tenant and took 
 him over to show him the theatre. When they 
 opened the door a wonderful surprise was in 
 store for them ; they discovered there was noth- 
 ing left but the four bare walls ; the seats, the 
 stage, the curtains, the tapestries, the carpets, 
 in fact, everything in the theatre had been 
 taken out. How and by whom it has never 
 been ascertained, as there was no egress except 
 a small passage-way leading into a back alley.
 
 96 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 It would seem utterly impossible that all this 
 paraphernalia could have been carted out there 
 without its being seen, but it was, and it goes 
 on record that the Halsted Opera House was the 
 only theatre that was ever stolen. 
 
 AUDIENCES ARE EASILY DECEIVED. 
 
 Audiences are very easily deceived, both in 
 regard to stage effects and what people say on 
 the stage. Actors make the most glaring mis- 
 takes, speak lines that absolutely make no sense, 
 and except by the extremely critical ear it is 
 not detected. I knew a young man years ago 
 named Richardson, he is dead now, poor fellow. 
 He was possessed of a striking personality and 
 a fine voice, but wholly uneducated ; half the time 
 he actually did not know what he was talking 
 about, yet he would pose in the most artistic and 
 pleasing manner, and the audience thought he 
 was a splendid actor. 
 
 I remember in the drama called "How Women 
 Love," he was one evening playing a beautiful 
 scene, in which he walked over to the window, 
 pulled the curtains aside, and as he looked out 
 upon the falling snow, said : 
 
 "Green is the snow where the grass has laid," 
 and he went through the entire part in that way ; 
 yet he always escaped adverse criticisms and was 
 a great favorite wherever he went. 
 
 Twenty years ago I saw a well-known lead- 
 ing man of that day playing a part in New York 
 City. I realized at the time that he did not know
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 97 
 
 what he was talking about ; later on my impres- 
 sion was confirmed by the actor himself. 
 
 He would stride up and down the stage, strike 
 an attitude, say something about George Wash- 
 ington and the American flag, and the audience 
 would applaud him to the echo. I remember 
 the next morning the newspapers gave him the 
 finest notice of any in the company utterly 
 ignoring those who spoke their lines and did 
 their work perfectly. 
 
 In Augustin Daly's old play, "Under the Gas 
 Light," was introduced the first idea of a train 
 of cars crossing the stage at full speed, with 
 steam, whistle, and bell all in operation. 
 
 Our manager was very proud of this train, in 
 fact, it was his hobby. Now, these cars were 
 painted on canvas tacked upon frames, and be- 
 hind each frame stood a man who, at a given 
 signal, merely ran across the stage with his part 
 of the frame. In the excitement and noise of 
 the scene where the one-armed soldier is dragged 
 from the track by the heroine just as the train 
 rushes by, it is all done so quickly that the au- 
 dience scarcely know what is happening; yet the 
 stage manager was painfully particular that each 
 piece of canvas should be tacked on exactly even, 
 smoke-stack straight, etc. I went to him one 
 day while they were putting the cars together, 
 and said : 
 
 "Governor, if you put that train on upside 
 down people could not detect the difference." 
 
 He laughed at the absurd idea, so I told him 
 I would make a nice little bet. I was to put the 
 cars together as I wished, and if the audience
 
 98 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 noticed the slightest thing wrong, or any one 
 mentioned it I would lose. After considerable 
 persuasion he consented. I had the boys put the 
 train together upside down, the cow-catcher 
 where the smoke-stack ought to be, and vice 
 versa; the engine was placed at the back instead 
 of in front, the wheels were up in the air ; in fact, 
 everything was the opposite of what it should be. 
 When night came the manager was in a high 
 state of excitement, fearing the scene would be 
 spoiled, and regretting that he had made such a 
 foolish bet. The train went by in a flash as 
 usual, and the manager came rushing back to me, 
 saying : 
 
 "Ah, ha, my boy, I knew you would not dare 
 to put that train on upside down." 
 
 So I walked him over to have a look at it. 
 I shall never forget the expression that came 
 over his face. 
 
 "Come on, John," he said, "you won. You 
 may run that train any way you please!" 
 
 How THE KING EUCHRED THE JOKER. 
 
 It frequently happens that offhand flashes of 
 wit and bright bits of repartee pass between 
 actors during a performance without being de- 
 tected by even the most observing and critical 
 of the audience. 
 
 I knew a man some years ago a good actor 
 but very careless, both in regard to knowing his 
 lines and to securing the properties necessary for 
 him to use in his scenes. One night he was play-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 99 
 
 ing a messenger, and his business was to bring 
 on a large scroll of paper and hand it to another 
 actor who was playing the king, and the king 
 was supposed to read it to his courtiers. 
 
 Upon receiving his cue to enter he discovered 
 that he had misplaced his scroll. Seizing a piece 
 of blank paper, he marched boldly on, and kneel- 
 ing before the king, presented it to him. Now, 
 the speech the king was supposed to read from 
 the scroll was one he had never studied, as it was 
 written for him. Perceiving that the messenger 
 had handed him a blank he was greatly puzzled 
 for a moment, but his quick wit came to his 
 rescue, and handing it back to him, commanded 
 in a voice of thunder, "Read it yourself!" think- 
 ing this would completely crush the poor actor, 
 but in an instant the censured courier handed 
 back the parchment to his majesty, saying: 
 
 "Nay, my lord, your humble subject would not 
 deign to read your correspondence." 
 
 This was almost too much for the king, but 
 rising to the occasion, and with a slight wink at 
 the courtiers, seized the messenger by the arm, 
 and in the most patronizing tone exclaimed: 
 
 "Then come with me to the ante-chamber, and 
 we will read it together," and they marched 
 triumphantly off the stage. 
 
 THE POWER OF MIND OVER MATTER. 
 
 Recently while in Chicago, I met an old friend 
 whom I had not seen for years a man who had 
 been one of the best comedians of the day, and 
 whose name was a household word.
 
 ioo John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 I had a great many things I wanted to talk to 
 him about, and a number of questions I wished 
 to ask him concerning people we both knew. 
 But, alas, my friend would talk on but one sub- 
 ject only, Christian Science. He had it, and he 
 had it bad. 
 
 Now, there are two things I never dispute 
 with a man : his religion and his politics ; if either 
 can do him any good his belief in them is well 
 rewarded. So I let my friend do all the talk- 
 ing, and he talked straight on the one subject 
 for an hour and a half. Finally I said : 
 
 "But what good does all this do you? Tell 
 me one particular way in which it has benefitted 
 you." 
 
 He looked earnestly at me. 
 
 "John, you have known me for a long time ; 
 you know I could never eat ham and eggs. Now, 
 sir, three times a day and no effort !" 
 
 A CHOICE NOTICE. 
 
 From the critic (?) of a weekly paper in a 
 little city in Iowa I received a notice that I still 
 retain among the choicest in my collection. The 
 gentleman wished his readers to understand that 
 he was beautifully versed on stage technique, so, 
 after lauding me with encomiums, he ended by 
 saying that "I was received with roars of laugh- 
 ter every time I appeared between the flies"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 101 
 
 As A SINGER I AM NOT A SUCCESS. 
 
 I never was counted a good singer, in fact, my 
 best friends inform me I am very bad. When 
 occasion demanded, however, I always struggled 
 through the verse of a song without being killed ; 
 I came very near it, though, one time. It was 
 during the run of "Colleen Bawn" at the Olym- 
 pic Theatre in Chicago in 1882, where I was 
 playing a star engagement in the Boucicault 
 plays. In the scene in Father Tom's cabin Eily 
 O'Connor sings one verse of the "Cruiskeen 
 Lawn," and I am supposed to sing the other. 
 Eily sang her verse very sweetly, and received a 
 merited round of applause, during the latter 
 part of which I started in on my verse, and man- 
 aged to strike the wrong key, oh, but it was aw- 
 ful ! The leader tried to get me back, but I 
 wouldn't back. Everybody was laughing, yet I 
 pulled through to the end, and they applauded 
 me I think because I had finished. In the next 
 act, where Myles is describing his cave, I had to 
 speak these lines : 
 
 "They say this place is haunted, that there aire 
 strange unairthly noises be coming out of that 
 cave it's me singing." The audience, remem- 
 bering my miserable attempt in the last act, were 
 quick to see the point, and the applause and 
 laughter lasted several minutes.
 
 iO2 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Too CONSCIENTIOUS. 
 
 While spending the summer of '83 in the little 
 town of Morrison, Illinois, the citizens persuaded 
 me to get up a performance for their Fourth of 
 July celebration. As they had some excellent 
 amateur talent in the place, I managed, after con- 
 siderable hard work, to produce "Kathleen 
 Mavourne." The gentleman cast to play the 
 heavy part, "Bernard Cavanaugh," was a young 
 doctor who told me he had had some professional 
 experience. He played the part quite well until he 
 came to the exit in the third act, where, with all 
 the venom he could command, he should have 
 spoken, or rather hissed, the lines : 
 
 "And now, Father Cassidy, I have you in my 
 power," but instead of saying "Father Cassidy," 
 by a slip of the tongue, he said : 
 
 "And now, Bernard Cavanaugh, I have you in 
 my power." The audience very likely would 
 never have noticed it, as such mistakes are of 
 frequent occurrence, but the young man, realiz- 
 ing that he had made a mistake, instead of mak- 
 ing his exit, walked deliberately down to the foot- 
 lights, and said : 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, I have an apology to 
 make, I should have said, 'Father Cassidy/ " then 
 he marched back to his place, and shaking his 
 fist at his imaginary enemy, snouted in a tragic 
 voice : 
 
 "And now, Father Cassidy (with strong em- 
 phasis on Father Cassidy), I have you in my 
 power !"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 103 
 
 A QUEER MAKE-UP. 
 
 During a run of "East Lynne," several years 
 ago, the young man who was cast to play Mr. 
 Dill was made up with the customary gray wig 
 and white eyebrows, but as he had a long wait be- 
 tween the first and the fourth acts, he took off 
 his wig. When the call came, in his great haste 
 to reach the stage he forgot to put it on again. 
 After the curtain went up, and he was discovered 
 with his coal-black hair and white eyebrows, the 
 audience commenced to laugh, and finally grew 
 hilarious, all the actors in the entrance were 
 pointing at him and patting the tops of their 
 heads, but the young man sat there perfectly 
 composed, actually believing he was making a 
 tremendous hit, and never discovering the cause 
 of all the commotion until he reached his dress- 
 ing-room and found his wig hanging on a nail. 
 
 AN ACCOMMODATING "SupE." 
 
 Some years ago, during a trip to San Fran- 
 cisco of the company playing the English melo- 
 drama, called "Taken from Life," they stopped 
 at Bozeman, Montana, for the night ; when they 
 left there the next morning they found secreted 
 in their baggage-car a stowaway, who said he was 
 a cow-puncher, but wanted to get to Frisco, and 
 was willing to work at anything if they would 
 only take him along. As he was a strong, husky 
 young fellow, and they needed a man to assist
 
 IO4 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 on the baggage and the properties they gave him 
 a chance, and nicknamed him "Bozeman," in 
 honor of the town. 
 
 My friend, James Neill, was playing two parts, 
 the leading juvenile and the warden of the 
 prison ; but for the San Francisco engagement 
 they did not wish to make any doubles, so they 
 engaged another actor for the part of warden. 
 The scene in which the warden appears is a 
 prison in which the hero is confined ; the villain 
 in the play is visiting the prisoner and taunts him 
 in the most exasperating manner. Finally the 
 warden asks the villain : 
 
 "Did you ever see that man before?" and he 
 receives the answer: 
 
 "I was the chief witness against him at his 
 trial," to which the warden replies : 
 
 "Then you ought to have had more dignity 
 than to come here !" This rebuke always as- 
 sured the warden of a good round of applause. 
 
