Seeking His Fortune, and other dialogues, by Horatio Alger, Jr

CONTENTS.

SEEKING HIS FORTUNE. — DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Jonathan. Well, marm, I’ve made up my mind I shan’t stay in Beanville any longer.

Mrs. Peters. Why, Jonathan, how you dew talk! What’s got into you?

J. I’ve got tired of Beanville, marm, that’s what’s the matter. I aint goin’ to stay here all my life, raisin’ cabbages, and hoin’ taters. I’m fit for somethin’ better.

Dea. Peters (rousing from his nap). What’s the boy talkin’ about, mother?

J. I might as well tell you fust as last, dad. I’m goin’ to Bostown.

Mrs. P. Massy sakes! Bostown’s a hundred miles off. What you goin’ there for?

J. To make my fortin.

Dea. P. ’Taint so easy as you think for, Jonathan. You’d a plaguy sight better stay round here and help me.

J. I can’t do nothin’ here, dad. I have to work till I get all tuckered out, just to make a livin’ and can’t never wear anything better than overalls. Now, if I was in the city, I could wear store clothes all the time, like that are fellow that boarded up to the tavern last summer.

Mrs. P. I’m afraid, Jonathan, you’re gettin’ proud. You aint no call to be ashamed of wearin’ overalls. They’re what me and your father always wear.

Dea. P. (slily). Yes, mother, you do wear the breeches sometimes.

Mrs. P. (in a deprecating tone). Now, father, you’d orter be ashamed. You know I didn’t mean that. (To Jonathan.) I mean, Jonathan, your father and me aint ashamed of wearin’ workin’ clothes. I’m afraid you’re gettin’ proud, and pride’s a deadly sin.

J. Can’t help it, marm. When that feller passed me in the field last summer, he turned up his nose at me, and I aint goin’ to stand it. I’m as good as he is, any day.

Mrs. P. So you be, Jonathan.

J. And I want, to dress as well. So I’ve made up my mind to go to Bostown, and go into business there.

Dea. P. What sort of business?

J. As to that, I aint partic’lar. Anything that I can make money by.

Dea. P. Perhaps you’ll lose it. They’re pooty sharp in Bostown, I’ve heard tell. Most likely you’d get cheated out of all you’ve got.

Mrs. P. Yes, Jonathan, listen to what your dad says; he’s had more experience than you hev.

J. He don’t Know much about Bostown, anyway.

Dea. P. (complacently). Yes, Jonathan, I know a good deal about the city. I’ve been there three times. Fust time was just after me and your mother was married.

Mrs. P. Thirty-one years ago.

Dea. P. Yes, Almiry, thirty-one year. Then again, I went down to sell a yoke of oxen for Squire Peabody.

J. That time you had your pocket picked, and had to borrow money to git home.

Dea. P. (coughing). Ahem! yes, I believe it was that time. Then again, I went seven year ago, and stayed to the Mechanics’ Fair. That are was a great sight.

J. Well, dad, I haint never been at all, and I’m goin’,—that’s all.

Mrs. P. You aint nothin’ but a boy, Jonathan.

J. Aint I, though? I’m twenty-one year old, and taller’n father, and I weighed myself down to the store, yesterday, and weighed a hundred and eighty. I should think I was old enough and big enough to be trusted away from home.

Mrs. P. The city is a wicked place, Jonathan. Who knows but you’d get to drinkin’ and swearin’?

J. There aint no danger of that, marm. I tasted some whiskey, the other day, down to Hiram Johnson’s, and it most turned my stummik. I shan’t drink anything stronger’n cider.

Dea. P. That’s right, my son. Cider’s good, for we know what it’s made of. Apples are healthy, and when a body’s tired, a mug of cider goes to the right spot.

Mrs. P. (doubtfully). Yes, father, but you know Sam Wilson got drunk on cider one town meetin’ day, and smashed forty panes of glass in the meetin’-house.

Dea. P. Wal, wal, he drank more’n was good for him. But, Jonathan, to come back to your plans, have you thought what you shall do when you get to the city?

J. Why, dad, I calc’late there must be plenty of work to be did. I reckon I should like to tend in a store.

Dea. P. Lazy business, Jonathan.

J. That’s what I like it for, dad. I’ve had hard work enough, and I want to take it easy awhile. Maybe I shall go into business on my own hook, if I get a good chance. There aint no reason why I shouldn’t get rich as well as other folks.

Mrs. P. (hastily). I hope, Jonathan, you aint goin’ to take that two hundred and fifty dollars out of the Savings Bank, that yer Aunt Betsey give you in her will.

J. Of course I be. How can a feller go into business without capital?

Mrs. P. (solemnly). You’ll lose every red cent of it, take my word for it.

J. And earn five times as much more, marm; I guess I know how to make money as well as other folks.

Mrs. P. Deacon, do say somethin’ to git him off this foolish plan. He’ll fail, sartain, an’ it’ll make his aunt rise from her grave, if he loses all the money that she earned by knittin’ an’ dryin’ apples.

Dea. P. (reflectively). I don’t know, Almiry, but the boy might as well try his luck, seein’ he’s sot on it. Perhaps he may do well, arter all.

J. (delightedly). That’s the talk, dad.

Mrs. P. Well, I dunno. It seems to me mighty resky. However, if he must go, he’ll have to wait till I’ve knit him some winter stockings. He’s most out.

J. I kin buy some in Bostown, marm. They’ve got plenty there.

Mrs. P. (contemptuously). And what are they worth I should like to know? Boughten stockin’s won’t stand any wear at all. Then, there’s your shirts; you aint got but three.

J. Well, there’s enuff; I kin wear one a week, an’ three’s enough to shift with.

Dea. P. You’ll have to be more partic’lar in the city. I’ve heard that some folks in the city wear as many as three clean shirts in a week.

Mrs. P. They must be awful dirty to need changin’ so often. But I guess, Jonathan, you’d better have one more made.

J. Well, you kin send the shirt and the stockin’s to me by express. I’ve made up my mind to go next week.

Mrs. P. An’ what’ll Mary Jane Parker say to that?

J. I don’t care.

Mrs. P. I thought you were sweet on her only a little while ago.

J. Wal, she aint anything but a country gal. Maybe I shall find a good-lookin’ city gal that’s got the tin.

Mrs. P. O Jonathan, I’m afeard you’re gittin’ vain. “Vanity of vanity! All is vanity!” says the Scripters. Mary Jane would make you a real capable wife. She can make butter an’ cheese equal to any gal in Beanville, an’ she made fifteen dollars, last summer, sellin’ eggs.

J. (contemptuously). What’s fifteen dollars?

Mrs. P. The time may come when you’ll be glad to git fifteen dollars.

J. Now, marm, don’t go to discouragin’ a feller; I’m bound to be rich, and when I’ve made money enuff, I’m going to buy you a silk gownd.

Mrs. P. Thank you, Jonathan; I allus thought I should like a new silk gownd. I aint had a new one for twenty year.

J. Well, marm, you shall have it jist as soon as I’ve made my pile.

Mrs. P. Pile of what, for the land’s sake?

J. Made my fortin, I mean. And I’ll buy father a new Sunday go-to-meeting coat.

Dea. P. I guess you’ll want your money for other things, Jonathan. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.

J. Can I have the horse to-morrow, dad?

Dea. P. What for?

J. I’m goin’ over to the bank to get my money.

Dea. P. Yes, I reckon so.

Mrs. P. You’d better go with him, father. He might git robbed on the way home. I shan’t feel safe with such a lot of money in the house.

J. Well, ’twon’t be in the house long.

(Curtain falls.)

J. (looking toward L.). I hear the stage, marm.

Mrs. P. Yes, it’s just comin’ over the hill. Hadn’t you better change your mind, Jonathan, and stay to hum, arter all?

J. Not by a jug-full. No, marm, the dice is cast, and I’m bound to be somebody. No more diggin’ taters for me.

Dea. P. Well, Jonathan, I wish you all success, but I kinder have my misgivin’s.

Mrs. P. Is the money safe, Jonathan?

J. Yes, marm, I’ve got it in my trowsers’ pocket.

Mrs. P. Hadn’t you better leave part of it to hum? You might have your pockets picked, you know.

J. They won’t catch this child so easy. Don’t you be alarmed.

Mrs. P. I declare I’ve forgotten them doughnuts.

Dea. P. (looking toward L.). Stage is just at the corner.

Mrs. P. They’ll wait a minute.

J. (starting towards L.). Can’t wait, marm. I’ll buy some dinner at the tavern.

Mrs. P. It’ll be wastin’ your money.

Dea. P. Never mind.

J. (going slowly toward L.). Good-by.

Dea. P. and Mrs. P. Good-by. Be sure and write.

J. I’ll write just as soon as I get to the city.

(Exit L.)

Mrs. P. (with her apron to her eyes). It’s an awful resk, Deacon, Jonathan’s going away from home.

Dea. P. Cheer up, mother. He’s a man grown. He may make a fortune, after all.

(Exeunt, R.)

(Jonathan returns L. for his chest.)

J. (solus). Good-by to Beanville. When I come back, I’ll make the folks stare. Mary Jane’ll have to look up another feller. I’m goin’ to look higher.

(Exit L.)

(Curtain falls.)

J. I had no idee there was so many houses in the world. Bostown’s a big place, to be sure. But I don’t see where they pastur’ all their cows. I didn’t see none in that big lot in front of the State House. I guess folks must have a power of money to live in such fine houses. The State House must have cost twice as much as our meetin’-house, and p’r’aps more. Anyway I’m bound to see if I can’t make my fortin here. The landlord told me I might find a chance for business in this paper. I guess I’ll look over it, and see what I can find. (Reads the paper intently for a few minutes.) Why, here’s the very thing! Let me spell it out again. (Reads aloud.)

J. (jumping to his feet in excitement). Where’s my hat? I say that’s an all-fired good chance! Two thousand dollars a year! Why, it takes away my breath, thinkin’ of it. Here I’ve been workin’ for dad for ten dollars a month, and that aint but a hundred and twenty dollars a year. Our minister don’t get but three hundred dollars and his house-rent. Guess he’ll hev to look up to me ef I git this chance. I must go right off, or some other feller’ll be ahead of me.

(Puts on hat, and exit L. Curtain falls.)

J. (bashfully). Be you Mr. Jenkins?

Sam. (bowing). I am, at your service.

J. I seen the advertisement what you writ in the papers, about wanting a partner,—

S. J. With a small capital?

J. Yes, with a small capital, and I thought I’d call and see if you’d take me.

S. J. (aside). The fellow’s just from the country. I must impress him a little. I wonder how much money he’s got. (Aloud.) Well, as to that, I can’t say, positively. I must ask you a few questions. Have you lived in the city long?

J. Wal, no, I live to Beanville, when I’m ter hum.

S. J. (reflectively). Beanville! I don’t think I ever heard of the place.

J. Sho! I thought everybody’d heard of Beanville.

S. J. Then I suppose you have never been in business.

J. (hesitatingly). Wall, no, not exactly; but I tended in our store two days when the other feller was gone.

S. J. That is nothing;—but perhaps you could learn.

J. (eagerly). Oh, yes, I kin learn pooty quick, ef you’ll only try me.

S. J. Then about the capital. How much money have you got?

J. I hed two hundred and fifty dollars when I left hum, but I guess I’ll have to leave some to pay my board. I kin invest two hundred and twenty-five dollars.