 On the opening night the new actor stopped 
 in the first part of the dialogue, that is, he for- 
 got to speak the lines which assured him of the 
 applause, when to the great surprise of every- 
 body our friend, Bozeman, who was suping 
 amongst the other prisoners, stepped forward and 
 said in a loud, monotonous voice : 
 
 "Then you should have had more dignity than 
 to come here ! // no one else will speak the 
 lines I will."
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 105 
 
 STAGE ASPIRANTS. 
 
 It is always amusing to watch young stage as- 
 pirants and notice how easily their craniums can 
 be swelled whenever the slightest bit of promi- 
 nence is given them. 
 
 The negro boy who waited on me in Cincin- 
 nati was very fond of going behind the scenes, 
 and he was occasionally given a small part in 
 the way of a servant. In "A Scrap of Paper," 
 he had to bring on a lamp, and reply, "Yes, 
 sir," to a question that was asked him, then make 
 his exit a very insignificent part but a neces- 
 sary one unless we were prepared for its omis- 
 sion. One night he failed to bring on the light; 
 when the stage manager found him and before 
 he had time to shower upon him his managerial 
 wrath, the boy with a broad grin upon his face 
 said: 
 
 "Well, Mr. Morris, Fse a real actor now, I've 
 made a stage wait !" 
 
 A young man who had been suping during 
 our engagement in Los Angeles was given one 
 line to speak in "The Christian," early the next 
 morning the janitor found him roaming up and 
 down the corridor where the dressing-rooms 
 were, and told him to go downstairs, that he had 
 no business there. 
 
 The young man replied: 
 
 "No, sir, I am an actor now and want to see 
 where I am going to dress!"
 
 106 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 He did not remain an "actor" long, at least 
 not with this company, for after being tried sev- 
 eral times and found wanting he was dismissed ; 
 as he went out the front door of the theatre he 
 said in a tragic voice to one of the boys : 
 
 "That man," referring to the stage manager, 
 "has ruined my career!" 
 
 A young lady who had never been on the stage 
 was engaged for one of the ensemble scenes. On 
 the night of the performance she came to the 
 theatre at half-past six, bringing with her a large 
 quantity of make-up, walked into her dressing- 
 room, and in a loud voice asked: 
 
 "Has anything been called?" 
 
 I have frequently been approached by young 
 candidates for the stage with the request that 
 they be allowed to give me a test of their elo- 
 cutionary power. They would generally select 
 Poe's "Raven," "The Maniac," and other choice 
 specimens of the melancholy type. 
 
 On one occasion I was invited to a club gather- 
 ing in a little Southern city, and a party of us 
 went, after the performance, expecting to have 
 an enjoyable evening ; they all did, with the ex- 
 ception of myself. We had only been there a 
 few moments when a young man with a stage- 
 struck glare in his eye enveigled me into a cor- 
 ner and there insisted upon reciting to me Ham- 
 let's Soliloquy. I barely lived through it, but 
 the young fellow, feeling that he had not suffi-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 107 
 
 ciently exploited his ability, rubbed it in by re- 
 citing the entire poem of "Shamus O'Brien," 
 which I think is about thirty-five verses. Now, 
 during this time as his back was to the boys and 
 my face was toward them, I fear my attention 
 was somewhat divided, for at the end of every 
 verse the boys would all rise in a body, lift their 
 hands, look at me in pity, and then walk sol- 
 emnly up to the bar and take a drink. As I 
 was too polite to excuse myself and was getting 
 thirstier and thirstier all the time, you can imag- 
 ine what I must have suffered during all those 
 verses, and you can figure out what I missed. 
 
 I received a curious epistle once from a young 
 man in Iowa, which reads something like this : 
 
 DERE SIR : 
 
 I wud like to jine out with yure trupe. My 
 folks tell me i am a good actor; i can play joe 
 morgan, uncle torn, and the Peanner. I am at 
 present wurking at my trade of shoe-making but 
 will give it up if i can get a job with yure trupe. 
 yours Perfessionally, S. J. 
 
 I advised the young man to stick to his last. 
 
 The most remarkable theatrical aspirant I ever 
 met in my career was a man named Brown. He 
 was a little fellow with very black hair, which he 
 combed in such a way as to accentuate the small- 
 ness of his forehead. His wife had played a
 
 io8 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 few parts with amateurs but he had never been 
 upon the boards. Having been left a large sum 
 of money, he and his wife assumed a stage name 
 and advertised themselves as "The American 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kendall." They secured a man- 
 ager in New York, who procured for them a 
 play called "Blue Grass," and engaged a very 
 good company to support them. The leading 
 man was given to understand that he was to play 
 only when Mr. Brown did not desire to act ( ?). 
 We opened in a small town in New York, and 
 the performance went very well, the wife having 
 been thoroughly drilled into the part. All was 
 smooth sailing until we reached Albany one Sat- 
 urday night, when Mr. Brown insisted upon ap- 
 pearing in the cast, and told the leading man he 
 could be excused for that evening. Now, mind 
 you, young Brown had never been upon the 
 stage and had scorned being rehearsed ; the lead- 
 ing part was a long one and included a sword 
 combat, yet he walked out upon that stage per- 
 fectly confident that he could play the part as 
 well as the leading man could. It was my mis- 
 fortune to be playing the opposite part with him, 
 I impersonating an old lawyer and he, my 
 younger partner. I knew what was going to 
 happen, for the moment he opened his mouth it 
 was all over, the audience grasped the situation 
 in a moment and no burlesque or comedy that 
 was ever played caused such screams of laugh- 
 ter and sham applause. They went out and pro- 
 cured eggs and vegetables everything they 
 could lay hold of and waited for the end of the 
 act. We had literally dragged him through the
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 109 
 
 performance and when the curtain descended 
 hoped that he was satisfied, but the tremendous 
 applause of the audience, who were determined 
 to bring him before the curtain, only made him 
 the more eager to continue. His wife had sense 
 enough to see that it was all guy, and she, with 
 the assistance of the manager, stage manager, 
 and all the rest of the company kept him from 
 going in front of the curtain ; he was almost fran- 
 tic with rage and shouted : 
 
 "Why, it is the first curtain call we have had 
 since we left New York." Finally he was pre- 
 vailed upon to go to his dressing-room and the 
 stage manager spoke to the audience and ap- 
 pealed to their good-nature to give the young 
 man a show. He was allowed to continue the 
 performance ; how we got through it, I do not 
 know, but it was something awful. The next 
 day two of the members of the company, realiz- 
 ing that in spite of his faults, he had money, took 
 him into the hills and gave him some elocution 
 lessons and taught him how to use his voice. 
 The next night in a little town in Massachusetts, 
 in the opening scene with him, I spoke my lines : 
 
 "John, you've seen that lady before?" and he 
 almost knocked me out of my seat by yelling so 
 loud that you could have heard him four blocks 
 away : 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 I collected myself and went on, "You did not 
 treat her very well, John?" 
 
 He got back again in the same tone, "No!" 
 and so he went through the performance, yell- 
 ing at the top of his lungs.
 
 no John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Well, this audience positively rose up in arms. 
 We had to lower the curtain and discontinue the 
 performance. This report was telegraphed ahead 
 and the local managers would not allow him to 
 play any more; he offered to rent or buy the 
 theatres, but it was of no use. He made up his 
 mind that the manager and the company were 
 trying to ruin him, so he discharged us all, se- 
 cured another manager and another company, 
 and in a few short months all his money had 
 disappeared. The old, old story the manager 
 had the money and he had the experience. 
 
 I met him one day on Lower Broadway, he 
 stopped me and told me that he thought he was 
 cured, but he wasn't quite sure. I think though 
 he was completely cured, for he has never been 
 heard of since. Poor Brown, he lost his money 
 and made a laughing-stock of himself ; and thus 
 it happens with many others whose ambition to 
 appear before the footlights is stronger than 
 their talent. 
 
 THE INNOCENT MANAGER. 
 
 On the closing night of a long engagement 
 in Minneapolis, the boys in the office thought 
 they would have some fun with our young mana- 
 ger. After the house had been counted, and 
 the money was stacked in front of him. they 
 asked him if he was prepared to swear that he 
 had received every cent that was coming to 
 him during the engagement. He said he was, 
 so, after looking in vain to find a bible, which,
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. in 
 
 by the way, would be a rare volume in a mana- 
 ger's office, they produced a large book with 
 a yellow binding and asked the young man to 
 place his left hand upon it and with his right 
 hand raised aloft to solemnly swear that he had 
 received his just dues. This he did in the grav- 
 est manner possible, while the boys had to turn 
 their backs to conceal their laughter, for he had 
 taken the oath upon the "City Directory of Min- 
 neapolis." 
 
 This same young man while in Bozeman, Mon- 
 tana, asked the owner of the Opera House there 
 why the town was called Bozeman. The man- 
 ager told him it was named for the man who first 
 settled there, and was killed by the Indians. After 
 a lengthy pause, in which our young manager 
 seemed to be thinking intently, he demanded : 
 
 "What did they kill him for?" 
 
 Now, as Indians do not generally give reasons 
 for their massacres the ridiculousness of this 
 question is apparent. 
 
 WHY UNEEDA BISCUITS ARE HIGH IN BIS- 
 MARCK. 
 
 Have you at any time visited Bismarck, North 
 Dakota? Did you ever stop at that hotel down 
 by the depot? And do you remember seeing 
 that ex-skating rink, the Opera House? If you 
 can answer all these questions in the affirmative 
 you will then appreciate this story. 
 
 One of the ladies of our company, Miss A., 
 went into a little store to purchase a package of
 
 ii2 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Uneeda Biscuit, which sells all over the world 
 for ten cents a package. The proprietor of the 
 store, an old man with a woebegone look on his 
 face, and a slow, methodical way of speaking, 
 charged her twenty cents for it, just double the 
 standard price. She remonstrated with him and 
 asked why he did it. Looking at her in a half- 
 pitying, half-apologetic manner, he said : 
 
 "My good lady, don't you think I ought to 
 have something for living here?" 
 
 NOT LOOKING FOR COFFINS. 
 
 Another member of our company, having been 
 out one night with the boys to celebrate the open- 
 ing of a new club, on going to his hotel the next 
 morning, walked into an undertaker's establish- 
 ment next door, thinking it was the hotel en- 
 trance. He saw two serious-looking men in black 
 sitting there, surrounded by a solemn row of 
 caskets. Realizing that he was "in the wrong 
 pew," our friend started to back out, but just 
 as he got to the door one of the undertakers ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Come right in, sir; come right in!" 
 The young man gave him one look, said, "Not 
 yet!" and bolted out. 
 
 "WHO Is HE?" 
 
 I remember two delightful summers spent on 
 the coast of Maine, in a little place called Pine 
 Point, where the natives rarely ever heard of 
 an actor or the theatre; and as I paid my
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 113 
 
 regularly and minded my own business, I was 
 the source of a great deal of curiosity among the 
 people as to who and what I was. As they had 
 seen me several times going fishing with the 
 Honorable Thomas Reed, who was a near neigh- 
 bor of mine, they came to the conclusion that I 
 was at least respectable and must surely be some- 
 body, so they had me everything from a bank 
 president to a bank robber ; and the way those 
 natives asked me questions and tried to ferret 
 me out was amusing in the extreme. 
 