S. J. (aside). That isn’t as much as I hoped, but I’m dead broke, and that’ll do to till I take in another flat.

J. (anxiously). Will that do?

S. J. Why, it isn’t as much as I expected; considering the large income which you will receive, it is very small.

J. I will come for less than two thousand, if you’ll only take me.

S. J. No, I will pay what I guaranteed. I suppose you have references.

J. I’ll write to our minister to send me a character.

S. J. Never mind. I have a knack at reading faces, and I can tell by yours that you are honest and industrious.

J. (gratified). Then you will take me?

S. J. Have you got the money with you?

J. Yes; shall I pay it now?

S. J. You might as well, and the partnership shall begin at once.

J. (drawing out his pocket-book, and counting out some bills). Two hundred, two hundred and ten, two hundred and twenty-five. I guess you’ll find it right.

S. J. (looking over the bills carelessly). Yes, quite correct. Stay, I will give you a receipt. What is your name? (Writes.)

J. Jonathan Peters.

S. J. (passes him receipt). Mine is Jenkins. Success to the firm of Jenkins and Peters. I’ll see about a sign.

J. (surprised). Do you do it here? I don’t see nothin’ to sell.

S. J. Oh, it’s a commission business. I’ll attend to that, and you’ll do the writing. I suppose you can write a good hand.

J. Oh, yes, I’ve been to writin’ school two winters. I can’t write very fast.

S. J. Never mind, you’ll learn. Practice makes perfect. I think I’ll have you begin to-day. Do you see that book? (Points to an old ledger on the desk.)

J. Yes.

S. J. Well, there’s a blank book. I want you to copy out of the ledger into the book, beginning at the first page.

J. All right. I kin do it.

S. J. Be very particular not to make any mistakes.

J. I’ll do my best.

S. J. (taking his hat). I’ve got to go round to the bank to deposit this money, and will be right back. See how much you can copy while I am gone.

J. Yes, I’ll work faithful.

(Exit S. J., L.)

J. (solus). Well, aint that a streak of luck! Here I am, just come to the city, and earnin’ a salary of two thousand dollars a year. Won’t it make dad stare? I guess marm’ll be glad I come now. Wonder what Mary Jane’ll say? She’ll be mighty sorry I’ve gone and left her. But she aint fit for the wife of a merchant like me! I must write to dad to-night. I would now, only my time belongs to the firm. Two thousand dollars a year! Why, that’s six dollars a day, and more, almost as much a day as I used to git in a month. Guess I’ll buy a watch after I git my first month’s pay. Holloa, what’s that?

(Enter Thomas Hempton, R.)

H. (looking at Jonathan with surprise). What are you doing here?

J. (with dignity). Tendin’ to business.

H. And how do you happen to be attending to business in my office?

J. Look here, mister, I guess you have made a little mistake. This aint your office. It’s mine and Jenkins’.

H. (sarcastically). Indeed! And I suppose that is your ledger that you have before you?

J. Of course it is.

H. Well, you’re a mighty cool customer, though you look rather green than otherwise. Perhaps you can tell me who this Jenkins is.

J. He’s the boss of this concern. That is, him and me are the two bosses.

H. Well, you’re about right there. You look more like bossies than anything else. If you ever lived in the country, as I should judge from your appearance you had, you will know what that means.

J. (advancing in a threatening manner, and brandishing a ruler). I say, stranger, quit that. None of your sarse, or I’ll break yer head.

H. (with dignity). Enough of this, young man. Put down that ruler. Now, tell me, have you given this man, Jenkins, any money?

J. Yes; two hundred and twenty-five dollars, and he’s took me into partnership.

H. When did you see him last?

J. He went out an hour ago.

H. You’ll never see him, I’m afraid, or your money either.

J. (terrified). What’s that, stranger?

H. In short, he’s swindled you. Jenkins is not his real name. He is a clerk of mine, of whom, for some time, I have had suspicions. He took advantage of a three days’ absence of mine in New York, to put an advertisement in the paper, which has taken you in. He’s got your money, and that will be the last we shall see of him, unless the police pick him up.

J. (crying). He’s carried off all my money. Boo! hoo! and I aint earnin’ two thousand dollars a year after all. Aunt Betsey’s money gone. Boo! hoo! What’ll marm say?

H. I’m afraid your money’s gone past recovery, but if you want to stay in the city, there’s a friend of mine wants a good, strong fellow in a grocery store. He will give you two dollars a day.

J. (drying his tears). Well, that’s pooty good. It’s a good deal more’n I kin make in the country. I’ll take it. (Enter boy, R., with a note.)

H. (opening it hastily). Young man, here is good news. The police, having some suspicions of Jenkins, arrested him as he was on the point of leaving the city for New York, and he is now in custody. You will probably recover your money.

J. (executing a double shuffle in his delight). O crackey! my money safe. Now I shan’t be ashamed to write home. You won’t forget about that grocery place?

H. No, I will see my friend to-day, and I have no doubt he will take you. By the way, where are you boarding?

J. At the Blank House.

H. The board is pretty high there.

J. My room is high, anyway, in the fifth story but they charge me only three dollars a week.

H. Three dollars a day, you should say.

J. By gracious, you don’t mean it!

H. Certainly; some of the hotels charge four and five.

J. How do they expect a feller can eat three dollars’ worth of victuals in a day?

H. You’d better leave there at once. I’ll give you the address of a place where you can get boarded for six dollars a week, while you’ll be earning twelve.

J. We kin git board up to Beanville for two dollars a week.

H. Beanville and Boston are two different places, and differ greatly in some important respects. If you will wait here a few moments, I’ll go out and speak to my friend about this place that you want.

(Exit R.)

J. (solus). Well, I wouldn’t ’a’ thought that Jenkins was such a tricky feller. I’d like to jist git hold of him once, and ef I wouldn’t give him a kick that would land him in the middle of next week, it’s because I’d lost the use of my foot, that’s all.

(Curtain falls.)

ONE WEEK AN EDITOR. — CHARACTERS.

Ephraim Simpson. Is this the office of the “Petersville Post”?

Editor (with some curiosity). It is.

E. You are the editor, I reckon?

Ed. You are right.

E. Well, you see my name is Ephraim Simpson, and I live over to Greenfield. I’ve been workin’ this summer hayin’, but I found it was too hard work, and I reckoned I’d come to you and see if you couldn’t give me a chance to edit a little.

Ed. Why, you know it is quite a difficult thing to learn to edit a paper. It requires education, judgment, and a variety of other qualifications.

E. Oh, as to that, I guess I can satisfy you. I have tended school in our deestrict for four winters, and can read, write and cipher like a book.

Ed. That is all very well, but you know one must be able to compose as well as write.

E. Oh, compositions you mean. Well, I have written them some. Don’t you want me to try my hand and show you what I kin do?

Ed. I am not in particular need of an assistant just now, but perhaps you might as well sit down and try your hand at writing an editorial. (Ephraim sits down, R.)

(Enter, L., a rusty-looking individual, with a tin trunk under his arm.)

John Jenkins. Are you the editor of the “Post”?

Ed. I am.

J. J. Then, sir, allow me to present you with a box of my famous salve (hands box to him).

Ed. Thank you.

J. J. Perhaps you’d be willing to insert this little paragraph about it. I wrote it off to save you trouble (hands paper to editor).

Ed. (reading aloud). We have received from Dr. Jenkins a box of his Magnetic Salve, which is warranted to cure every description of cut or bruise in an incredibly short space of time. We know a boy who accidentally cut off one of his fingers. His mother being absent, he bethought himself of Dr. Jenkins’s salve, which she had bought the day previous. He applied it to the injured finger, and before night there was not even a scar to indicate where the wound had been.

Ed. (looking up). You want me to insert this?

J. J. (in an insinuating tone). Yes, sir.

Ed. But I don’t know the boy referred to.

J. J. My dear sir, aint you rather new in the business?

Ed. (indignantly). Well, and what if I am?

J. J. (smiling sarcastically). I thought you were, or you’d understand that this is the way they always do things.

Ed. We are a little more conscientious than editors generally. However, you assure me that the salve is good?

J. J. (warmly). Nothing better in the whole world, sir.

Ed. And you think it would be safe to speak well of it?

J. J. Sir, you will be conferring a blessing on the community.

Ed. Very well, I will write a little puff for you.

J. J. Thank you, sir.

(Exit, L.)

Printer’s Devil (entering, R.). More copy, sir.

Ed. Here it is (handing him a paper).

(Exit P. D.)

(A knock is heard at the door, L.)

Ed. Come in.

(Enter young lady, L.)

Young Lady. Please, sir, I am Araminta Ellis, the authoress of “Lines on a Faded Buttercup.”

Ed. I am delighted to see you, Miss Ellis. Did the—the poem you speak of appear in the “Post”?

A. E. (surprised at his ignorance). No, sir, it was contributed to the “Weekly Bulletin.” I have never written anything for the “Post,” but should be willing to do so. What are your terms?

Ed. (blandly). Three dollars a year.

A. E. I do not mean the subscription price of the paper, but how much do you pay your poetical contributors?

Ed. We—ahem—that is, our friends are kind enough to make us a free gift of their productions in that line.

A. E. (insinuatingly). But don’t you pay for superior poetry? I have here a poem which I would like to see transferred to your columns (passes manuscript to him).

Ed. (taking the poem). Seventy-seven stanzas! That would be too long for our columns. Couldn’t you shorten it?

A. E. Not without marring its symmetrical proportions. But I will write another and a shorter one soon, which will perhaps suit you better.

Ed. Thank you, Miss Ellis. That will undoubtedly be better suited to our columns.

(Exit A. E., L.)

(Enter, L., George Crane excitedly.)

George Crane. Sir, don’t you regard it as a part of an editor’s duty to unmask villany and expose it to the world?

Ed. Certainly, sir.

G. C. Then I should like to furnish you with some information respecting a neighbor of mine, named Henry Perkins. He is a hypocrite, sir! He professes a good deal, but secretly practises petty acts of meanness. I have every reason to believe that he beats his wife; and he has been suspected of robbing his neighbor’s hen-roosts. Just write an article touching him up, and I’ll subscribe to your paper for a year.

Ed. (cautiously). Cash in advance?

G. C. (promptly). Yes.

Ed. Very well, then. I’m your man.

(G. C. hands Ed. five-dollar bill, and receives two dollars back as change. Exit G. C., L. Enter William Randall, L.)

William Randall. Is Mr. Clark in?

Ed. No, sir; but as his substitute I shall be happy to serve you.

W. R. You must know, sir, that I have been laboring for some years past on the preparation of a remedy for dyspepsia. At length, after great labor and research, I have prepared a pill which I am sure will prove an infallible cure in the most obstinate cases. I have the pleasure, sir, of presenting you with a box of Dr. William Randall’s Anti-Dyspepsia Pills (passes box to him).

Ed. Thank you.

Dr. R. (preparing to leave). By the way, I suppose you will favor me with a notice?

Ed. (hesitating). Ye-es.

(Exit Dr. R., L.)

(Ed. sits down to write. After a moment’s pause Ephraim Simpson, who has been writing (when not gazing at visitors), starts up.)

E. S. Well, Mister Editor, how’s that? (handing him a paper.)

Ed. (reading aloud). The hoss.—The hoss is a noble animal. He is also interestin’ and knows a good deal. Some folks get very much attached to their hosses. I knowed a Frenchman once, that thought so much of his hoss that he even went so far as to call his own mother a mare as a pet name. Hosses are very interestin’ animals when they don’t rare up. Not havin’ any more to say on this subjick, I will stop.

Ed. (gravely). That is very good; but, on the whole, I don’t think there is any need of an assistant just yet. If there should be a time when I stand in need of one, I will certainly think of you.

E. S. (disappointed). Then you haint got anything for me to do?

Ed. Not just now.

E. S. Then I must go.

(Exit E. S., L.)

(Curtain falls.)

Ed. (soliloquizing). And this is the result of my first week’s labor as an editor. Excellent as my friend Clark has heretofore made the “Post,” I think he will acknowledge that I have made some improvements in it. (Glances complacently down the page. His eye is suddenly arrested by a paragraph which startles him.) What! What’s this? (Reads.)

Ed. (furiously to P. D. entering R.). How did this get into the paper?

P. D. (smiling). You gave it out as copy, sir.

Ed. When?

P. D. The first day you were here.

(Exit P. D. as Dr. Randall enters L. He is evidently very much excited. He holds in his hand a copy of the “Post.”)

Dr. R. (pointing to an item). Did you write that?

Ed. (coolly). Yes. I hope it suits you.

Dr. R. Suits me! Confound your impudence! Suits me! What do you mean by that, sir?

Ed. You seem angry—why, I am at a loss to guess.

Dr. R. Sir, in noticing my medicine, you have insulted me.

Ed. (surprised). In noticing your medicine! How?

Dr. R. (placing paper within two inches of Ed.’s nose, he repeats), “He says it will cure the most obstinate case of dyspepsia. Perhaps it may.” I demand an explanation, sir.

Ed. (stepping back). It is very easily given. I only intended to say, that personally I had no experience of the matter, and not being able to speak positively, I said “perhaps!”

Dr. R. (suspiciously). Is that true?

Ed. Certainly. But, if you wish, I will recall the statement in our next issue.

Dr. R. That would be more satisfactory to me.

(Exit, L.)

(Enter, L., a fierce-looking individual.)

Henry Perkins (in a threatening tone). Are you the editor?

Ed. (with quaking heart). Yes.

H. P. (sneering). I suppose you don’t know who I am?

Ed. No, I don’t.

H. P. (fiercely). I am that Henry Perkins whom you have so atrociously libelled in your paper of this morning. Don’t think, sir, that such conduct is to go unpunished! I stand upon my rights, sir, as a citizen, and I will not be trampled upon.

(Mr. P. seizes Ed. by the collar of his coat and shakes him vigorously.)

Ed. (struggling). Unhand me, sir!

H. P. (still shaking him). There, you little blackguard! I guess you won’t slander me again in a hurry.

Ed. (passionately). I’ll have the law of you, you villain!

H. P. You will, eh! Then I must give you your pay in advance.

(He continues to shake him a moment. Then making a low, mocking bow, he goes out.)

Ed. (furiously). I won’t stand this. I’ll leave a note for Clark, and go home this moment. There’s no knowing what may come next. It is as much as one’s life is worth to be an editor.

(Exit hurriedly.)

(Curtain falls.)

KEEPING GENTEEL BOARDERS. — DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Mrs. Jones. Well, Amanda, now that we have taken a large house and prepared it for boarders, the next thing will be to fill it.

Amanda. Advertise in the “Herald,” mamma.

Mrs. J. It may be a good plan. We ought to make money; but when I consider that we have a large rent to pay, I can’t help thinking that there is some risk about it. You know we were able to live comfortably on the money your poor father left, and without any care or exertion on our part.

A. (scornfully). Comfortably, mamma! You know how we had to pinch ourselves. I could hardly afford one bonnet a year, and, as to dresses, I had to wear them so long a time I was positively ashamed. Other people make money by keeping boarders, and why can’t we?

Mrs. J. You may be right, Amanda. But about the advertisement. How shall we express it?

(Amanda sits down at the table and writes.)

A. How will this do, mamma? (Reads.)

Wanted.—A few first-class boarders, by a genteel family whose object is to surround themselves by a pleasant social circle, rather than to make money. Address “Boarders,” Herald office.

Mrs. J. But, my dear, my object is to make money.

A. Of course, mamma; but it sounds well to seem indifferent to it.

Mrs. J. Perhaps you are right. (A pause.) I wonder when the advertisement will appear.

A. To-morrow morning, probably, and we may expect applications at any time afterward.

Mrs. J. Then it would be best to fix on a price for board at once.

A. Yes, I suppose so.

Mrs. J. How would twelve dollars a week do?

A. It wouldn’t do at all. We couldn’t pay expenses.

Mrs. J. But I’m afraid if we charge such high prices we shall not be able to fill our rooms.

A. That’s just the means to accomplish it. Many people judge of the style and reputation of a house by the price asked. You ought to insist on at least fifteen or twenty dollars for the best rooms, and a little less for those not so desirable.

Mrs. J. But that won’t correspond with the advertisement, where I say I take boarders for company, rather than to make money.

A. I don’t think that will ever be noticed; but if it should, you can say with truth, that you could not pay your expenses if you charged less.

Mrs. J. Well, I hope we may be successful, for I have made such an outlay in fitting up the house, that our income will this year be far less than usual, and our expenses correspondingly larger.

A. There’s no doubt of our success. Three months from now we shall be able not only to defray our necessary expenses, but also to replace the money which you were obliged to draw to pay for the furniture.

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. Jones. Ah, has the paper come, Amanda?

Amanda. Yes, and the advertisement is inserted, and reads well. (Passes paper to her mother.)

Mrs. J. That seems to be right—(listens—sound of bell is heard). But hark! Isn’t that the door bell?

A. Yes; I hope it may prove an applicant for board.

(Servant ushers in Mrs. Simperton and her daughter, L.)

Mrs. Simperton. This is Mrs. Jones, I believe.

Mrs. J. You are right. That is my name.

Mrs. S. (affectedly). I must introduce myself as Mrs. Simperton. And this is my daughter, Isadora Malvina. (Mrs. J. bows.) We saw your advertisement in this morning’s “Herald,” and when we called at the office, were directed here.

Mrs. J. Yes, my daughter and myself wished for company. It is rather lonely for two persons to live by themselves in a large house like this, with no one near but servants.

Mrs. S. It must be so, and I do not wonder that you wish for companions. My daughter and myself are thinking of boarding this winter, and I wish to make some inquiries concerning your rooms. I suppose they are newly furnished.

Mrs. J. Yes, they all contain new furniture.

Mrs. S. And is it black walnut, with marble tops to the bureau and tables?

Mrs. J. Yes, a part of the rooms are furnished in that style.

Mrs. S. I suppose we could have our meals in our own rooms.

Mrs. J. (hesitating). Well—yes—perhaps it could be arranged so.

Mrs. S. And I suppose we could have them at whatever hour we chose.

Mrs. J. I think so.

Mrs. S. That seems to be favorable. May I ask your terms?

Mrs. J. For my best rooms, with private meals, I should be obliged to charge twenty dollars a week apiece. If the meals came at unusual hours, it would be worth more.

Mrs. S. (with emphasis). Your charge is exorbitant. Such accommodations are not worth more than half the sum you name. Still I am willing to pay twenty-five dollars for both of us.

Mrs. J. I couldn’t think of such a thing. I shouldn’t be able to pay my expenses at such low rates for board.

Mrs. S. I thought you didn’t keep boarders for profit, but only for the sake of company.

Mrs. J. That is very true. I don’t take boarders for profit, but neither do I intend to take them at a loss. I shouldn’t consider their company to be of sufficient value to compensate for that.

Mrs. S. Very well; I see we must look further. I don’t believe we should be suited here. Come, Isadora Malvina. (Goes out, L., with a lofty air, followed by her daughter.)

A. What airs people do put on sometimes! I’m glad she didn’t decide to stay. I shouldn’t want her for a boarder at any price. (Bell rings. Enter Count de Fripon, L.)

Count (with a polite bow). Can madame accommodate me with a suite of rooms?

Mrs. J. I think so. What rooms do you desire?

C. I should like a chambre à coucher—what you call a bedroom; also a parlor in which I could receive my friends.

Mrs. J. You would require board, too, I suppose.

C. Oui, madame,—yes, you are right. I should wish board for myself, and sometimes I might bring a friend with me to dine.

Mrs. J. Certainly. We shall always be glad to see any of your friends. In regard to terms—

C. (with a deprecating gesture). Pardon, madame, but—I never trouble myself with these trifling matters. At the end of every month you will send in your bill to me, and I shall pay it to you at once.

Mrs. J. That will be satisfactory. But what name shall I put down?

C. (with a courtly air). Count Henri de Fripon, madame. Here is my card. (Passes it.)

Mrs. J. (bows, while a pleased smile overspreads her face). And when would you like to come?

C. I shall come to you next Monday, in the morning. I have the honor to wish you good day, madame; bon jour, mademoiselle.

(Exit, L., with low bow.)

Mrs. J. That’s a boarder after my own mind. He never inquired the terms, and will be ready to pay when the bill is presented. I wish we might secure others of the same kind.

A. And he’s one of the nobility, too. His presence will give quite a distinguished air to the house.

Mrs. J. Yes; he’s quite an acquisition. (Bell rings.) Besides, who knows but—(Enter Miss Trist, L.)

Miss Trist. Good mornin’, ma’am. Good mornin’, miss. (Mrs. J. and A. both bow.) I’ve come to see about gettin’ boarded.

Mrs. J. I think we can accommodate you. What kind of a room would you like?

Miss T. It don’t make no sort o’ difference to me. I only want a shelter. ’Taint likely I shall be spared long to need one.

Mrs. J. (with sympathy). Are you an invalid?

Miss T. No, I aint sick yet, but there’s no knowin’ how soon I may be. My mother died young, and died suddenly, too. I expect to go in the same way.

Mrs. J. I hope not. (A pause.) We have rooms which, with board, vary from twelve to twenty dollars per week.

Miss T. My sakes! That’s an awful price, aint it? But then I might as well spend my money for board as to leave it for my relations to quarrel over.

Mrs. J. That certainly is a better way.

Miss T. (mournfully). Perhaps you wouldn’t think it, from my comin’ here to get boarded; but I’ve got three sisters and two brothers, and they’re all watchin’ to see if I aint goin’ to get sick an’ die, so they can have my money.

Mrs. J. You’d better come here to board, then. I dare say it would be the means of prolonging your life.

Miss T. Do you think so? I wish I could believe it, though (dismally) I haint got nothin’ to live for. But then, if I aint to live long, it would be a comfort to spend my last days in peace. I’ve had a great many troubles and trials in my time.

Mrs. J. I am sorry to hear it.

Miss T. Yes, I lost my best friend just six days before we were to be married. If he’d only lived one week longer, I might have been a desolate relict instead of a lonely single woman.

Mrs. J. It must have been a great disappointment.

Miss T. Yes; but then ’twas my luck. I don’t place no dependence on anything now. (Rising.) There’s no knowin’ what may happen; but I’ll come, to stay, next Monday, if I’m alive an’ well.

(Exit, L.)

A. (drawing a long breath). Oh, I’m so glad she’s gone. I hope something will happen to prevent her coming. It’s as dismal to have her round as to be alone in the house on a drizzly day in November.