 On one occasion I heard the village barber 
 of course, you know the barber shop in a country 
 village is the resort for all the gossips in the 
 town telling that there was a lot of counter- 
 feit silver in circulation, so the next day while 
 in Portland, I went to a bank and got ten brand- 
 new dollars, and every time I had a shave I gave 
 the barber one of those new dollars. I never 
 knew how successfully it worked until I was told 
 afterward, but he tried them in all sorts of so- 
 lutions, weighed them, and even went so far as 
 to carry them to the bank in Portland ; of course, 
 he always found them to be good, which disap- 
 pointed him very much. When the secret came 
 out his life was made one of torture, but the joke 
 was rather a boomerang on me, however, as after 
 that I was afraid to let him shave me, and 
 had to go six miles to the next nearest shop to 
 have my face made respectable.
 
 H4 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 WHY NEW YORK DIDN'T "STRIKE" HIM. 
 
 There was an old fisherman in Pine Point 
 named Bill; he was born and raised there from 
 boy to man ; all he knew of the world was this 
 little tract of land running out into the ocean. 
 Bill had never been away from home nor had 
 he any desire to explore other countries. He 
 was a sort of guide for the fishermen and hun- 
 ters who came there during the season, he was 
 unusually well-posted and, in his crude way, very 
 bright and witty. I found great pleasure in con- 
 versing with him and spent many happy hours 
 in his little cabin. I was once telling him about 
 New York City, describing the tall buildings, the 
 beautiful streets, and all the wonders of the great 
 metropolis. He listened to me very attentively, 
 and when I thought I had reached a climax I 
 stopped to hear what he would say; he puffed 
 at his pipe a few times and then said, in his dry, 
 quaint way: 
 
 "Wall, I reckon it's a pretty fine place, but I 
 should think you would hate to live so far 
 away !" , 
 
 FOUND OUT. 
 
 My brother and I had spent two summers at 
 Pine Point without being detected, but one morn- 
 ing, about a week before I was to leave, the 
 village postmaster, with a broad grin on his 
 face, handed me a large letter. I looked at the 
 address and read:
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 115 
 
 "John Burton, Actor." 
 
 The secret was out, the natives had discovered 
 me, and before night every one in the town and 
 the adjacent country were telling each other 
 about the real live actor they had in the village. 
 I overheard the stable boy telling the servant 
 girls that I was "the greatest actor that ever 
 lived, and that I wrote all my own plays !" 
 
 Even my old dog did not seem to be as famil- 
 iar with me as he had formerly been. The man 
 who carried my trunk and myself to the depot 
 when I left said : 
 
 "Wall, the folks are mighty glad they've found 
 out what you do for a living, it's been worrying 
 them considerable. Say, mister, is your brother 
 a show actor, too?" 
 
 I said: 
 
 "Oh, no, he is an United States Senator!" 
 
 I never heard what they did to Frank. 
 
 BUFFALO BILL'S INDIANS. 
 
 There is scarcely a nationality that has not its 
 representative upon the stage ; even the Ameri- 
 can Indian, with all his stolidity, has trod the 
 mimic boards. 
 
 The first Indians I ever remember seeing on 
 the stage were a band Buffalo Bill had in his 
 play that I have spoken of in a preceding story. 
 They were the most enthusiastic and realistic 
 actors I ever saw ; there were large Indians, small 
 Indians, fat Indians, and slim Indians ; at the end 
 of every act, while they were engaged in a war-
 
 n6 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 dance or some other typical diversion of their 
 tribe, Bill and his cowboys would fire volleys 
 of blank cartridges at them, and the Indians 
 would all fall dead; in the next act they would 
 loom up again the same old Indians, and at the 
 end of that act would all fall dead again ; as there 
 were five acts in the play, those Indians must 
 have thought they were making frequent visits 
 to the happy hunting ground. 
 
 They were the first band that was ever taken 
 from the reservation by the consent of the gov- 
 ernment. 
 
 When they were first brought to San Fran- 
 cisco, they were seated in the office of the Pal- 
 ace Hotel in the chairs in front of the elevator, 
 while the manager was registering and arrang- 
 ing for their rooms. They took great interest 
 in watching the elevator going up and down, and 
 gazed with awe at seeing it take great crowds 
 up and then come down empty ; they looked at 
 each other and shook their heads ; so when the 
 manager tried to get them into the elevator to 
 go to their rooms, they flatly refused to obey 
 orders ; the chief, in a very grave manner, said : 
 
 "Ugh, much go up, not much come down !" 
 
 No argument could induce them to enter the 
 elevator. Now, Indians are like children in the 
 kindergarten, they must have things explained 
 to them in the same simple way, so the manager 
 and several other gentlemen got into the cage 
 and rode up and down a few times ; this seemed 
 to satisfy the chief, so they got in and were 
 taken up. Then came another perplexing situa-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 117 
 
 tion ; they liked to ride so well that they declined 
 to get out ; the spokesman said : 
 
 "Me big chief, me ride !" 
 
 So they had to carry them up and down in 
 the elevator until they had had enough of it and 
 were finally persuaded to go to their rooms. 
 
 That night at dinner they were served with 
 ice cream, ea^h Indian devouring as many dishes 
 as they would give him, and when they left the 
 table they looked with longing eyes for more. 
 The next morning at breakfast they all, with one 
 accord, pushed aside their dishes and yelled in 
 a deafening voice : 
 
 "Ice cream !" 
 
 DOCTOR CHARLIE'S METHOD. 
 
 While in Evansville, Indiana, I met an Indian 
 doctor named Charlie, who had a small band of 
 Indians with him ; he used to give medicine lec- 
 tures in the halls. Sitting in the hotel one day, 
 my manager was complaining of the great ex- 
 pense of his company, and Doctor Charlie said : 
 
 "You ought to have a show like mine." 
 
 "How's that?" asked my manager. 
 
 "Why, a lot of Indians, they would not cost 
 anything," replied Charlie ; then he went on to 
 say : 
 
 "You see their salaries are very small, they 
 sleep in the hall, provide their own food, and 
 when the engagement is over the chief comes to 
 me and asks, 'What next town?' I say So and 
 So. 'Which way?' I point in the direction.
 
 ii8 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 'How far?' I tell him the number of miles, then 
 the chief says : 'Good-day.' And when I reach 
 the next place my Indians are all there." 
 
 My manager laughed and said : 
 
 "Well, I can see a lot of actors doing that !" 
 
 NOT LIKE THE INDIANS HE KNEW. 
 
 We were playing "The Octoroon" and there 
 was a remarkable Indian character in the play 
 called "Wah-no-te." He was a good and heroic 
 Indian, and won great applause from the gallery 
 by killing the villain in a bowie-knife fight. There 
 is an old saying, "The only good Indians are 
 dead ones," but this Indian was an exception 
 to the rule. 
 
 We invited Charlie and his band to a box seat 
 to witness the performance. After the show I 
 asked one of the chiefs what he thought of the 
 Indian. He slowly replied : 
 
 "Ugh, if he Indian, me never see one like!" 
 
 A NATIVE SON. 
 
 We had a young man in the company whom 
 I will call Scott, he was a native son of the 
 Golden West. At the end of the season when 
 the manager was renewing his contracts with 
 us, Scott, as he was considered a fixture in the 
 company, was not asked to sign one. He seemed 
 very much put out about it ; finally he came to 
 me and asked why it was ; I said to him :
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 119 
 
 "You are a native of California, aren't you 
 what they call a native son? The manager took 
 you from there, didn't he?" He said, "Yes." 
 Then I explained : 
 
 "You are all right, you needn't bother about 
 the contract one bit, the boss is compelled to take 
 you back to the place from where you came, just 
 the same as Buffalo Bill has to take his Indians 
 back to their reservation." And as all the rest 
 of the boys nodded in grave assent he believed 
 this and was perfectly satisfied, and it was some 
 time afterward, when he had become seasoned 
 in the business, that he realized the joke. 
 
 THE ART OF MEMORIZING. 
 
 Study, or memorizing, is a gift with which 
 everybody is more or less endowed. I have al- 
 ways been considered among my associates in 
 the profession as having a most wonderful study ; 
 yet I claim no credit for it, it is simply a gift 
 from the Almighty. 
 
 I shall never forget the pride and joy I ex- 
 perienced over an easy victory I won through 
 the means of this God-given talent. When I 
 was a small boy my Sunday-school teached of- 
 fered a prize to the pupil committing to memory 
 the greatest number of verses and reciting them 
 on a certain Sunday morning. I did not start 
 in until Friday or Saturday of the week preced- 
 ing the contest, but I came off with flying colors. 
 One boy repeated ten or twelve verses; another, 
 barely one ; another one, three ; most of the class
 
 I2O John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 could give not more than ten short verses. When 
 it came my turn I recited as many chapters as 
 the entire class had, verses; my teacher stopped 
 me, thinking doubtless I was going to give the 
 whole of the Old Testament. I won the prize; 
 as in the case of the first yacht race for the 
 American Cup, there was no second. 
 
 From that time I discovered I could memorize 
 by merely reading an article over, and in my pro- 
 fession it has been of invaluable service to me. 
 To any actor possessing this gift he alone knows 
 its great worth, as it relieves him of much hard 
 work especially if he is connected with a stock 
 company. 
 
 Nearly every actor has his own way of com- 
 mitting a part. I study by merely reading to 
 myself, never aloud unless it be to try the effect 
 of a speech, and always stop when I feel the 
 brain is tired, for in that case it will not retain. 
 Not only has he to study the words but the char- 
 acter, dress, make-up, walk, laugh, and every- 
 thing pertaining to the part. So you see what 
 an actor, especially a stock actor, has to go 
 through with. 
 
 Those who commit the easiest generally for- 
 get as readily. I know it is so in my case ; I 
 can hardly remember a part I played a week ago, 
 but once looking it over brings it all back to 
 me as distinctly as at first. In New York, where 
 a play runs the entire season, they generally re- 
 hearse so long that they learn the parts at re- 
 hearsal; yet those same actors placed in a stock 
 company would be "at sea." Mr. Daly never 
 allowed his company to study, everything was
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 121 
 
 learned at rehearsal ; and so it is with a great 
 many of the principal stars of the present day. 
 
 I remember an old actor, James Garden, who, 
 at his first performance and in the rehearsals 
 leading to it, was always perfect, but as soon 
 as he began to study a new part for the coming 
 week he forgot the old part that he was playing 
 and by Sunday he could scarcely remember his 
 own name ; and yet, stored up in his brain was 
 all of Shakespeare, quotations and selections 
 from the poets, and a mass of miscellaneous in- 
 formation. Would that we could solve this won- 
 derful trait called Memory ! Can any one un- 
 fold where all these things are kept in our brain ? 
 
 I was taken out of an audience in Chicago 
 one night to play "Grandfather Trent" in "The 
 Old Curiosity* Shop," the actor who was play- 
 ing the role being disabled by sudden illness. 
 While I was dressing for the part I studied the 
 first act ; between scenes and overtures, the rest 
 of the play. I managed to speak all the lines 
 and got through the part without making a mis- 
 take. Actors and managers who were in front 
 thought it a most wonderful achievement ; yet 
 to me it was not ; being a Dickens' student I knew 
 what "Grandfather Trent" was, and merely had 
 to commit the words which my gift of memory 
 enabled me to without any trouble. 
 