Mrs. J. We can’t refuse any one who is willing to pay our price. But hark! some one is coming. (Enter Mr. Scott hurriedly.)

Mr. Scott (nervously). I have come to get boarded here madam. (With deprecating gesture.) Don’t refuse me, for I shall certainly commit suicide if you do. You see I’ve set my heart on boarding with you and your charming daughter.

Mrs. J. (benignantly). There is no occasion for my refusing you. We have still a few rooms left that are not engaged.

Mr. S. (in a hurried manner). And what are your terms—though that will make no difference. I shall come, whatever they may be.

Mrs. J. We have one room, at fifteen dollars, that may perhaps suit you.

Mr. S. (with a theatrical air). Fifteen dollars! Ask me not to pay such a paltry sum. I would never pay less than twenty-five.

Mrs. J. Very well, you can pay any sum you choose.

Mr. S. Then I choose to pay twenty-five dollars. But there’s another inquiry that I wish to make. Can I have a piano in my room?

Mrs. J. There is a piano in the parlor, which the boarders are at liberty to use when they feel inclined.

Mr. S. But that will not suit me. Perhaps I should wish to play when some one else was using it. No, I must have one in my own room. (Earnestly.) I’m willing to pay extra for it—five, fifteen, or even fifty dollars a week, rather than not to have it.

Mrs. J. Certainly; if you are willing to pay for it I will have one put into your room for you.

Mr. S. You relieve my mind greatly. I will be here to commence boarding to-morrow. Here is my card. (Passes it.) Good-morning, ladies.

(Exit hastily, L.)

A. What a strange man! It isn’t often that one meets with a person who sets so little value on money.

Mrs. J. His name is as strange as his actions.

A. (with curiosity). What is it?

Mrs. J. Zachary Winfield Taylor Scott.

A. (with interest). Perhaps he is a son of General Scott. I’ve heard it said that the families of great men are often eccentric.

(Bell rings. Enter Jethro Burbank, L.)

Jethro Burbank. I’ve come to see as how, could I get boarded.

Mrs. J. We have some rooms still vacant, if the price is such as to suit you.

J. B. (unheeding her remark). You see, I’ve come all the way from Hatchville, State of Maine, to see if I could get a situation here in the city, and the fust thing is to get a boarding-place. What do you calc’late to charge me now? Don’t set it too high.

Mrs. J. The lowest-priced rooms we have left are fifteen dollars per week, with board.

J. B. Gewhittaker! That’s an all-fired big sum. You don’t mean that’s your lowest price.

Mrs. J. Certainly. This is a first-class house, and we do not take any boarders who can’t afford to pay our prices.

J. B. Wal, I don’t know what you call fust-class boarders, but marm boards the schoolmaster, and the editor of the paper, and I guess they aint second to nobody.

Mrs. J. (smiling). And what does she charge for board?

J. B. Wal, she charges jest two dollars a week. That’s what I call a reasonable price. But I knowed that prices were higher in the city, and I calc’lated I’d have to pay as much as five dollars; but to pay three times that, is more than I can stand. Why, the price of a year’s board would buy me a good farm down to Hatchville.

Mrs. J. Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go back there.

J. B. Wal, I shan’t give it up so. I’m going to try further.

(Exit J. B., L.)

A. It is getting late. I don’t believe we shall have any more applicants to-day.

Mrs. J. You are mistaken, for here is one now.

(Enter Mrs. Westwood, L.)

Mrs. Westwood. Good-afternoon, ladies. Am I too late for a place? Are your rooms all taken?

Mrs. J. No. We have several left. There are two in particular that I think you would fancy. One is a very large and pleasant room. The other is a little smaller.

Mrs. W. Oh, I must have the large one, by all means.

Mrs. J. The larger one, with board, will be twenty dollars a week.

Mrs. W. Very well, I will pay it. I’ve got plenty of money at present. My husband died a year ago, and left me with a large farm and a quantity of stock. But I wasn’t going to be immured in a dismal farm-house—not I. So I’ve sold the farm, and come to the city to board till my money gives out. Perhaps then you’ll take me as a partner in the boarding-house business.

Mrs. J. I find it takes considerable money, even for that business.

Mrs. W. Oh, well, I’ve got enough—a couple of hundred thousand dollars. But I’m not ready to go in yet. I want to see a little of city life first. If I meet a good-looking gentleman that invites me, perhaps I shall become his partner instead of yours. But time will show.

Mrs. J. What time would you like to commence?

Mrs. W. It might as well be now as any other time. I can send for my trunks.

Mrs. J. Very well; I will show you the two rooms, though I think you will prefer the larger one.

Mrs. W. Oh, I am sure I shall.

(Exit Mrs. J. and Mrs. W., L.)

A. (sola). Quite a number of the rooms are already engaged, and I think we may congratulate ourselves on having made a good beginning. How much better it will be to keep a genteel boarding-house than to tend shop or keep school for a living.

(Curtain falls.)

Amanda. Did you send for me, mamma?

Mrs. Jones. Yes. I think it is necessary for us to have a consultation about our affairs.

A. (surprised). I thought you were getting along charmingly. I’m sure the house is full of boarders at good prices, and has been ever since we commenced. What more could you wish for?

Mrs. J. Everything would be quite satisfactory if the boarders would only pay up promptly. But Mrs. Westwood and Miss Trist are the only ones that I can depend on. The butcher and baker have sent in heavy bills, and this morning I have received grocery and gas bills, as well as bills for extra furniture that was required. Then, too, a month’s rent is due for the piano in the parlor and that in Mr. Scott’s room.

A. Ask Mr. Scott for the money due you for his board.

Mrs. J. I have done so repeatedly, but he has such a way of evading it that I can’t get anything. Indeed, sometimes he gets so excited that I am almost frightened, and glad enough to leave him, even without my money.

A. But surely the count has paid you.

Mrs. J. Not a cent. I was to send in my bill three days ago, but before I was able to do so he asked for an interview, and said that he had been disappointed about receiving money which he expected, and asked me to wait a week longer. He seemed so sorry about it that I couldn’t help accommodating him.

Bridget (entering, R.). An’ did ye take the silver, mum? I haven’t seen a sight of it since I left it on the table after cl’aning it this morning.

Mrs. J. (surprised). I haven’t taken it away. Was the front door locked?

B. Yis, I thried that same, an’ it was locked as usual. But jist as I went to look if it was fast, the postman came, an’ brought this letter.

Mrs. J. (opening it hastily, and glancing at signature). Why, this is from the count. (Reads.)

A. (excited). What! My watch and rings. How could he have got them?

B. Oh, the murtherin villain! An’ didn’t I tell Kate, the cook, that he had too much blarny about him for an honest man?

Mrs. J. (troubled). What shall we do?

B. Send the perlice after him.

(Enter Miss Trist, L.)

Miss T. Oh, my poor head! I can’t stand it any longer.

Mrs. J. What’s the matter, Miss Trist?

Miss T. That Mr. Scott, whose room is right opposite mine, is all the time playing on the piano. If it was sacred music I wouldn’t mind; but it’s the quickest kind of dancing tunes.

A. Why don’t you knock at his door and tell him how much it disturbs you? There is no one in the parlor, and he can play there all the afternoon if he wishes.

Miss T. Perhaps I will do so, for I’m afraid I shall go distracted.

(Exit, L.)

B. An’ I must tell ye, mum, that Katy an’ me’ll be afther lavin’ here intirely, if our month’s wages aint paid by to-morrow.

Mrs. J. Very well, I will attend to it. You can go now. (Exit Bridget, R.) I’m sure I don’t know what we’re going to do. I have received two letters from Lawyer Snap about the last month’s rent. The second one stated that if it was not paid immediately legal steps would be instituted.

(At this moment hurried steps are heard, L., and Miss Trist rushes into the room, closely followed by Mr. Scott; her cap strings flying, and both hands are placed on her devoted head, as if fearing a blow there. Her companion dashes madly after her, holding a heavy music-book in a menacing way.)

Mrs. J. Miss Trist, Mr. Scott—what is the matter?

Mr. S. (standing still for a moment, speaks in a fierce manner). That woman (looking toward Miss T.) has been tormenting me. I was engaged in improvising music, an opera which would have far exceeded anything that Verdi or Meyerbeer ever composed, and was just arranging one of the most delicate passages, when that woman knocked at my door. (Enter Sheriff and keeper by entrance back of Mr. S.) Of course the interruption was fatal to my opera. And what did she come for? Why, she wanted me to go to the parlor piano, because my music disturbed her. And through her means, that divine opera is lost to the world. (In a loud tone.) I will kill her! (more fiercely) I will annihilate her! I will crush her to atoms! (Amanda faints, Mrs. J. clasps her hands with a deprecating gesture, and Mr. S. dashes after Miss T., who has sunk with a frightened air into a chair in the farther corner. The Sheriff seizes Mr. S. from behind. The latter struggles furiously, but vainly.)

Sheriff. Here, Randall, take charge of this man. He’s that lunatic who escaped from the asylum six weeks ago. They’ve searched most everywhere for him.

Mr. S. (who is quiet for a moment—with a smile). I was too cunning for them. (Again furious.) You shall not restrain me. I must annihilate that woman, and then finish my opera. (Randall takes Mr. S., screaming and struggling furiously, from the room.)

Mrs. J. (to Sheriff). How can I thank you, sir, for delivering us from that madman?

Sheriff. I am happy to have been of service to you in that way; but my errand here was to give you trouble. (Mrs. J. looks expectantly toward him. Mrs. Westwood enters, R.) I have been instructed to levy an attachment on your furniture, on account of your refusing to pay your rent.

Mrs. J. I am sorry it so happens. I depended on the money which I was to receive from my boarders to pay my expenses; but, of fifteen boarders, these two ladies are the only ones who have paid.

Mrs. W. (coming forward). That’s a shame. Mr. Sheriff, what’s the amount of your bill?

Sheriff. Rent $125, and costs $25 more.

Mrs. W. Here’s the money, $150. Now give me a receipted bill.

Sheriff. Here is one, though I didn’t expect to need it (gives bill and takes money). Thank you, ma’am.

(Exit Sheriff, L. Mrs. J. gazes in astonishment.)

Mrs. W. Mrs. Jones, what do your other unpaid bills amount to?

Mrs. J. About five hundred dollars.

Mrs. W. Well, I’ve got a proposal to make to you. In the first place, however, I must explain a little. Do you remember hearing your husband speak of his sister, Sarah Jane, who went to California to become a teacher, some twenty odd years ago?

Mrs. J. Yes; she went away just before I became acquainted with him. He frequently spoke of the circumstance; but the vessel was wrecked, and he supposed, as he heard no further tidings, that she must have been lost with the other passengers.

Mrs. W. Well, she wasn’t lost, but returned a couple of months ago, and now stands before you.

A. And are you my Aunt Sarah?

Mrs. W. Yes. I went, as you know, to San Francisco with the intention of teaching, but on board the steamer I became acquainted with Mr. Westwood, who had started for California to seek his fortune. He and myself and one other passenger were the only persons saved from the wreck. He persuaded me to abandon my original plan, and marry him. I did so, and we went into the country, where he bought a sheep ranch. He was prospered in all his undertakings, and, last year, died, leaving me, by will, all he possessed.

Mrs. J. But why haven’t you written to us in all these years?

Mrs. W. We were intending, from year to year, to come back soon to surprise my brother, but circumstances constantly arose to prevent it. After my husband died, I determined to come at once and seek my relatives; but when I arrived I learned of my brother’s death. I then sought a boarding-place, and in looking over the paper met with your advertisement. Although the name was the same, I had no idea you were his widow till I saw his portrait hanging in the parlor. Though grown older, his features had not yet changed, and I recognized him at once. I engaged board with you, thinking if I enjoyed stopping here I would propose to become a permanent member of your family. I now propose to take the house, pay your debts and all the future expenses of house-keeping, in return for the society of yourself and daughter. What do you say to the plan?

Mrs. J. I should be very glad to have it so, but I am afraid you do not realize what you are taking upon yourself.

Mrs. W. Trust me for that. I know what I am about.

Mrs. J. Then there’ll be no more anxiety and worriment about unpaid bills.

A. And no desire to continue the experiment of Keeping Genteel Boarders.

(Curtain falls.)

MRS. SKINFLINT’S BARGAINS. — CHARACTERS.

Mrs. Skinflint (soliloquizes). I declare I’ll never buy another thing at Thompson’s store. I paid fifteen cents a yard for my last kaliker dress, and Mis’ Hobbs bought one of a peddler yesterday, jest as good, for thirteen cents and three quarters. It’s a shame! On twelve yards I lost fifteen cents. That’s too much money to lose in these hard times. I wish that peddler would come along. I need a sight o’ things, and if I couldn’t beat him down, my name aint Betsy Jane Skinflint.

(A knock is heard at the door, R. Mrs. S. rises and opens it. The visitor proves to be Ezekiel Onthank, a Yankee peddler, with a large pack on his back. He enters.)

Ezekiel. Mornin’, marm. Anything in my line to-day? Dress-patterns, hoop-skirts, shawls, laces, ribbons, jewelry, spectacles, buttons, scissors, needles, pins—

Mrs. S. Massy sakes! don’t tell any more of ’em. I shall forget what you sed fust. You haint got no good clocks, hev ye?

Ezek. Haint I though! I kin beat everybody on clocks. I’ve got some that cum clear from Switzerland. I imported ’em myself. Here’s one (taking it from his pack), the pootiest and best little timepiece ever you see.

Mrs. S. Does it keep good time?

Ezek. I guess it does—tip-top. It goes ahead of anything ever you set your eyes on.

Mrs. S. (cautiously). What d’ye charge for it?

Ezek. (hesitating). Well, I hev been sellin’ on ’em all along for twelve dollars apiece, but seein’ it’s you, I’ll let you have it for ten.

Mrs. S. (throwing up her hands). Ten dollars! D’ye think I’m made o’ money? Besides, the clock aint wuth half that. But I don’t mind givin’ you five for it.

Ezek. That don’t pay the cost of importin’ ’em; but, ef you’re goin’ to buy consider’ble, I’ll say five for it. What’s the next thing?

Mrs. S. I want ter git a pair o’ spettercles. As I was ridin’ to meetin’, last Sunday, mine fell off, and the wheel run right over ’em, and smashed the glass all to pieces. I cared more about ’em ’cause they’d ben in the famerly so long. Marm and granny both used ’em afore me.

Ezek. Mebbe they might be mended. Let’s see ’em.

(Mrs. S. produces a pair of heavy, iron-bowed spectacles. Ezekiel looks at them dubiously.)

Ezek. I s’pose they might be fixed, but it’s my opinion ’twouldn’t pay. Besides, the bows are too heavy to wear. Didn’t nobody ever tell ye that wearin’ heavy-bowed specs sometimes made folks round-shouldered?

Mrs. S. (straightening up). No. Dew tell!

Ezek. But I’ve got somethin’ here that’ll suit you to a T. Jest try ’em on (handing her a pair of spectacles). That’s jest the article you want.

Mrs. S. (trying them on and looking up). Well, they’re pooty fair. But I s’pose you’ll charge as much as a dollar for ’em.

Ezek. A dollar! Why, woman alive, you don’t think I’d sell them specs for a dollar. They’re the real genuine periscopic Scotch pebble. They’re well wuth five dollars, but I shall only charge you three for them. ’Taint often you can get such a good article so cheap.

Mrs. S. I’ll give you two dollars for ’em.

Ezek. No, I can’t afford to sell ’em so low. But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll split the difference, and let you have ’em for two-fifty. They’re very becomin’ to you—make you look ten years younger than the others did.

Mrs. S. (smiling at the compliment). Well, I s’pose I shall have to take ’em. But I shouldn’t think ’twould take you long to get rich at that rate.

Ezek. The fact is, I’m growin’ poorer every day. I ought not to sell my goods so cheap; but the wimmen have such captivatin’ ways that I can’t resist ’em. What’s the next thing?

Mrs. S. Well, I want some caliker for a new gown. I bought enough for one at Thompson’s, the other day; but I want another.

Ezek. I’ve got jest the thing for you (showing her a piece of calico with stripes of red and yellow). That’s exactly your style, and it’s only twelve and a half cents a yard.

Mrs. S. Will it wash?

Ezek. Like white cloth. I’ve sold yards and yards of that same pattern. It takes so well that one factory don’t make nothin’ else.

Mrs S. Twelve and a half cents a yard is too much. I can’t afford it, but I’ll give you a dollar for twelve yards.

Ezek. Couldn’t do it. Think of a nice dress pattern like that (displaying the goods in a tempting manner) bein’ sold for a dollar. No, marm, I can’t sell it any less.

Mrs. S. (looking at it longingly). I’ll give you a dollar and a quarter.

Ezek. Well, as you’re taking consider’ble, I’ll let you have it for that; but you mustn’t say nothin’ about it. Why, Mis’ Hobbs bought some of it, and paid full price. I’m boardin’ there at Mis’ Hobbs’s. She’s got a pooty daughter—that Sairy Jane. Between you and me, that’s the reason I went to boardin’ there, for Mis’ Hobbs aint much of a cook.

Mrs. S. (elated). I allers knew that. She never did hev much of a bringin’ up (Mrs. S. passes him money.)

Ezek. (preparing to leave). Thank ye, marm. Well, aint there sumthin’ more? You’ll want some hooks and eyes, and thread to make your dress with, don’t ye?

Mrs. S. Oh, you’ll throw them in, won’t ye? The store people do.

Ezek. That’s askin’ a little too much.

Mrs. S. Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you a mince pie for ’em. I made some fresh ones to-day. What d’ye say? You know yer boardin’-place aint anything to boast of.

Ezek. Well, I don’t mind doin’ it for once. (Mrs. Skinflint passes him pie from the table.) But I think I’d better be goin’. It don’t pay much to trade with you. You’re a deal too sharp. (Taking his pack, he leaves the house.)

Mrs. S. (self-complacently soliloquizes). I think I did make a good trade. Trust me for that. I saved enough on them trades to buy me a set of furs, next winter. They don’t cost but eight dollars, and I daresay I could get ’em for five. But there, it’s most twelve o’clock. I must be gettin’ dinner ready.

(Exit.)

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. S. How d’ye do, Mis’ Hobbs?

Mrs. Hobbs. Why, how d’ye do, Mis’ Skinflint? I’m glad to see you. Sit right down in the rockin’-chair, do. (She sits down, L.) It’s a pleasant evenin’.

Mrs. S. Yes, very pleasant. I cum over this evenin’, Mis’ Hobbs, to see if there’s a peddler stoppin’ here. I bought a clock of one, this mornin’, and he sed he boarded here. The clock don’t go, and I want him to come and fix it, or give me another one.

Mrs. H. Yes, that’s him; jest come into the kitchen. He’ll be right in, I guess. He always sits in here, evenin’s.

(Just then voices are heard in the kitchen. Sarah Jane is seen knitting, L. Ezekiel enters, R.)

Sarah Jane. Well, what adventures have you had to-day, ’Zekiel?

Ezek. The richest was with Mis’ Skinflint. Mis’ Deacon Pettengill told me she was as mean as dirt (here Mrs. S. starts, but, on second thoughts, waits to hear what is coming next. Mrs. Hobbs smiles, grimly), and I thought I see if I couldn’t sarcumvent her.

S. J. What did you do?

Ezek. I offered her a clock for twelve dollars, and she beat me down to five. I usually sell ’em for a dollar and a half.

S. J. I suppose ’twasn’t worth even that.

Ezek. It doesn’t go much, but when it does, it makes up for lost time. Then she wanted some spettercles. She took a pair for two dollars and a half that I generally get seventy-five cents for; but I’ll warrant they won’t magnify any too much, for there’s nothing but winder-glass in ’em.

Mrs. S. (emphatically). The villain!

S. J. You was rather too bad, ’Zekiel.

Ezek. Not at all. She bought some calico, and asked if it would wash. I told her it would wash like white cloth, and I guess ’twill. After two or three washings, there won’t be a bit of color left in it.

Mrs. S. Oh, the wretch! Won’t I give it to him! (Mrs. Hobbs smiles. She evidently enjoys the scene.)

Ezek. But the cream of the joke was that she wanted some hooks and eyes and a spool of thread, and gave me a mince pie for them. I tasted it, but it was such wretched stuff that I couldn’t eat it, so I threw it into the river for the fishes.

(Mrs. Skinflint dashes into the kitchen with arms akimbo. Ezekiel shrinks back with mock terror. Sarah Jane and her mother come forward, smiling, to see what will be done.)

Mrs. S. What do you mean, you wretch, by cheatin’ me in such a way?

Ezek. I didn’t cheat you. You tried to keep me from gettin’ any profit on my goods. I put a price on them, and you could take them or not, as you pleased. You was willin’ to pay what I asked for them; so I don’t see how I cheated you.

Mrs. S. You didn’t tell me the truth about ’em (furiously). Then you called the nice pie I gave you wretched stuff. I shouldn’t ’a thought of givin’ it to you ef ye hadn’t said you didn’t git anythin’ fit to eat here.

Mrs. H. (starting forward). What’s that? What did he say?

Mrs. S. (gloating over her discomfiture). He said you wasn’t much of a cook, and, ef it warn’t for courtin’ Sairy Jane, he couldn’t stand it boardin’ here.

Mrs. H. (to Ezek.). So that’s the way you repay my kindness in taking you in, is it, you miserable villain? I’m mad enough to pull your hair—if you only had enough to pull.

Ezek. (glancing sideways at her). I shouldn’t dare to pull yours, marm, for fear ’twould come off in my hand.

Mrs. H. (advancing with a threatening air, and catching up the tongs as she goes). Get out of the house, you insultin’ creature, and never let me set eyes on you again!

(Ezekiel goes out as if in fear, R., slyly beckoning to Sarah Jane to go too. She nods and goes out by another door, R. Mrs. Hobbs throws Ezekiel’s pack after him.)

Mrs. H. (going toward Mrs. S. with tongs upraised). Now, old Skinflint, do you go too. You’ve made mischief enough here. I don’t blame the man for throwin’ your miserable pie away. I hope it wont pizen the fishes.

Mrs. S. (looking back as she goes out, R.). I guess you’ll find you’ve got enough to look after, without ’tendin’ to your neighbors’ business (pointing). There goes Sairy Jane with that peddler’s arm round her waist.