 I knew an actor to learn "Volarge," in the 
 "Marble Heart," during a night; another one, 
 who has since become famous, "Hamlet," in less 
 than a day. I. myself, studied "Touchstone" in 
 a sleeping-car between St. Paul and Minneapolis 
 and rehearsed it perfect the next day.
 
 122 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Go some morning to the theatre where any 
 prominent stock company is playing and watch 
 a rehearsal; see those who learn readily, and 
 those who have to struggle so hard to do what 
 another does so easily. Sometimes, indeed very 
 often, the best actors have the hardest studies. 
 It is a pity the gift of memorizing has not been 
 bestowed equally upon all, as it would save many 
 a sleepless night and numberless days of cease- 
 less work. 
 
 Too ANXIOUS. 
 
 There is nothing to be compared with stage 
 fright, unless possibly it be an active case of 
 sea-sickness, and of the two evils I would choose 
 the latter. In fact, I can recall no suffering that 
 is more painful nor more lasting in its after-ef- 
 fects than is any of the grades, degrees, or quali- 
 ties of stage fright. To suddenly face the foot- 
 lights and forget everything you have to say, to 
 come on at the wrong time and find you are 
 speaking lines that belong in the next scene, or 
 to be sitting in your dressing-room in a state of 
 anxious suspense and have the prompter rush 
 in and say to you, "Your scene is over,'' or "You 
 have made an awful stage wait !" All these 
 things produce an effect that cannot be described 
 you must positively pass through it. 
 
 I recall to mind as vividly as though it had 
 happened yesterday an incident that occurred 
 nearly thirty years ago. It was at the old Acad- 
 emy in Pittsburg; the late Charles W. Couldock 
 and his daughter were playing a star engage-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 123 
 
 ment, the piece on the night in question being 
 a little English drama entitled "Milky White." 
 I was cast to play a boy whose business was to 
 come to the window in a certain scene and call 
 out in a loud voice, "Milky White, snarl and 
 bite!" That was all I had to say or do, yet I 
 felt that the responsibility of the whole show 
 rested upon my shoulders, and I was so afraid 
 I would not say those lines at the right time, that 
 I had the window partly open in order that I 
 might hear my cue. Mr. Couldock was play- 
 ing one of his most important scenes, and 
 during a pause in which he was doing a beauti- 
 ful piece of business, I called out hurriedly in 
 a stage whisper, thinking I had made a wait : 
 
 "Is that me, Mr. Couldock?" 
 
 The old man was standing with his hand on 
 the back of a chair. Without looking at me, 
 he threw the chair back against the window and 
 said in the same tone that he was playing the 
 part: 
 
 "No, it is not you, you damn fool !" 
 
 I beat a hasty retreat, and I guess I would 
 have been running yet had not the stage door 
 been locked and prevented my getting out. 
 
 "I CAN SAY IT Now, SIR." 
 
 I remember a young girl, while playing the 
 daughter in "Miss Multon," became badlv fright- 
 ened and forgot her lines entirely. When the 
 act was over, both the star and the stage man- 
 ager censured her in very strong language. This 
 was a grave mistake, for the poor girl had had
 
 124 J onn Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 but little experience, and lapses of memory are 
 common even among old actors. With her sen- 
 sitive nature she needed encouragement rather 
 than reproof. 
 
 That night as I was passing down the hall to 
 my room, I met this young lady coming from 
 her room clad only in her night clothes. I 
 scarcely knew what to think, but as she drew 
 nearer to me I saw that she was walking in her 
 sleep. I did not dare awaken her, I was afraid 
 it might produce an unpleasant shock, but I fol- 
 lowed her closely to see what she would do, and 
 to prevent any accident befalling her. She 
 walked deliberately down the long hall, up a 
 flight of stairs, then the length of another hall; 
 when she came to a room at the far end of the 
 hall and directly over her own she rapped tim- 
 idly on the door; as there was no answer she 
 rapped a little louder, then very loud. Finally, 
 a voice came from tl.e room which I recognized 
 as Mr. Herbert's, our stage manager: 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 "It is I, Mr. Herbert," replied the girl. "I 
 can say it now, sir; I can say it now!" 
 
 The unhappy girl had lived over again during 
 the night the dreadful experience of the evening. 
 I approached her and tapped her gently on the 
 arm. She awoke with a start, and, of course, 
 was very much confused, but I led her back to 
 her room. I was glad to know the next morn- 
 ing that she remembered nothing at all of the 
 circumstance. I doubt, though, if the cause that 
 produced this effect was obliterated from her 
 mind as easily.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 125 
 
 SEEKING ENGAGEMENTS. 
 
 Did you ever walk along Broadway, New 
 York, between Twenty-eighth and Forty-second 
 streets, and see the actors and actresses hurry- 
 ing in and out of the agencies and the managers' 
 offices, and note the different expressions on their 
 faces? On some you will notice pleased, hope- 
 ful looks, and if you are a close observer, you 
 will detect tucked away in their pockets or belts 
 a new part that has just been assigned them. 
 Sometimes they are so much engrossed in these 
 manuscripts that they go along the streets read- 
 ing them, and if you look still closer, you can 
 almost surmise from the expressions on their 
 faces what is passing through their minds. On 
 the other hand, you will see many more who have 
 been told the simple fatal words that have be- 
 come to them an echo from day to day : 
 
 "Very sorry, nothing doing!" 
 
 The rebuffs and excuses that an actor receives 
 from managers and agencies are in many in- 
 stances, while they have their sad effects, most 
 laughable and ridiculous. 
 
 Charlie Foster, known as "The Silver King," 
 because of his beautiful long silver-white hair 
 that fell nearly to his shoulders, was in special 
 demand for parts that required a man of his ap- 
 pearance. One day he walked into a manager's 
 office to apply for a certain part. As soon as the 
 manager saw him, he exclaimed : 
 
 "Aha, Mr. Foster, you are the very man I 
 want for that character. You have just the face.
 
 126 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 and that beautiful hair fills the bill exactly." Char- 
 lie thought he was fixed for a lengthy engage- 
 ment, when all of a sudden the manager stopped 
 and began to scrutinize him very closely. 
 
 "Too bad," he said, sadly, "there is one thing 
 missing. I am very sorry, Mr. Foster, but you 
 haven't the gray side-whiskers !" 
 
 A certain manager met me on the street one 
 day and said: 
 
 "I have just the part for you, John, and would 
 like to have you play it. Come with me and see 
 the authoress ; I know we can fix it all right." 
 
 As he offered me a good salary, and the play 
 was a New York production, I went with him 
 to the hotel to see the lady who had written it. 
 She came down into the parlor and I was in- 
 troduced to her. She immediately began to look 
 me over, as if I were an exhibit at a horse show. 
 Finally she said : 
 
 "I do not think you will do, Mr. Burton, you 
 have not that square-cut jaw that denotes the 
 firmness of character I wish in this part." 
 
 "Madam, will you not allow me to make up 
 for the part?" I asked. "I do not go around the 
 street looking as I do on the stage." But it was 
 of no use, she had made up her mind that I was 
 not what she wanted. The manager, who was 
 an old friend of mine, laughed as we left the 
 hotel. 
 
 "Acting," he said, "used to be depicting what 
 we are not, but now it is simply being what we 
 are."
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 127 
 
 "What do you think?" a young lady remarked 
 to me one morning, "I was at Mr. A.'s agency 
 yesterday, and he said he had a lovely part for 
 me, but I was half an inch too short. I went 
 from there to Mr. B.'s agency, and he informed 
 me that he had a splendid part for me, but that 
 I was just half an inch too tall! And so," she 
 exclaimed, "what's a poor girl going to do !" 
 
 Maurice Barrymore once said, "They wouldn't 
 have me in London on account of my American 
 accent ; and they wouldn't have me in New York 
 on account of my English accent. So where am 
 I going to play on the Ocean liners?" 
 
 I remember once reading an advertisement in 
 a dramatic paper from a man and wife. They 
 enumerated the different lines of business they 
 were capable of doing ; the man played every- 
 thing from leads to boys, and the woman, from 
 old women to engenues ; they both doubled in 
 brass, and added that they could furnish several 
 instruments, including a bass drum. Now, ridic- 
 ulous as that advertisement would seem to the 
 swell managers of New York, these people doubt- 
 less would prove two most valuable acquisitions 
 to many of the little repertoire companies that 
 tour the country. 
 
 WHAT A DIFFERENCE ! 
 
 An old friend of mine at one time one of the 
 best-known minstrels in his day, but who with 
 the decline of minstrelsy had drifted into vaude-
 
 128 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 ville, applied for an engagement to an agent in 
 Boston, who was booking the circuit of summer 
 gardens and parks. Now, my friend, while he 
 is not an old man by any means, is prematurely 
 gray, his hair and mustache being almost per- 
 fectly white. He walked into the manager's of- 
 fice, and approaching him, said: 
 
 "I should like to book myself for several weeks 
 on your circuit." 
 
 The manager scarcely looking up said in a 
 half-irritated tone : 
 
 "Nothing to-day, old man ; nothing to-day." 
 
 "But, my dear sir, I have a very nice mono- 
 logue, have been a great many years in the busi- 
 ness and am well known ; my salary is not large, 
 fifty dollars." 
 
 "Nothing doing, old man; nothing doing!" 
 shutting him off. 
 
 Seeing that he was unable to make any head- 
 way with this positive gentleman, he reluctantly 
 departed. Downtown he met a friend and poured 
 into his ears an account of the bad treatment he 
 had just received at the hands of this pompous 
 manager. To his great surprise the friend com- 
 menced to abuse not the manager but the ill- 
 treated one : 
 
 "You old 'Has been,' why don't you get out 
 of the business and give some younger man a 
 chance? Go out and drive a street-car, anything 
 to make an honest living ; don't pester the man- 
 agers to death, they don't want you !" 
 
 Of course, he said this only as a "josh," but 
 the old minstrel took the words to heart, and go- 
 ing back to his room stood before his glass in
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 129 
 
 sore dejection. Suddenly an inspiration came to 
 him. He seized his hat and rushed out to the 
 barber shop. He had his white hair and mus- 
 tache died a beautiful black, then he went back 
 to the manager's office. He was barely inside 
 the door when the manager looked up and said 
 in a cheerful tone: 
 
 "Well, young man, what can I do for you to- 
 day?" 
 
 "I should like to play your circuit for a few 
 weeks. Nice monologue." 
 
 "All right, sir, book you for ten weeks. What's 
 your salary?" 
 
 My friend thought a moment: 
 
 "Seventy-five dollars !" 
 
 "All right," said the manager, "your contracts 
 will be ready in an hour." 
 
 My friend walked out of the office feeling as 
 if he owned the whole of Boston. So a good 
 turn-down, a little abuse from a friend, and fifty 
 cents' worth of hair dye, had worked a magic 
 and raised his salary twenty-five dollars a week ! 
 
 A CONSIDERATION FOR BOOTH AND BARRETT. 
 
 The manager of the opera house at Sioux 
 Falls, South Dakota, also owned a store, which 
 was the meeting-place for the idle brains of the 
 town. I was sitting in this store one evening 
 when a travelling man came in ; winking at me, 
 he turned to the storekeeper and said : 
 
 "I saw Booth and Barrett over at Sioux City 
 last night. Why don't you try to get them to 
 come here, Mr. Bangs?"
 
 130 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 Now Bangs was an enterprising young man- 
 ager, but, strange to say, had never heard a great 
 deal about Booth and Barrett. 
 
 "Do you think I could get them?" he asked. 
 
 "Why, certainly," replied the travelling man ; 
 "you just write to them, they'll come right over." 
 