(Exit Mrs. Skinflint from one door, R., while Mrs. Hobbs dashes out from another, R. Curtain falls.)

MRS. GRUNDY’S TYRANNY. — CHARACTERS.

Frank. Hallo, Charlie. In the land of dreams? If so I won’t disturb you.

Charles (not answering immediately). Not exactly dreaming. There was too much reality about my thoughts for that. But sit down, Frank.

F. (sitting down). And what were you thinking about, if I am allowed to ask?

C. I was thinking what slaves we were to Fashion and Mrs. Grundy. I don’t know of one of my acquaintances who would have courage enough to do anything which would conflict with the usages of so-called good society.

F. Don’t include me in that category. I have too much independence to be subject to the dictation of others.

C. You think so, my dear fellow; but you don’t realize your own weakness.

F. On the contrary, I am confident of my strength, and am willing to wager you one hundred dollars against fifty that I will follow out any plan you may promise to test my courage.

C. I accept the stakes, and feel sure of winning them. Now what shall the plan be? Let me see. (Covers face with his hands for a moment—pauses.) I have it. Frank, you must tend a peanut and apple stand in the Park for one whole day.

F. (quickly). I am willing to do it.

C. (emphatically). Remember, you must tend it the whole day long, without absenting yourself for any cause, except to take an hour for dinner.

F. I agree to that; nay, I will go further, and will promise to dine at the stand.

C. When shall the trial take place?

F. As soon as possible, that you may know how well I shall succeed. Let to-morrow be the day.

C. Very well; but there is to be one condition about the matter. No one must suspect your reasons for doing this, as, in that case, there would be no test at all. If you even hint anything about it, you will lose the wager.

F. I agree to that.

C. Well, I’ll call round on you to-morrow, occasionally, to see how you make out in the new business.

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. O’Callahan (rising—with her knitting in her hand). Some peanuts, sir, or apples—nice apples three cents apiece?

Mrs. Murphy (wiping apples on apron). Here’s where you’ll find your nice apples—three cents apiece, and a good deal bigger than the other woman’s.

F. (approaching Mrs. M.’s stand). What will you sell your whole stock to me for, my good woman?

Mrs. M. (regarding him attentively). And what do the likes of you want of it?

F. I want to buy your stock, and tend this stand to-day.

Mrs. M. (doubtfully). Honor bright?

F. Yes. To-morrow you can have it back again, and I’ll give you the stock that’s left over.

Mrs. M. (shrewdly). What’ll you give for it?

F. I don’t know what it’s worth, but I’ll give you ten dollars for the lot.

Mrs. M. (quickly). You can have ’em all for that.

Mrs. O’C. That’s four times more’n they’re all worth.

Mrs. M. You’d better mind yer own business, O’Callahan. There comes a boy that wants an apple maybe. (Boy comes in, looks at apples and passes out.)

F. You’ll have to tell me how you sell the things. I don’t know anything about the prices.

Mrs. M. The apples are three cents apiece. Some of the peaches are three cents, and some two cents, and them bananas are ten cents apiece. If you sell a dozen of ’em at once, you’ll sell at a little less price.

F. That’ll do. I guess I shall get along well now.

Mrs. M. Shan’t I lend you my apron to shine the apples with?

F. No, I thank you; I guess they look well enough.

(Mrs. M. went out, L., going past Mrs. O’C.’s stand, and holding the bill which she had received exultingly towards her. James enters, L.)

James (to O’C.). How do you sell your apples?

Mrs. O’C. Three cents apiece.

J. (to F.). How do you sell yours?

F. Two cents apiece.

J. Well as yours are bigger and lower priced I’ll take four of them. (Takes them and pays for them and exit.)

(Several other persons pass in and buy of Frank, to all of whom he sells under price.)

Mrs. O’C. (coming towards him with threatening gestures). What do you mean by coming here, and interfering with a respectable woman?

F. I am not interfering with you.

Mrs. O’C. Aint you, though? I call it interferin’ with my rights when you come and sell your apples under price.

F. I’ll tell you what it is, my good woman, I’ve sold most of my apples, and I will buy some of yours.

Mrs. O’C. (somewhat mollified). And what’ll ye pay me for them?

F. Three cents apiece.

Mrs. O’C. (surprised). And you’re goin’ to sell ’em agin for two cents?

F. Yes, there’s nothing like keeping trade lively.

Mrs. O’C. Well, you’re the quairest man I ever did see.

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. Stockbridge. How do you do, my dear Mrs. Burley?

Mrs. Wheeler (to Mrs. B.) How do you do? I am delighted to see you looking so well.

Mrs. Burley. Thank you; I am well, and glad to see you both. Take seats, won’t you?

Mrs. S. (aside to Mrs. W.) She doesn’t know of it, I’m sure. (To Mrs. B.) Have you heard the news about Mr. Walters?

Mrs. B. (interested.) No. What is it?

Mrs. S. He is hopelessly insane.

Mrs. B. That is very sad. But what was the cause?

Mrs. S. Overwork, I believe. Is it not so, Mrs. Wheeler?

Mrs. W. That is the report, and it is said his wife doesn’t dare to be alone with him.

Mrs. S. I heard that, yesterday, he jumped from a window in the second story, and injured himself very much.

Mrs. B. How shocking!

Mrs. W. He said he intended to kill himself, and was sorry he didn’t.

Mrs. B. No wonder his wife feels timid. I dare say he will make another attempt at suicide.

Mrs. W. There’s no doubt of it. In fact he told his wife so.

Mrs. S. He has threatened her life too; several times I believe. (To Mrs. B. in significant tone.) By the way, Mrs. Burley, is your husband well?

Mrs. B. (startled). Certainly. But why do you ask?

Mrs. S. Oh, I merely inquired.

Mrs. B. But you had some motive in asking. What was it?

Mrs. S. Tell her, Mrs. Wheeler.

Mrs. W. Oh, it’s nothing I dare say. Still, some things look a little singular.

Mrs. B. (anxiously). Pray explain.

Mrs. S. Was your husband at home to dinner to-day?

Mrs. B. No, he said he should be too busy, and would dine down-town.

Mrs. S. He didn’t state the nature of his business, did he?

Mrs. B. No, but I supposed he was detained at the store. Do you know anything of it?

Mrs. S. Yes; he’s been tending an apple-stand all day to-day.

Mrs. B. (surprised). It cannot be. You are surely mistaken.

Mrs. S. Not at all. It has been the town talk.

Mrs. B. (meditatively). It is very strange.

Mrs. S. Insanity is not hereditary in your husband’s family, is it?

Mrs. B. Oh, no; and yet—let me see. Yes, I am sure he told me that his grandfather died insane. But Frank never could be in such a state. He has too strong a mind for that.

Mrs. S. Still, you can’t help thinking it is a little singular.

Mrs. B. Ye—es. But I cannot credit it. It seems impossible.

Mrs. W. Suppose you walk down to the Park and satisfy yourself.

Mrs. B. (eagerly). I will do so if you will go with me. I am too nervous to go alone.

Mrs. S. We are willing to accompany you. Is it not so, Mrs. Wheeler?

Mrs. W. Certainty. We could not desert you while you are in such trouble.

Mrs. B. (excitedly). I will get my bonnet at once. I will not detain you but a moment.

(Exit Mrs. B., R. Curtain falls.)

Mrs. S. Arc you satisfied that it is he?

Mrs. B. Yes, it is certainty Frank; but (perplexed) what can he be there for?

Mrs. S. Why don’t you ask him?

Mrs. B. I hardly know what to do.

Mrs. S. There are two gentlemen coming. Wait and see what they say.

(Enter Mr. Goodenow and Mr. Henderson. Mrs. B. beckons to policeman, and talks with him.)

Mr. Henderson. Hallo, Mr. Burley; haven’t you got into a new business?

Mr. B. Yes, I have (smiling).

Mr. H. (quizzically). How do you enjoy it?

Mr. B. Very much, of course, or I should not have entered into it.

Mr. H. Going to make a permanent business of it?

Mr. B. Can’t tell till I have tried it a week or two.

Mr. H. (amused). Burley, you play your part well, that’s a fact.

Mr. B. (in apparent surprise). Play my part well! What do you mean?

Mr. H. Well, this is what I’ve got to say: If you are not tending this stand you must be insane. (Turning to Mr. G.) Don’t you think so, Goodenow?

Mr. Goodenow. It looks like it, certainly. (Enter Mrs. G. and her friends, L.) Ah! here comes Mrs. Burley.

(Mr. G. and Mr. H. gaze at them with curiosity. Mr. B. looks apprehensively.)

Mrs. B. What are you doing, Frank?

Mr. B. Tending an apple-stand, my love.

Mrs. B. And pray what do you mean by disgracing your family in such a way?

F. I don’t see any disgrace about it. A dollar earned in this way is as good as one gained in Pearl street.

Mrs. O’C. (who has been listening interestedly). An’ it’s little enough money you’ll make out of this business. Sure an’ the sooner you give up yer stand the richer you’ll be.

James (to F.). Here you, I say give me two of them bananas. (Pays for them, and exit, eating.)

Mrs. B. (aside to ladies). Well, I can’t bear this any longer. Something must be done.

Mrs. W. What shall it be?

Mrs. S. One can see plainly enough he is insane.

Mrs. B. (turning to policeman). You can see that he is evidently insane.

Policeman. He does act strange, don’t he? A rich merchant like him, to tend an apple-stand! But what shall I do?

Mrs. B. I don’t know. This is probably the first stage of the disease. I’m afraid he may become violent.

P. Would you advise me to arrest him?

Mrs. B. (whose thoughts revert to Mr. Walters). I am so distressed I hardly know; but it seems as if he ought to be prevented from doing any mischief. Perhaps it would be better to do so. That would bring matters to a crisis, and we should know the worst.

(Policeman goes round and comes in at an entrance back of Mr. B. Before the latter realizes it, he is handcuffed. He starts up at once, indignant.)

Mr. B. What do you mean by insulting me in this manner? Take these irons off this instant. Do you hear?

Mrs. S. (to Mrs. B.). He is getting worse, you see.

P. I couldn’t do it, my man. You better come with me. (Takes him by the shoulder.)

Mr. B. Stop. First tell me what all this means.

P. Certainly. No gentleman in your position would think of leaving his business and tending an apple-stand if he was in his right mind. So I have put on these bracelets to prevent your doing any violence.

Mr. B. Ha, ha, ha! “So fades my dreams!” Goodenow, you must give me credit for sustaining my part of the agreement, as far as I alone am concerned. But circumstances have conspired against me. (Turning to his wife.) My friend and myself laid a wager that I had not sufficient courage to tend an apple-stand one whole day without giving any explanation thereof. In attempting to do this it seems I have laid myself under suspicion of being insane. I therefore abdicate in favor of Mrs. Bridget Murphy, trusting she may find the position a pleasant and more lucrative one than I have done. (He comes forward and Mrs. Murphy enters and takes his place.) Henceforth, like a dutiful subject, I will restrain all improper inclinations, and confess that, like my friends and neighbors, I, too, am a slave of Mrs. Grundy.

(Curtain falls.)

AUNT HANNAH’S VALENTINE. — DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Carrie (soliloquizing). So Mrs. Montgomery’s nephew is coming to-day. I hope he is agreeable. I wonder if he is engaged. It must be nice to marry a rich man, and live in the city, and go to balls, parties, and the theatre. I don’t understand why Mrs. Montgomery doesn’t feel so. She married a merchant, and can live in fine style in the city, but yet she prefers the country. And to-day her nephew is coming here. He thinks people on a farm are countrified, but I guess we can show him they are not all so. I’ve a good mind to flirt with him a little, by way of variety. I don’t believe it would be very difficult to captivate him. Perhaps, I can teach him a lesson. (Enter Herbert, L., with a rake in his hand.) Ah, Herbert—just going to work?

Herbert. Yes. Won’t you go, too?

Car. What inducement have you to offer?

H. A ride home on the hay after it is put into the wagon.

Car. That might be sufficient sometimes, but not now, for I must hurry home. Do you know, Herbert, we are to have a new-comer at our house, this afternoon?

H. No. Who is it?

Car. Mrs. Montgomery’s nephew. Adolphus Fitz-William is his name, I believe. His aunt says he has never been in the country at all, and he thinks farmers’ families are countrified to the last degree. She has his picture, and it looks very foppish.

H. And he is coming to-day, is he?

Car. Yes; he’s expected in the first afternoon train, and it’s about time for that to be here. (Hears a step, and turns toward L.) I guess that’s he now. I must go. (She hurries out, R.)

(Adolphus enters, L. He wears eye-glasses, and carries a cane; speaks affectedly.)

Adolphus. Can you tell me, aw, where Fawmer Leland lives, Jawnathan?

H. (leaning carelessly on rake—aside). I think I’ll humor him. (Aloud.) Wal, there now, who’d ’a’ thought you’d known what my name was? Who told yer?

A. (disdainfully). You’re vewy familiah. Do you know where Fawmer Leland lives?

H. (eagerly). You aint come to court his daughter, be ye?

A. Ah, has he a daughter?

H. He has that, an’ a pooty one, too. Rosy cheeks an’ bright eyes she’s got. I tell ye, she’s harnsome. I think some o’ sparkin’ her myself.

A. (contemptuously). You, aw! Impossible! She wouldn’t look at such a fellaw.

H. You dunno. Love goes whar it’s sent, an’ mebbe it’ll be sent to me.

A. But, aw, you haven’t answered my question. Can you tell me, aw, where Fawmer Leland lives?

H. Oh, yes, I remember. But, ’say, did yer come from the city to-day?

A. No, aw didn’t.

H. Is that so? I swar, I thought yer did—yer look so ’mazin’ spruce. How long be yer goin’ to stay, now?

A. No mattaw.

H. Sho, now, don’t go ter gittin’ mad over it.

A. (angrily). Will you tell me, aw, where Fawmer Leland lives or will you not, aw?

H. In course I will; but you needn’t git so mighty mad. Ye haint asked me yit.

A. (emphatically). I’ve asked you fower sevewal times.

H. It’s no sich a thing. Ye asked me if I could tell yer where he lived and ef I knowed where he lived. In course I couldn’t arnser a question ’fore ’twas put. I was eddicated to be perlite even ter my inferiors. When yer ask the question, I’ll arnser it.

A. (in a loud voice). You impertinent fellaw, where does Fawmer Leland live?

H. Don’t go to puttin’ on airs, now. D’ye see them chimblys over there? (pointing R.).

A. Yes, aw do.

H. Well, then, make a bee-line for ’em. Them’s the chimblys to Farmer Leland’s house. (Exit A., R. H., solus.) If he’d been a civil feller, I’d ’a’ shown him the path. Now he’ll have to climb four rickety stone walls, and I dunno as how he can do it safely with them tight breeches on. But I must go to work. Tempus fuggit, as the schoolmaster says.

(Exit, L., with rake on his shoulder. Curtain falls.)

Aunt Hannah (in a complaining tone). Well, I declare, haint you begun your baking yet, Car’line? It’s nigh onto noon, and you won’t get dinner ready in season.

Car. Well, you know I can’t make my pies till the apples are ready. You’ll have to talk to Caleb. I’ve been trying to hurry him.

A. H. (to Cal., severely). I should be ashamed, if I was a boy, to be so long peeling a few apples.

Cal. Oh, what’s the use in hurrying? There’s plenty of time.

A. H. (testily). In my young days things didn’t go on so. Good house-keepers got their bakin’ done by eight o’clock in the morning. They didn’t spend all day in the kitchen, as they do now.

Car. Don’t be troubled, Aunt Hannah; everything will be finished early, and dinner on the table at the usual time.

A. H. Well, I hope ’twill, but things don’t look much like it now.

(Exit A. H., L.)

Cal. Aunt Hannah is never happy except when she’s finding fault with somebody. She’s gone off mad, and I’m glad of it. I hope she’ll stay away.

(Enter Adolphus, L.)

Adolphus. I’ve been looking for you, Miss Carwy. Will you, aw, go out and walk with me this morning?

Car. I don’t think I could. Mother is away, you know, and I have all the housework to do.

A. Couldn’t I, aw, assist you, so you could go?

Car. I think not. I’m afraid there’s none of my work that you could do.

Cal. (shaking his head in a significant way). You jest make me that offer, Mr. Fitz. I’ll warrant you I won’t refuse. I know you’ll be able to do my work. And I can show you round a great deal better than Carrie can.

(A. deigns no reply to Cal., but gazes earnestly at Car.)

Car. I declare, I’m afraid my bread is burning. I nearly forgot it. (Goes out, R.)

Cal. Heigho! I don’t feel like peeling apples. I guess I’ll see what girl loves me best. (Lifts the entire skin of an apple, which he has taken off in one long strip, and swings it slowly three times round his head, then drops it on the floor behind him. He stoops and examines it eagerly, then claps his hands.) Sure’s the world, that’s an L, an’ stands for Lizy Blake. I was most sure ’twould be so. That sign always comes true.

A. (who had been looking on with interest). What are you doing, aw, Caleb?

Cal. I’ve been finding out who was my true love. Want to try your hand at it?

A. (glancing round to see that no one else is present). Well, aw, I might try.

Cal. That one’s broken, but I’ll soon make you another. (Takes an apple, peels it, and passes the skin to A. The latter swings it very awkwardly round his head, staggering as he endeavors to do so without breaking it. At last he drops it on the floor behind him.)

Cal. I declare, Mr. Fitz, you’re about as graceful as a cow.

A. (unheeding his remark, and examining the skin, which lay curled up on the floor). That’s a C, aw, plain enough.

Cal. (looking at it closely). It’s an exact H. Who can that stand for? Oh, I know. It must be that you’re going to marry Aunt Hannah.

A. What do you mean, aw, by such a fawlshood? (Attempts to strike Cal. with his cane, but Cal. leaps behind a chair, which he lifts, and uses as a protection. Enter Car.)

Car. Why, what’s the matter?

Cal. Nothing, only Mr. Fitz has been telling me who his sweetheart is, and he don’t like it ’cause I won’t promise not to tell anybody.

Car. You’d better go out in the kitchen, and finish your work. I’m in a hurry for the apples.

(Exit, Cal., R. Car. sits down, C.)

A. You must be tired, aw, with your labors.

Car. Oh no, indeed; but I am waiting for that lazy Caleb to finish the apples, so I can be making my pies.

A. (deliberately spreading his handkerchief upon the floor before her, and kneeling upon it). Miss Leland—Carwy, I have long sought, aw, this opportunity to confess, aw, my love for you. Do not deny me, aw, and doom me to dwead despair.

(A sound of approaching footsteps is heard.)

Car. (hurriedly). Mr. Fitz-William, rise, I beseech you.

A. Not until you give me a favorable answer to my suit.

Car. I cannot—I—(Enter Cal., R. A. rises.)

Cal. (laughs quite loud). Ha! ha! ha! (Enter Mrs. Montgomery and Aunt Hannah, L.)

Mrs. Montgomery. What can be the matter?

A. H. What’s all this noise about? Anybody’d think the house was afire, to hear such a racket.

A. It’s that impertinent young wascal, aw, who’s been scweaming like a locomotive whistle.

Cal. Who wouldn’t ’a’ laughed, if they’d come in, as I did, and seen Mr. Fitz-William on his knees asking Carrie to marry him?

Mrs. M. Why, Adolphus, I thought you were engaged to Helen Lindsay, who lives in the city.

Cal. And ’twarn’t more’n ten minutes ago that he spoke about marryin’ Aunt Hannah. (The spinster smiles benignantly.)

A. I did not, aw. I’d sooner marwy Beelzebub’s daughtaw than such a she-dwagon.

A. H. (seizing a broom and chasing him around the stage.) You would, would ye? Then, you just git out o’ this house. You shan’t stay in it a minute longer.

Cal. (waving his hand). That’s it, Aunt Hannah. Pitch into him lively. Go ahead, an’ I’ll help yer.

(Exit A., L., followed by A. H. and Caleb.)

(Curtain falls.)

A. H. (going to Mrs. L.). Is this stockin’ goin’ to be large enough for Calup?

Mrs. Leland (examining stocking). I guess so. It is larger than the last pair.

Cal. Aunt Hannah thinks my understanding is increasing pretty fast.

A. H. (bluntly). It’s a pity ’taint your politeness instid o’ your feet that’s agrowin’.

Mrs. L. (looking up). Take another chair, Caleb, and let your aunt have the rocking-chair.

Cal. (rising and taking another chair). Of course—age before good looks.

A. H. (sinking down into rocking-chair). In my day, children warn’t allowed to make fun of their relations.

Mrs. L. Caleb doesn’t mean anything, Aunt Hannah, but he ought not to speak so.

A. H. (severely). P’r’aps he don’t. This aint the fust time he’s been sassy to me.

Cal. Well, why can’t you be jolly, like other folks? I have to make fun so’s to make up for your lookin’ an’ talkin’ so dismal.

A. H. (sighing). Well, I shan’t always be here to trouble you with my looks. When I’m gone, maybe you’ll wish you hadn’t laughed at me as you have. (Bell rings.)

Cal. (eagerly). There’s the door-bell. Shall I go, mother?

Mrs. L. Yes, for I must go upstairs to get some pieces to mend this coat with.

(Exit, R.)

(Cal. goes out, L., and immediately returns with a letter. He pretends to be studying the address.)

Cal. M-m-iss Lel-land.

A. H. Calup, that letter’s for me. Give it to me this minute.

Cal. (holding it behind him). It aint a letter; it’s a valentine. It’s got all sorts of pretty figures on the envelope. Promise, Aunt Hannah, that you’ll let me see the inside of it, and I’ll give it to you right off.

A. H. (rising, and laying knitting on the table). I shan’t make any promises. Give me that letter, Calup. (Cal. runs round stage with letter. His aunt, running after him, tries in vain to catch him.)

Mrs. L. (from outside). Ca-leb! Ca-leb!

Cal. (darting across the room in a tantalizing way, lays letter on the table). By the time you get it read, Aunt Hannah, I’ll be back all ready to see it.

(Exit, R.)

A. H. (takes letter eagerly, and sits down, L. C.). It is a valentine, as sure as I’m alive. Who could have sent it? (Reads.)

A. H. (laying valentine on table, sits back in chair, clasps her hands together, rocking, and apparently meditating). Well, there’s a perspective proposal, and I’m sure it couldn’t come from anybody but Obadiah Rakestraw. His mother’s just died, and he used to go to singing school with me when I was a girl (complacently), and he’ll be here to-night. I guess I’ll go and fix up a little, as long as he’s sent me word he’s coming.