 "I'll do it," said Bangs. "My, what a house 
 they could get here ! Why, don't you know, I be- 
 lieve I could guarantee them a hundred and fifty 
 dollars !" 
 
 The travelling man winked at me again, and 
 I believe we went out and had a drink we had 
 to do something. 
 
 ONE ON THE BARBER. 
 
 A member of our company who had been 
 with us a number of years went into a barber 
 shop one day in Ogden, Utah. The barber, rec- 
 ognizing him as a member of the company, be- 
 gan a cross-fire of questions, as barbers gener- 
 ally do. Finally he remarked : 
 
 "You were not with the company last year?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I was," replied my friend, "I have 
 been with them several seasons." 
 
 The barber shook his and said : 
 
 "I do not remember your face." 
 
 "No," replied my friend, "it's healed up you 
 shaved me!"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 131 
 
 "No SHAVE TO-DAY." 
 
 Speaking of barbers, I met a funny one in 
 Key West, Florida, some years ago. I walked 
 into his shop one morning about ten o'clock ; it 
 was what they call in Florida a cold day, the 
 thermometer being about sixty-five, but the in- 
 habitants were shivering as if it were forty be- 
 low. I found the barber clad in white trousers, 
 low shoes and thin socks; the upper portion of 
 his body was encased in a heavy sweater, and 
 around his neck was a large muffler which nearly 
 concealed his face. He was sitting crouched 
 over a diminutive oil stove, rubbing his hands 
 to keep them warm. As I stood there waiting 
 for him to make some move towards attending 
 to my wants, he finally looked up at me, but 
 shaking his head in a sorrowful manner said : 
 
 "Too cold; no shave to-day!" 
 
 There was nothing for it but to start out again 
 in quest of another shop. I had gone only a 
 short distance when I saw the well-known bar- 
 ber sign, attached to a little building which stood 
 off by itself on a vacant lot. I ventured to en- 
 ter this diminutive establishment, but found no 
 one in except a negro boy about fifteen years 
 of age. 
 
 "Is the proprietor in?" I asked. 
 
 "One of them is, sah," he replied with an air 
 of importance as he prepared himself to do busi- 
 ness. 
 
 I was a trifle suspicious of the young man, but 
 I got into the chair and he started in to lather
 
 132 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 me; I soon perceived that he was not an artist 
 in his profession, but I waited until he tried the 
 razor on my face when my worst fears were 
 confirmed. I stopped him by saying: 
 
 "Young man, I am afraid my beard is too 
 hard for you, I will come in again," and wiping 
 the lather off my face I left him standing look- 
 ing at me with his eyes almost bulging out of 
 his head. 
 
 Later in the day, having been told by the land- 
 lord that the old man in there was a very fine 
 barber, I again visited the shop and this time 
 found the proprietor in. He started in to shave 
 me. 
 
 "Have I ever had de pleasure of shaving you 
 befo'?" he asked. 
 
 "No, uncle, I don't believe you have; I was 
 in here this morning, and the boy started to shave 
 me, but I realized that he could not operate on 
 such a hard beard as mine, so I gave it up." The 
 old man suddenly stopped shaving me, and the 
 most peculiar expression came over his face : 
 
 "Did dat boy endeavor to shave you, sah?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied, scarcely realizing what I 
 was saying. 
 
 "Will you 'scuse me for a minute, sah?" lay- 
 ing down his razor, "I has some bery perticular 
 bizness to attend to." 
 
 Wondering what he meant I good-naturedly 
 said: 
 
 "Why, certainly, uncle." 
 
 In about a moment I realized what the "par- 
 ticular business" was. Reaching up on the wall
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 133 
 
 he took down a large strap and looking at the 
 boy who was shaking with fear, said : 
 
 " 'Rastus, come out in de yard !" 
 
 Erastus obeyed, and in a moment or so I heard 
 the strap coming down on his back, and the yells 
 that filled the air plainly told me what was go- 
 ing on. After he had administered this severe 
 chastisement the old man returned, hung up the 
 strap, took up his razor and resumed shaving; 
 while Erastus sat meekly down in the corner and 
 looked as if he had nothing left to live for. 
 
 "I beg yore pardon, sah, for dis little inter- 
 ruption/' said the old darky, "but I allus do 
 things when I think of them, and I'se done told 
 dat boy more'n a hundred times never to try to 
 shave a gemmen." 
 
 I was very sorry for Erastus and deeply re- 
 gretted that I had unwittingly caused him to be 
 thus punished, but it was certainly an object les- 
 son, for if there were more such disciplinarians 
 as the old man, the suffering public who are 
 obliged to patronize barber shops would fare a 
 great deal better. 
 
 How A SMALL BOY FOOLED His FATHER AND 
 TRIED TO WORK Us. 
 
 A man came up to the door of the theatre one 
 night leading a small tow-headed youngster, who 
 was crying most bitterly. 
 
 "Look here," said the father, "my boy is en- 
 titled to see this show." 
 
 "On what ground?" asked the manager.
 
 134 Jhn Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "Well, he has done some work for you show 
 people and has a right to go in." 
 
 Failing to recognize in this little imp any old 
 employe of the company and wondering what 
 odd job he could have done for them, the man- 
 ager began questioning the boy, being eager to 
 make amends for any past delinquency. After 
 many vain endeavors, he at last learned the boy's 
 reason for demanding free admission into the 
 show. 
 
 "One of the actors," he sobbed, "met me on 
 the street and asked me where the post-office was 
 and I showed him the place, boo-hoo hoo " 
 
 His weeping was cut short by the astonished 
 father, who seized him by the arm and started 
 him homeward, leaving the manager to wonder 
 if the boy would not pretty soon be seeing "stars" 
 of another description. 
 
 WANTED INFORMATION. 
 
 What actor on arriving in a strange town, es- 
 pecially after dark, and starting from the hotel 
 with a very vague direction given by the clerk 
 as to the location of the Opera House, and who, 
 being unable to find it has not asked some citi- 
 zen to direct him? 
 
 Tim Frawley was hurrying from a hotel to 
 the theatre one evening and having lost his way, 
 stopped a man and politely asked him : 
 
 "Will you please tell me, sir, where the opera 
 house is?" 
 
 The man looked Mr. Frawley over very scru- 
 tinizingly, then drawled out:
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 135 
 
 "Syke's Opera House?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," replied the manager, in a rather 
 hurried tone. 
 
 "Well, now, let me see," said the native still 
 looking at Mr. Frawley and scratching his head, 
 "now who did Syksie marry?" 
 
 It is needless to say Mr. Frawley did not im- 
 part that information, nor did he wait to get his 
 own. 
 
 THE ABSENT-MINDED ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 Many years ago when the late Sol Smith Rus- 
 sell first visited Winnipeg, Manitoba, he was met 
 at the depot by the local manager, a very cour- 
 teous and most pronounced Englishman, and, to- 
 gether with Mr. Warmington, Mr. Russell's man- 
 ager, they started to walk to the hotel ; they were 
 greatly retarded though in reaching there, for 
 the local manager wished to stop and introduce 
 every friend he met to Mr. Russell. Now, this 
 manager, whose name I believe was Rutliclge, 
 was not only a very absent-minded man, but his 
 memory for names seemed to leave him on all 
 occasions. His introductions were about as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 "Allow me to introduce to you the celebrated 
 actor who is going to play at my theatre to- 
 night, Mr. eh , my dear fellow, I beg your 
 pardon. This is Mr., Mr. I beg your par- 
 don, old chap, I can't remember names." 
 
 Then Sol would say in his blandest manner: 
 
 "Russell, Sol Smith Russell."
 
 136 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mr. Russell, Mr. Russell." Then 
 the friend and Mr. Russell would shake hands, 
 chat a few moments, and go their way. Rut- 
 lidge met about twenty of his acquaintances and 
 each time went through with this same perform- 
 ance. Just before they reached the hotel they 
 met the mayor of the city. Thinking that he 
 must make an heroic effort this time and get the 
 name right without assistance, Rutlidge began : 
 
 "Mr. Mayor, this is Mr., Mr., eh, the cele- 
 brated actor who is going to play at my theatre 
 to-night." A gleam of great satisfaction spread 
 over his countenance as he blurted out, "Mr. Sol 
 Smithell!" 
 
 A LIVELY REMINDER. 
 
 In the play of "Confusion," the principal props 
 are a baby and a pug dog. We always borrowed 
 the baby but we carried the dog with us. He 
 was a beautiful, intelligent little fellow, and a 
 special favorite with all the company. I used 
 to take him with me on my long walks, and when 
 we returned, as I was generally thirsty, I would 
 stop in for a glass of beer. The dog always got 
 chummy with the bartender, and early acquired 
 the habit of jumping up on the counter and do- 
 ing stunts for small bits of cake he politely but 
 firmly refused all drinks. The little creature 
 looked forward to these afternoon jaunts with 
 as much pleasure as a human being. On one 
 occasion I sorely disappointed him. Not hav- 
 ing my usual thirst, I went past the place where
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 137 
 
 I had been in the habit of stopping; as I turned 
 to go into the hotel I missed my dog, and going 
 back found him sitting up in the doorway of the 
 first saloon. When he saw me he gave evidence 
 of great joy and relief by jumping about and 
 pushing against the door. Finding that his an- 
 tics could not induce me to go in he quieted 
 down, but gave me, as a parting shot, a look of 
 mingled surprise and disgust as much as to say: 
 "Haven't you forgotten something this time?" 
 
 WHY THEY DIDN'T LAUGH. 
 
 I think it was in Hancock, Michigan, that I 
 played to the coldest audience of course, I mean 
 in appreciation I have ever appeared before. 
 The play was a farcical comedy which usually 
 provoked roars of laughter, but on this occasion 
 the entire audience sat as if they were at a fune- 
 ral. It was so remarkable that I began to watch 
 their faces intently, and I thought I noticed a 
 queer expression on several countenances, as if 
 they would like to laugh but didn't dare to. I 
 was much puzzled, and, after the performance, 
 was speaking to the landlord of the hotel about 
 it. He half-way smiled and said : 
 
 "Well, they never do laugh much here." 
 
 Just then a tall man with a large fur coat with 
 a star pinned on the outside of it, whom I learned 
 was the city marshal, took up the conversation : 
 
 "Laugh," he said, "well, I guess not, they 
 know me, I am bound to have perfect order in 
 that ere hall and if any one laughs they know 
 I'll put 'em out."
 
 138 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 It then occurred to me that I had noticed dur- 
 ing the performance this very individual stand- 
 ing at the back of the hall holding in his hand 
 a large cane which greatly resembled a base- 
 ball bat, and which he took particular pains to 
 keep before the eyes of the audience. 
 
 DIDN'T CARE FOR His MONOLOGUE. 
 
 Once a year a great benefit in which actors 
 both high and low liberally contribute their serv- 
 ices is given in New York, for the Actor's fund. 
 At no other time can such a variety of the pro- 
 fession be seen together. 
 
 On one of these occasions Joseph Jefferson 
 was making an address of welcome to the au- 
 dience, and every entrance to the stage was 
 packed with people desiring to hear what the 
 dean of our profession had to say. Standing on 
 tiptoe and trying to look over the shoulders of 
 those in front of her was a girl in short clothes, 
 a member of a vaudeville sketch team. The 
 other half of the sketch was pushing her way to 
 the side of her partner. Finally she landed near 
 enough to ask : 
 
 "Who's on now, Mollie?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said the partner, "some 
 old guy doing a monologue." 
 
 "How's he going?" 
 
 "Oh, rotten, he's been on fifteen minutes and 
 he hasn't got a laugh!"
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 139 
 
 WHO KILLED THE BARON. 
 
 We were playing- "A Parisian Romance" in 
 a little town in Montana, and I'll say right here, 
 we were playing it under extreme difficulties, 
 both as to stage, scenery, and music. The stage 
 and scenery were bad enough, but the town or- 
 chestra was a soul-wrecking dilemma. When we 
 came to the great banquet scene in the fourth 
 act, where the Baron dies, the music was enough 
 to drive a finely-trained musical ear to immediate 
 and horrible suicide, discords piled upon dis- 
 cords in rapid succession. I was playing the doc- 
 tor, and my lines are, 
 
 "Stop that music, the Baron is dead," but on 
 this occasion not being able to resist the oppor- 
 tunity, I shouted with a vengeance, 
 
 "Stop that music, it has killed the Baron!" 
 
 A QUICK ANSWER. 
 
 One day while going through a tedious re- 
 hearsal of "The Holy City," in Los Angeles, we 
 had a delightful visit from our dear old friend, 
 Louis James. He is always like a ray of sun- 
 shine ; his very presence at this time seemed to 
 put new life into us and make us forget the hard 
 work we were doing. I was rehearsing what 
 was supposed to be a Roman comedy part, the 
 humor of which is always forced and unreal. 
 Try as hard as I might I could not make this
 
 140 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 part an exception to the rule. I went over to 
 Louis and asked him if he had ever played a low 
 comedy Roman. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he immediately replied, "I have 
 played Virgin-ins!" 
 
 A SCHOOL FOR DICTION. 
 
 While walking one day with the late Law- 
 rence Hanley along an East Side street in New 
 York our attention was attracted by the discor- 
 dant sounds that were emanating from a man who, 
 with a large cabbage in his hand, was walking 
 ahead of a small horse and cart. No living per- 
 son could have possibly understood, without ma- 
 terial assistance, what he was saying ; it sounded 
 more like a brakesman calling off stations than 
 anything else, but as he had a cabbage in his 
 hand we surmised that he was calling out this 
 worthy companion of corn-beef. After watch- 
 ing him in amused curiosity for a few moments, 
 Hanley approached and said : 
 
 "My friend, what are you saying?" 
 
 The man replied in the same unfathomable gib- 
 berish, and being asked the second time still evi- 
 denced a hopeless inability to extricate himself 
 from the double "b's" which divided the cab- 
 bage. Finally, Larry said : 
 
 "Is it possible that you are calling cabbages?" 
 
 The man nodded. 
 
 "Why," said Larry, "no one could understand 
 that. Allow me?" and taking the cabbage from 
 him held it up and called out in his clear, reso-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 141 
 
 nant voice, "Cab-ba-ges ! Cab-ba-ges ! There, my 
 friend, that's the way to say it." And he walked 
 on, leaving the man transfixed. 
 
 "I have a great idea, John," said Larry, "and 
 I think there's money in it : we'll open a school 
 of voice culture and diction for vegetable and 
 fruit venders." 
 
 PLAYING THE RACES. 
 
 A well-known and well-to-do actor, whose 
 name I shall not mention, was given a strong tip 
 one day during the races in an Eastern city, that 
 a certain horse was a sure winner. He had a 
 large amount of sporting blood in his veins, but 
 at that time did not have the money he wished 
 to invest on the mount. A bright thought struck 
 him. He went to the safety deposit box where 
 his wife had some very valuable diamonds, took 
 them out, and raised the sum necessary to back 
 his favorite, expecting, of course, to win double 
 the amount, redeem the diamonds, and put them 
 back without his wife's being aware of the trans- 
 action ; but as Fate sometimes decrees it, the 
 horse lost and my friend was out his money and 
 his wife's diamonds. Dark clouds threatened 
 his domestic atmosphere, but he postponed the 
 outbreak as long as he could; the secret wore 
 on him, however, to such an extent that he grew 
 nervous and restless, was irritable during the 
 day and walked the floor at night. The wife 
 wondered what was the matter, thought he was 
 bordering on nervous prostration, and in her anx-
 
 142 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 iety urged him to immediately consult a physi- 
 cian. 
 
 One night while engaged in his usual floor- 
 walking act, he stopped and gazed upon his wife 
 sleeping so quietly. A quick resolve seized him. 
 Approaching the bed, he shook her violently and 
 said: 
 
 "Wake up, I have something to tell you!" 
 
 The poor woman rubbed her eyes and sat up 
 in bed, trembling with fear, thinking her hus- 
 band had become suddenly bereft of his reason. 
 
 Then he exclaimed, speaking as fast as he 
 could talk : 
 
 "See here, I can stand this thing no longer. 
 I had a tip on the races. I went to the deposit 
 box and took your diamonds ; hocked them ; the 
 horse lost; and the diamonds are gone. Now I 
 am going to sleep ; you get up and walk the floor 
 a while!" 
 
 NOT MUCH COMEDY IN IT. 
 
 On another occasion this same loving couple 
 had a room in a hotel adjoining one occupied by 
 an elderly maiden lady. This ancient spinster 
 had evidently overheard that evening some lit- 
 tle spat that must have been going on between 
 my friend and his wife, for the next morning 
 at breakfast, the manager of the company, who 
 sat at the same table with her, asked if she would 
 not like to see the play, and offered her some 
 seats. But she promptly refused to accept them, 
 adding that she did not think she would enjoy 
 it.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 143 
 
 The manager asked her why. 
 
 "It's too tragic," she said. 
 
 This rather surprised him as the piece was 
 very far from being a tragedy. 
 
 "How do you know that?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh," she replied, "I heard Mr. and Mrs. M. 
 rehearsing in their room last night, and I would 
 rather wait until you play something that has 
 more comedy in it." 
 
 ARE WE So SOON FORGOTTEN WHEN WE ARE 
 GONE? 
 
 Almost any actor who has visited Chicago will 
 remember the old "Dizzy," on Dearborn street. 
 It is the popular haunt of actors and clubmen. 
 It is wonderfully changed now from the early 
 days ; the old proprietors and every one connected 
 with the place are gone, and most of the old famil- 
 iar faces known there in the '7o's and '8o's have 
 also passed away. A friend of mine, who was 
 born and raised in Chicago, spent his early days 
 in McVickers' Theatre, and was almost as well 
 known to everybody in that city as the mayor, 
 told me that he walked into "Dizzy's" a short 
 time ago. Seated around the tables were num- 
 bers of actors, as in days of yore, but they were 
 strangers to him. An old bartender who hap- 
 pened to know him called him by name. After 
 talking a few moments w r ith the old fellow my 
 friend walked around behind the large oval glass 
 to light his cigar, when he heard one of the men 
 at the table sav to the bartender:
 
 144 Jhn Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 "Who's that man you were talking to?" 
 
 "Why, don't you know him?" said the bar- 
 tender, "that's Jim Devlin." 
 
 "Devlin, Devlin," replied the young gentle- 
 man, "never heard of him; he must be a new 
 one." 
 
 Jimmy looking himself over in the large glass 
 murmured these well-known lines from Rip Van 
 Winkle : 
 
 "Are we so soon forgotten when we are 
 gone ?" 
 
 A VISIT TO HONOLULU. 
 
 Among the treasured remembrances of my 
 long career is my first visit with the Neill Com- 
 pany to Honolulu. What a joyful relief it was 
 to be free from the glare of the footlights and the 
 busy scenes of the theatre to enjoy the quiet, 
 peaceful life on ship where for six days on 
 the good old Alameda, treated with the utmost 
 courtesy and kindness by Captain Harriman and 
 everybody on the boat, our voyage was made 
 one continual source of pleasure to us all. I 
 will not attempt to describe Honolulu, that has 
 been done so often both in prose and poetry by 
 brighter minds than mine; but will merely re- 
 late a few of the instances that occurred to us 
 during our engagement on that beautiful island. 
 
 I carried with me a letter from my uncle in 
 San Francisco to Judge Newman, who was, 
 with my uncle, one of the early California pio- 
 neers. A great friendship existed between them, 
 so you can readily understand how I was wel-
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 145 
 
 corned and treated in this most hospitable land. 
 The judge was the attorney-general under the 
 great Hawaiian king, Kalakana ; and one of his 
 official duties it seemed was to entertain every 
 afternoon at his home with a little game of poker, 
 the king and his court. Kalakana was particu- 
 larly fond of the American game and played it 
 in a remarkable manner, and as only a king 
 could. When they sat around the judge's oaken 
 table, which table is still retained at his home 
 bearing upon it all the marks which they used in 
 keeping the game, good humor reigned supreme. 
 No matter what any one else had, the king al- 
 ways held a better hand, for if his opponent had 
 four kings, King Kalakana would quietly take 
 up the deck and help himself to four aces, if 
 they happened to be in the pack, and as his op- 
 ponents were too reverential to dispute with his 
 majesty or to correct him, the king always won, 
 but as there was rarely ever any money in sight 
 no serious losses were incurred. 
 
 I was invited to a dinner party at the judge's 
 one evening ; there were present six or seven gen- 
 tlemen, including the federal judge and the king's 
 counsel, prominent lawyers and travellers, men 
 who had been everywhere and seen everything; 
 and the wit and repartee that passed across the 
 king's old table amid the clinking of the glass 
 and the smoke of the cigars, I doubt has ever 
 been surpassed. 
 
 The judge passed away before my second visit 
 to the island, but my recollections of that even- 
 ing will always be one of the brightest spots in 
 my memory.
 
 146 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 PROFESSOR BERGER AND THE CUES. 
 
 A noted character in Honolulu is Professor 
 Berger, the leader of the native Hawaiian band. 
 He is a German and was brought over to this 
 country by the late king as his band master. For 
 over thirty years he has instructed the Hawaiians 
 in music, until probably they now have one of 
 the greatest bands in the world. They are paid 
 by the government to give concerts in the pal- 
 ace grounds and in the parks, every afternoon 
 and evening. The Hawaiians love music, and 
 their band is their idol. 
 
 The orchestra at the theatre is furnished by 
 a portion of this band. When the Frawley Com- 
 pany first went to Honolulu, Mr. Frawley asked 
 Professor Berger if he could play the cues for 
 the different acts ; the Professor assured him 
 that they could, that they could play anything. 
 So thinking the leader understood it, without 
 further ado, Mr. Frawley handed him the inci- 
 dental music of the piece. That evening when 
 the signal was given to play the curtain music 
 for the first act, the orchestra started in and 
 played all the cues in the piece, one after the 
 other like a medley overture, and nothing could 
 stop them until they got through. When Mr. 
 Frawley remonstrated with the Professor and 
 tried to explain how it should be done, the old 
 gentleman became very angry and withdrew his 
 band, thus leaving the bewildered actor-manager 
 without any music during his engagement at the 
 island.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 147 
 
 Mr. Neill was told of this, so when he met the 
 famous band leader he explained to him the man- 
 ner in which the cues should be played, and Ber- 
 ger got through very well, especially for a man 
 who had never before undertaken such work. 
 
 The band thought a great deal of our com- 
 pany, and when we were leaving Honolulu came 
 down to the wharf and played the Hawaiian and 
 the American airs, to give us a cordial good-bye. 
 As I was going up the gang plank the Professor 
 came to me and, placing his hand upon my shoul- 
 der, said : 
 
 "Mr. Burton, the boys want me to say this 
 to you : they say that every time you come on the 
 stage they all feel better." 
 
 I consider this the happiest compliment I have 
 ever received. 
 
 A MODEST REQUEST. 
 
 Miss Andrews, the character lady of our com- 
 pany, had among her numerous admirers 
 a lady and her daughter, a girl about fourteen 
 years old, who boarded at the same house that 
 she did. They went to the theatre frequently, 
 and were always profuse in their praises of the 
 actress's work. 
 
 One night the daughter being ill was pre- 
 vented from attending the performance ; the 
 mother, on her return, was telling her of the 
 play, and how immensely funny Miss Andrews 
 had been. It seems in her part she had intro- 
 duced a little squeaky cry which was very
 
 148 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 catchy, and which sent the audience into con- 
 vulsions every time she did it. The mother was 
 regretting the fact that the child had been un- 
 able to hear Miss A. cry; in fact, she told her 
 about it so much that the child herself cried all 
 night over her lost pleasure. In the morning 
 as Miss Andrews was going out in a great hurry 
 to rehearsal, she was stopped in the hall by the 
 mother, who said to her in the most beseeching 
 tones : 
 
 "Oh, Miss Andrews, my daughter feels so bad 
 over not hearing you last night. Won't you 
 please come in before you go and cry for 
 Bessie?" 
 
 MOSQUITO PROOF. 
 
 I have seen Shakespeare played under various 
 conditions, but I once witnessed an al fresco 
 performance of "As You Like It," which for 
 ludicrousness was the capstone of them all. It 
 was a novel scene and picturesque in the ex- 
 treme ; the grounds and lights were like fairy- 
 land ; there were no drops, no painted scenery, 
 no footlights, no curtains, no wings, no flies ; but 
 the noble mosquito was there, and he got in his 
 good work on all occasions and on everybody. 
 The most beautiful passages of Rosalind and 
 Orlando were punctured by the frantic en- 
 deavors of the performers to rid themselves of 
 the pests that were boring holes through their 
 tights. Orlando in the midst of his most im- 
 passioned scenes would suddenly stop, slap him- 
 self on first one leg then the other, while poor
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 149 
 
 Rosalind being a little more modest could only 
 stamp her foot and grit her teeth in agony. 
 
 The only one who escaped was my friend Allan 
 Dunn, who was so thin that he wore two sets 
 of pads, which completely repulsed the bravest 
 attacks of the mosquito regiment. 
 
 AN ACCIDENTAL HIT. 
 
 One of the notable occasions of our engage- 
 ment was a benefit we tendered the Myrtle Boat 
 Club. All the Hawaiian society was there. The 
 theatre was draped with the Myrtle colors ; the 
 ladies in the audience wore the colors, and our 
 ladies did the same. 
 
 When I came upon the stage clad in my dress- 
 ing gown I received a perfect ovation. I had 
 always been well received, but I could not ac- 
 count for this unusual applause until it suddenly 
 dawned upon me that the trimmings and but- 
 tons on my gown were also the Myrtle colors. 
 After the performance a reception was given at 
 the club ; I did not happen to be there, but the 
 members said to the other boys : 
 
 "It w r as very thoughtful of the ladies to wear 
 our colors, but for Mr. Burton to have a dressing 
 gown made for the occasion was certainly show- 
 ing an interest which we most highly appreciate." 
 The boys had a good laugh but kept the secret ; 
 for the truth is, I took that dressing gown out 
 from the bottom of my trunk where it had lain, 
 out of service, for fully ten years. The trim- 
 mings and buttons happened to be the Myrtle 
 colors.
 
 150 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 REFUSED TO MAKE THE TRIP. 
 
 While in Honolulu our repertoire was varied 
 and extensive; we were required to play a new 
 piece at each performance, and to give three per- 
 formances a week. In putting on "Under Two 
 Flags" our manager encountered some little diffi- 
 culty in procuring a horse for Cigarette to ride 
 across the Algerian desert and carry the pardon 
 for her lover, Berty Cecil, the only available one 
 being a little polo pony. He was used to buck- 
 ing and kicking, so we thought he would make a 
 very good actor. He rehearsed finely, but when 
 night came, with the glare of the lights and the 
 noise of the sandstorm, instead of starting at a 
 break-neck speed across the desert he retreated 
 the other way, and kept on retreating until he 
 backed into the wind machine which was pro- 
 ducing the sandstorm ; after succeeding in dis- 
 placing Mrs. Neill and knocking over the base 
 drum which furnished the thunder, he ended the 
 catastrophe by falling downstairs and it never 
 hurt him a bit. After much difficulty he was 
 rescued, which was a great deal more than Berty 
 Cecil would have been if he had been compelled 
 to wait for that pony to carry Cigarette with his 
 pardon. 
 
 SOCIAL FUNCTIONS IN HONOLULU. 
 
 We received so many kindly invitations to 
 attend social receptions and amusements of r.ll 
 kinds, such as luaus, the Feasts of Poi, taking
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 151 
 
 trips to the Pali, Punch Bowl, and other places 
 of interest, not forgetting the delightful moon- 
 light excursions to Waikiki Beach, that I found 
 it very difficult to get any rest. So one day I 
 posted a notice on the call board, the effect of 
 which is best described by the following article 
 from the pen of one of Honolulu's most gifted 
 writers : 
 
 JOHN BURTON ENTERTAINS IN HONOLULU. 
 
 "When John W. Burton, of James Neill's sup- 
 porting company that is now playing an engage- 
 ment at the Opera House, first came to Hono- 
 lulu something over a year ago, he was just as 
 delightful a comedian and interpreter of old men 
 roles upon the stage as he is now, which means 
 one of the best that the theatrical storehouse of 
 the States affords. But he wasn't so much in 
 a Hawaiian way. He hardly knew the differ- 
 ence between an alii and luau, he didn't know 
 the difference between Kapiolani and Uhowaina, 
 nor the Tantalus from Tramcars. In fact, he 
 had hardly heard of the great Kamehameha, and 
 when he asked a native one day in which direc- 
 tion the Hawaiian Hotel was, and the native re- 
 plied 'Mauka,' he was in doubt for some days 
 but v/hat his reputation had been assailed. At 
 first he did not like Honolulu. There were too 
 many mosquitoes here ; the beautiful Hawaiian 
 music was most delightful to his ear, but it 
 annoyed him, for twist his tongue in every con- 
 ceivable fashion known to anatomists, he could 
 not pronounce the Hawaiian words to the songs.
 
 152 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 He didn't even care so very much for the poi 
 or the squid, and the sounds from luaus kept 
 him awake nights, for Mr. Burton is a gentle- 
 man of very regular habits and goes to bed early. 
 He believes in the old proverb, 'Early to bed and 
 early to rise/ etc. Since Mr. Neill and the 
 members of his company have been stopping at 
 the Hawaiian Hotel, several of the members have 
 joined in the whirl of gaiety, dancing, luaus and 
 serenading nearly every evening, upon which 
 Mr. Burton has looked with deepening frown, 
 but in time he could resist the charms no longer, 
 and can now speak Kanaka as fluently as the 
 most accomplished native linguist on the is- 
 lands. He has gotten Kamehameha's glorious 
 record down as fine as he has George Washing- 
 ton's. In fact, he frequently stands and looks 
 at the statue near the public building in adora- 
 tion. He knows the words and music of Tomi ! 
 Tomi ! Lei Poni Moi, and Wilwili Monoa. He 
 just dotes on Kolohala, poi and Hululu-Waena. 
 That his conversion is complete is shown from 
 the following invitation that was sent out yes- 
 terday : 
 
 " 'Wishing to make a suitable return for the 
 many peaceful nights I have spent in Honolulu, 
 I will give a luau and musicale at my cottage, 
 G I Tanai Hawaiian Hotel, at 4 a. in., Tues- 
 day, December 23d. All are invited. A 
 Chinese orchestra will be in attendance. 
 " 'Everybody's friend, 
 
 " 'JOHN W. BURTON. 
 
 " T. S. You had better come, for you will all 
 know what is going on. Those who cannot
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 153 
 
 bring squib are requested to bring squab and tin 
 horns, as the papa kuhikuhi will be particularly 
 unique and entrancing.' " Honolulu Exchange. 
 
 BOB SCOTT. 
 
 The night clerk at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel 
 puzzled me greatly. I was sure I knew him, and 
 yet I could not exactly place him. One day 
 while sitting on the lanai I overheard the boys 
 talking about Scott, and I asked who he was, 
 they said : 
 
 "Why, he used to be an actor." 
 
 It all flashed across my mind in a minute ; he 
 was Bob Scott of the old firm of Scott and 
 Boyd who played with me twenty-five years ago 
 in Nashville, Tennessee. He still wore the 
 beard that made him famous in the part of the 
 soldier which he played so many years. I made 
 myself known to him that evening after the 
 theatre, and we sat and talked till early morn, 
 reviewing old times. We recalled that hurried 
 trip from Nashville to escape the cholera, how we 
 came up the river to St. Louis in that eventful 
 year of the early '7' s > and then we related in- 
 stances that had happened to us during our 
 separation. It was a delightful "Experience 
 meeting." I went into my trunk and found an 
 old programme in which I was the head-liner in 
 Irish comedies, and Scott and Boyd, the end men 
 in the minstrel scene. 
 
 Bob is located over in Honolulu now. has a 
 fine position and feels no desire to tread the mimic
 
 154 Jh n Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 boards again. May his heart never grow older 
 nor his beard whiter! Apropos of his beard. 
 
 At one time they were sending out a Number 
 Two company, and the man who was to play the 
 part that Bob played in the original company, not 
 knowing that Bob's beard was natural, brought 
 a wig maker into his dressing room to look at 
 the beard so he could make one like it. Mr. 
 Scott, always ready for a joke, kept up the 
 allusion that his chin hair was only stuck on. 
 The young man who was to play the part said 
 to the wig maker : 
 
 "Do you think, sir, you can duplicate that 
 beard?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," he replied, and after examin- 
 ing it carefully, inquired of Bob : 
 
 "Who made that beard, Mr. Scott?" 
 
 Bob looked at him with a merry twinkle in 
 his eye, and quietly replied: 
 
 "God!" 
 
 THE FIRST FOURTH OF JULY IN HONOLULU. 
 
 We were the first company to play in Hono- 
 lulu after it was annexed to the United States, 
 and were there the first Fourth of July that was 
 celebrated on the island. 
 
 How splendid the American soldiers looked 
 that day, and how welcome the sight of the blue 
 coats seemed to our eyes. Honolulu did herself 
 proud; there were fine speeches and a grand 
 parade. I shall never forget that procession : 
 it was indeed a pageant a moving picture. We
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 noticed, marching one after the other, American, 
 English, French, Kanaka, Japanese, Chinese, 
 Portuguese ,and the Lord knows what all joy- 
 ously keeping step to the American music, and 
 over them waved the American flag. It made 
 our hearts leap to see the dear old banner in 
 what was to us a foreign country three thousand 
 miles from home. 
 
 OUR HOMEWARD VOYAGE. 
 
 The most eventful part of our Honolulu trip 
 was our leave-taking and return home. What a 
 company we had to travel with. There were 
 Admiral Bob Evans (Fighting Bob), Admiral 
 Glass, Captain J. T. Myers, U. S. N., Hero of 
 Pekin, and several other well-known naval 
 officers. Colonel Samuel Parker ; and Prince 
 Cupid, David Kawananakoa, heir to the Hawai- 
 ian throne. 
 
 The battleship Wisconsin was in the harbor, 
 and as we passed it so close we could almost 
 shake hands with those on board, their officers 
 and men were drawn up in line to salute our dis- 
 tinguished guests on the Alameda. Interwoven 
 with the Wisconsin band's ''Home, Sweet 
 Home," could be heard the far-away notes of 
 Berger's Hawaiian band of "Auld Lang Syne." 
 It was indeed a delightful experience, impressive 
 and beautiful. 
 
 Everybody on board was covered with the 
 picturesque leis, which our friends had literally 
 showered upon us; and as we could not carry
 
 156 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 these flowers to sea, we threw them back into 
 the water, and the little diving boys recovered 
 and carried them back to the crowd on the wharf 
 who covet them as souvenirs. 
 
 Our trip homeward was even more enjoyable 
 than the one over. What splendid fellows those 
 naval officers are, charming story-tellers and the 
 j oiliest people you can meet. I want to tell one 
 story that was told of Admiral Evans. It seems 
 he went to a very fashionable church in New 
 York one Sunday, and was ushered into one of 
 the front pews. After sitting there a little while 
 a gentleman came in and sat down at the other 
 end of the pew. He was a typical New York 
 banker, cold and austere in manner, with a look 
 that would freeze you to death. This look he 
 several times directed toward Admiral Evans, 
 whom he did not know from Adam. Seeing that 
 the Admiral paid no attention to his angry 
 glances, he took out a card, wrote upon it, and 
 handed it to Mr. Evans, which read as follows: 
 
 "I pay twenty-five hundred dollars a year for 
 this pew." "Fighting Bob" read it with a curi- 
 ous smile, turned it over, and wrote upon the 
 other side, then handed it back to the gentleman 
 You can imagine the effect upon this iceberg's 
 face when he read the simple words: 
 
 "You pay too d n much!" 
 
 r^NLs a Georgian. He told a 
 Georgia/story whicn^E think will bear repeating. 
 Two^Georgia cracl ers were sitting on a rail
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 157 
 
 fence chewing tobacco and talking- politics in the 
 slow, drawling style peculiar to that class of peo- 
 ple. One of them was a great admirer of Hoke 
 Smith, formerly Secretary of the Interior. 
 
 "I tell you," he said, "Hoke Smith is a great 
 man, the greatest man that ever lived." 
 
 "Naw," said the other, "you don't mean to 
 say that he is a greater man than Robert E. 
 Lee was?" 
 
 "Yas, sir," said the other one, "he's a greater 
 man than Robert E. Lee was." Long silence. 
 
 "You don't mean to say he's a greater man 
 than Grover Cleveland?" 
 
 "Yas, sir; Hoke Smith's a greater man than 
 Grover Cleveland." Another silence, and all the 
 time spitting tobacco juice. 
 
 "You don't mean to say he's a greater man 
 than Jefferson Davis was?" 
 
 "Yas, sir ; Hoke Smith's a greater man than 
 Jefferson Davis was." 
 
 And so they sparred, one of them naming all 
 the great men he could think of, and the other 
 coming back with "Hoke Smith's a greater man 
 than any of them." 
 
 Finally, after a very long pause, the ques- 
 tioner resumed : 
 
 "You don't mean to say Hoke Smith's a 
 greater man than God?" 
 
 He thought this would be a poser, but the 
 other one came back at him with a quiet, know- 
 ing smile on his face : 
 
 "Well, Hoke Smith's a youn^ man yet!"
 
 158 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 We had a mock marriage on ship in which a 
 prominent young sugar planter and a noted San 
 Francisco belle were united, and I have since 
 learned that what we did in fun afterwards be- 
 came a reality. 
 
 We also had a mock trial in which Jim Neill 
 was sued for breach of promise. The trial was 
 in the Hawaiian language, before Judge Parker; 
 and little Willie Jarrett was the interpreter, 
 Willie does not understand the Hawaiin lan- 
 guage at all, which, of course, made him very 
 useful as an interpreter. Jim was convicted and 
 fined two dollars and a half, which Mrs. Neill 
 kindly paid. And so time was spent until one 
 glorious morning we spied the shores of Cali- 
 fornia, and in a short time were passing through 
 the Golden Gate, where another great welcome 
 awaited our distinguished companions en voyage. 
 
 WHERE THE TROUBLE LAY. 
 
 Although I am not inclined by nature to be 
 pessimistic, whenever our manager announces 
 that we are booked for an ocean voyage, I imme- 
 diately become "down in the mouth" and lose 
 interest in life, for, unfortunately, I am the poor- 
 est sailor in the world. 
 
 On that "Homeward Voyage," the part of 
 which was so pleasant, I spent three very un- 
 pleasant days SICK was no name for it; pos- 
 sibly the following lines will better express it: 
 ii o'clock and all are well; 
 i o'clock all sick as h 11;
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 159 
 
 all except a Methodist minister who was on the 
 lookout for converts. Learning that there were 
 a number of actors and naval officers on board, 
 he felt that the harvest was truly ripe for his 
 labor. Passing my stateroom one Sunday morn- 
 ing, and seeing my door open, he invited him- 
 self in. I was just barely able to hold up my 
 head. Looking at me as if I were a lost soul in 
 Hades, he asked, in great solicitation : 
 
 "Brother, would you not like to feel a change 
 in heart?" 
 
 "No, parson," I answered peevishly, "my 
 heart's all right, but I would like to change this 
 stomach !" 
 
 MAMMY'S DILEMMA. 
 
 While Joe, my errand boy, was washing a wig 
 for me the other day, an old negro mammy, who 
 was helping about the place, kept watching him 
 very intently, with a puzzled look on her face. 
 Finally her question box turned over: 
 
 "What is dat thing?" 
 
 "It's a wig, Aunty." 
 
 "Why, you don't wear wigs, chile!" 
 
 "No." Still washing away. 
 
 "Oh, you-all are going to a masquerade." 
 
 "Wrong again," the young gentleman replied. 
 
 "Well, what in de name of Heaven is it for?" 
 
 "Why," said Joe, "it belongs to Mr. Burton ; 
 he's an actor." 
 
 "An actor," she exclaimed, dropping the
 
 160 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 broom and dustpan, and the puzzled look on her 
 face changed to one of complete satisfaction, 
 "well, I allus thought he warn't a natural man!" 
 
 THE GALLERY BOY. 
 
 It would be difficult to trace the origin of the 
 Gallery Boy, for he has always seemed to be 
 a part and parcel of the theatre ; in England he 
 frequents the pit, but in this country, it is the 
 gallery. There is not an American manager or 
 actor who does not strive to please this little mite 
 of their patrons, for he is always a cash customer 
 no passes in the gallery. 
 
 He is a critic, too, Nature's critic, never preju- 
 diced, but likes or dislikes as his instincts teach 
 him ; always a loyal friend to his favorite actor ; 
 and the opinion of these boys as they leave the 
 theatre is as valuable as the finest critic's in the 
 land ; their blunt and quaint expressions, so hon- 
 estly spoken, in regard to the play leave no room 
 to doubt their sincerity. 
 
 The blase after-dinner box-party who chatter 
 through the performance, and who speak of the 
 artists, and the literary merits of the play, and 
 discuss every gown that the ladies wear, can 
 tell you less about the play and its true merits 
 than the little fellow who stands at the stage 
 door, watching the actors come out, who calls 
 them all by their first names, and says, "Hello, 
 Bill, you was fine !" "Hello, John, you are good 
 this week, but you was rotten last!" 
 
 There are the two critics : Society and the 
 Slums.
 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 161 
 
 Back in the palmy days of the old Bowery 
 Theatre in New York, there was an actor named 
 Kirby, a splendid actor in his day. He played 
 what is technically known as heavies, but the 
 general public would call him the villain, and he 
 was a villain ; always wore a black curly wig, 
 scowled and strutted, committed all the crimes 
 in the calendar, and died a violent death every 
 night; but he was the god of the newsboys in 
 the Bowery ; the hero wasn't "in it" with him. 
 They u?ed to flock to the gallery to see him. In 
 those '-lays the performance began at seven 
 o'clock and scarcely ended before one. They 
 played three or four plays ; and the little fellows, 
 tired from their day's work, would become so 
 sleepy, that after watching the performance until 
 their eyes were ready to close, they would 
 stretch out on the benches, and appoint one of 
 their number to remain on guard and wake them 
 up when Kirby died, a portion of the per- 
 formance they never missed witnessing. From 
 thence came the expression that has passed into 
 stage history, "Wake me up when Kirby dies!" 
 
 At the present day, I have never seen a gal- 
 lery audience that equalled that of Forepaugh's 
 Theatre, Philadelphia, during the regime of John 
 Forepaugh, who always gave them the finest 
 plays and the best actors that money could pro- 
 cure. They fairly worshipped George Learock. 
 Such a hero was he in their minds that many a 
 time when the villain was about to strike or 
 shoot him, or inflict some other personal injury 
 upon him, I have heard them yell from the gal- 
 lery in a perfect chorus, "Hold on, don't you
 
 162 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 
 
 hurt George!" They used to line up so deep at 
 the stage door that poor Learock had to climb 
 over a stone wall and pass through a churchyard 
 at the back of the theatre to get to his hotel 
 after the performance was over. The villain 
 there was also a great man. He absolutely had 
 to be killed at every performance. No walking 
 off the stage and snapping his fingers at them in 
 a scornful manner ; if he didn't die on the stage, 
 they had to be told in some way that he was 
 dead, and many a line has had to be introduced 
 to please these little patrons. At Forepaugh's 
 they always took curtain calls in the English 
 fashion ; each actor crossing the stage in front 
 of the curtain and receiving the applause due 
 him from the audience. Of course, the villain 
 was always roundly hissed, which was certainly 
 the greatest applause he could receive. Now, 
 this actor was very versatile, and in a certain 
 play, there being no heavy part, he was cast 
 to play a good old man. The boys could hardly 
 place him during the act, but when the curtain 
 call came they recognized his walk and hissed 
 him as roundly as though he had been play- 
 ing the deepest-dyed villain. 
 
 One day in front of a theatre I saw two little 
 ragged boys gazing intently at a bill-board upon 
 which was a large poster of "Aristocracy." The 
 characters were in dress suits and evening gowns, 
 and as one of the boys pointed at it, he said 
 to the other, "Dat play is no good, Jimmy, they're 
 agin the poor." 
 
 During the run of "Mizpah," at the Burbank 
 Theatre, in which I played Mordecai, and any 

 
 John Burton's Stage Yarns. 163 
 
 one who has witnessed the play will recall the 
 scene in which Mordecai stabs the two guards 
 I was passing into the theatre one evening when 
 I was pointed out by one boy to another, and 
 heard him say, "That fat guy is a good actor, 
 he kills two men !" 
 
 These are only a few instances of their bright, 
 untaught wit. With my fellow-actors I join in 
 saying, God bless the Gallery Boy. May his 
 power never grow less. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 As I lay the finished book reluctantly aside, a 
 feeling of tenderness creeps over me. My active 
 work is nearly done. Living here in the foot- 
 hills of the Sierras, amid the sweet perfume of 
 the orange groves, and looking out over the blue 
 Pacific all so peaceful and beautiful I have a 
 wish that I may end my days in this land which 
 Nature has made a Heaven on earth. It was 
 among these scenes that I dreamed and thought 
 of these little incidents and of the friends I 
 speak of. I trust this book will be the means 
 of causing a smile and a few bright moments in 
 some lives ; if only a few are made happy by 
 reading it I shall be satisfied. 
 
 JOHN W. BURTON.
 
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