(Exit A. H., R. Enter Carrie by same door.)

Car. (soliloquizing). Oh, dear, how unhappy I am! it is six months since Herbert went away, and I know it was because he thought I liked that popinjay Adolphus. Of course, he doesn’t know that it was nothing but a flirtation, and that I couldn’t endure the sight of Adolphus afterwards. I didn’t think Herbert would have gone off so suddenly, without even writing me a note to say he was going. Six months ago, and I’ve been so miserable all this weary time! (Suddenly sees the letter.) What’s this, a valentine, addressed to Miss Leland? Why, that’s my name, and, of course, I have a right to read it. (Opens it, and notices contents.) Yes, it was intended for me, and is in Herbert’s handwriting (joyfully), and he is to be here this evening! But how came it opened? (With sudden thought.) It must be that Aunt Hannah has opened and read it, thinking it was intended for her. I guess I’ll place the letter where I found it (lays it down), and leave the room till the time comes for Herbert to arrive.

(Exit Carrie, L., and enter Caleb, R.)

Cal. Well, that’s pretty treatment, for Aunt Hannah to go off when I told her partic’larly I was coming right back; and most likely she has carried the valentine with her. (Looking round, his gaze falls on the letter.) No, she hasn’t, either. By George! she was quite good, for her. (Takes letter, which he opens and reads. Looks up with ludicrous expression.) So Aunt Hannah has really got a beau! Who can he be? I guess he don’t know her as well as some folks do. Let’s see (Consulting the letter.) He’s coming here to-night to ask her that question. It’ll be worth a great deal to see anybody making love to Aunt Hannah. How can I manage to be round to see how it’s done? (Looks around.) Oh, this is just the thing. (Goes behind a curtain, which he draws, thereby concealing himself. A. H., dressed in black silk and wearing a gay headdress, enters, R.)

A. H. (taking letter, which she puts in her pocket). Well, there, I was rather ventur’som in leaving this valentine on the table. It’s a wonder that Calup didn’t come in an’ get hold of it. If he had, I’d never have heard the last of it. (A knock at the door, L. A. H. opens it, and ushers in Obadiah Rakestraw.)

A. H. Good evening, Mr. Rakestraw.

Obadiah Rakestraw. Good-evening, Miss Leland. So you’re all alone this evening. (They sit down with their backs to Caleb’s place of concealment.)

A. H. Yes, I happen to be just now, but I suppose the rest of the folks will be in soon. (Aside.) I wonder if he won’t take the hint.

Cal. (aside.) Oh, my! aint she sly?

O. R. I thought I’d just come in and make a neighborly call this evening.

A. H. Just so. I’m glad the spirit took ye. It be kind o’ lonesome for you at home.

O. R. Wall, ’tis so sometimes.

A. H. Ye ought to get married.

O. R. I’m afraid nobody’d have me.

A. H. Oh, you’re too shy. There’s nothin’ like tryin’. To-night is St. Valentine’s, and there aint no time like the present. All ye’ve got to do is jest ask the question. I’ll warrant you’ll get a favorable answer.

Cal. (aside). Don’t she drive business?

O. R. Wall, I’ve a good mind to take your advice. As you say, ’tis kind o’ lonesome, an’ I can’t more’n get refused (rising); so I’ll jest go over an’ ask Hitty Trumbull if she’ll marry me.

A. H. (indignantly, rising). Mehitable Trumbull! You don’t mean you’re going to offer yourself to her.

O. R. That’s jest what I mean.

A. H. Well, it’s downright dishonorable treatment, after the letter you sent me to-day.

O. R. (surprised). I haven’t sent you any letter.

A. H. (taking it from pocket). Didn’t you write that valentine?

O. R. (glancing over it). I never saw it before; and, between you and me, I don’t think it was intended for you.

A. H. Do you mean to insult me by saying I open other folks’ letters?

O. R. Not exactly, but I think this was written to your niece. It aint the kind o’ valentine one would be likely to send to a person of your age.

A. H. (in a high tone). You mean to twit me about my age, do you? I’ll just let you know that I’m six years younger than Mehitable Trumbull. But I won’t listen to any more of your insultin’ remarks; so just leave this house, or I’ll call somebody to help you.

O. R. It’s lucky I didn’t offer to marry you, as you asked me to. I see your temper hasn’t improved any since we used to go to singing-school together.

(Exit O. R., L. A. H., almost frantic, paces back and forth.)

A. H. The villain! to treat me so. But it’s lucky none of the folks know anything about it. I must change my dress before any of them come in.

(Exit A. H., R.)

Cal. (coming forward). Wasn’t that rich? To think of Aunt Hannah, who “wouldn’t marry the best man living,” offering herself, and then, after all, that her love should be refused. (Voices outside.) But who’s that? Perhaps, she’s coming back again. She mustn’t find me here. (Hides behind the curtain. Enter Herbert and Carrie, talking earnestly.)

Car. It was only by accident that I happened to see your letter at all. Aunt Hannah received and read it, and thought it was sent to her.

H. Who could she have supposed sent it?

Car. I don’t know, I’m sure.

Cal. (peeping out, aside). I know all about it.

H. But you haven’t answered the question it contained.

Car. (demurely). Did it contain one? I thought the note said you intended to ask a question; but, as you didn’t do so, I supposed you’d changed your mind.

H. You needn’t pretend ignorance. I can’t propose with the same grace that Adolphus did, but you can’t help knowing that I meant to ask you to marry me. (Taking her hand.) Will you be my wife, Carrie?

Car. (archly). I suppose it wouldn’t do to say anything but “Yes,” especially as, if I refuse, I couldn’t return your letter, since Aunt Hannah has taken possession of it.

H. I shouldn’t be satisfied with any other answer. Now, let’s go and tell your mother about it, and then we’ll set the wedding day.

(Exeunt, arm in arm.)

Cal. (coming forward). Well that was a little addition I didn’t expect. I’ve always wondered how folks popped the question, but I’ve found out all about it, and now I can do it like a book. I guess I’ll go down and see ’Lizy Blake before I forget how it’s done. If she says “Yes” we’ll have a loaf of wedding-cake as big as our new school-house. (With sudden thought) I don’t know though, but I ought to write a valentine, and send to her, first, to let her know I’m coming. That’s the way Herbert did. But then, just as likely as not, her aunt Lizy’d get it, thinking ’twas for her. She’s cross-eyed, an’ wears false hair an’ store teeth, an’ I couldn’t have her on my hands. No, I guess I’ll go right down, an’ do my sparkin’ in good style, an’ wind up by askin’ ’Lizy if I shan’t be her Valentine.

(Exit L. Curtain falls.)

MR. BLISS’ VISION. — CHARACTERS.

Mr. Bliss (soliloquizing). Sixty years old to-day! Well, well, how time passes! It seems but yesterday since I was a lad, going to school, and making love to the girls, instead of studying the lessons which Master Winthrop gave out. It seems strange how persons change as they grow older. Then, I was a favorite with the girls, and always escorted one or more to every party, husking, or apple-bee. Now, when called upon to entertain a marriageable person of the other sex, I’m thrown into a decided flutter. It’s ridiculous for one of my age and experience, but still it is a lamentable fact. There was Minnie Warren, a blue-eyed little fairy to whom I got very much attached; in tact, we were engaged. I believe if she hadn’t left Cherryville as she did, I should have finally married her. I was indignant enough when I heard that her father had bought the Union Mills, and the family were going to leave town. She finally married, I heard, and made some man happy. (A pause.) Well, some say every one has their share of good and ill fortune; but the fact is, I believe that some are fated to be happy, and some to be miserable in this world.

Dick (entering, L.). Hallo, uncle; have you got the blues? What right have you to talk about being miserable—you, who have everything that wealth can procure to make you happy?

Mr. B. I know I have everything comfortable here, but the fact is, Dick, I’m lonely in this great house. You, who pass most of your time in a store, with people constantly coming and going, take pleasure in spending a week or two in a quiet place, and among new scenes; but there’s no novelty in it to me, who have lived here for twenty years with no one in the house but servants.

D. It must be rather lonesome to live here all the time (glancing furtively at his companion). I expect you’ll be marrying one of these days, uncle.

Mr. B. I might have done so once, but it’s too late now. I’ve got settled down in my bachelor ways, and cannot depart from them.

D. (mischievously). You may be forced to depart from them, uncle.

Mr. B. (alarmed). What do you mean, Dick?

D. You remember the widow Payne, that we have met several times lately?

Mr. B. (interested). Yes. What of her?

D. She has been heard to express a very favorable opinion of you.

Mr. B. That amounts to nothing.

D. But you know that this is leap year, when ladies are privileged to propose.

Mr. B. (startled). But you don’t think she would do such a thing?

D. (solemnly). It is impossible to say. She is a widow, and you know the race of men has been warned, by an astute observer of human nature, to beware of that class of humanity. If she has any sympathy with the “Woman’s Rights” movement, I’m afraid you’re fated, uncle.

Mr. B. I couldn’t stand that. But what shall I do, Dick? Leave town?

D. There wouldn’t be any use in that, unless you staid away the remainder of the year.

Mr. B. (nervously). I couldn’t do that.

D. Then be courageous and bear it like a man. Of course you’d refuse the honor (questioningly)?

Mr. B. Of course I should. I wouldn’t accept under any consideration.

D. Then that’s all settled. But if you should get into any kind of a scrape, just let me know, and I’ll get you out of it—trust me, uncle.

Mr. B. Well, I think I will. No doubt you know more about those things than I do.

D. (smiling). I dare say I do.

Mr. B. (rising). Well, I must go and take my morning walk. Will you go too?

D. (rising). Yes; where shall we go?

Mr. B. We might as well go and call on the widow, and take a survey of the situation, as I don’t mean to be entrapped by any of her wiles.

D. (sharply scrutinizing Mr. B.—aside). I must look out for this uncle of mine. He may himself propose to the widow, instead of her proposing to him, and that would be death to my prospects. I must look out and not lose the property. (Takes out a couple of cigars, which he offers to his uncle.—Aloud.) Have a cigar, uncle?

Mr. B.—Thank you, I don’t care if I do. (Takes one.)

(Exeunt, L. Curtain falls.)

Mr. B. Good-evening, Mrs. Payne. I am very happy to see you. (Leads her to a seat.) Lay aside your bonnet and shawl, won’t you?

Mrs. Payne. No, I thank you. I cannot stop long. I only came in to make a call.

Mr. B. I am afraid this smoke is offensive to you.

Mrs. P. Oh, not at all. I enjoy the fragrance of a good cigar.

(Mr. B. lays down his cigar.)

Mrs. P. It is quite cool out, this evening.

Mr. B. Yes—no—that is, it may be—but I haven’t been out this evening.

Mrs. P. I haven’t seen you at our house for several days.

Mr. B. (nervously). No—I—have been very busy and couldn’t come, but have thought of you, and meant to come.

Mrs. P. So you have thought of me. I am glad of that. I have thought of you, also.

Mr. B. (startled). Ah! Th—thank you, but—

Mrs. P. (interrupting). I dare say you couldn’t guess my errand to-night.

Mr. B. (nervously). Oh—no, of course not.

Mrs. P. I have long loved you, and have felt certain that I was not disagreeable to you—and, knowing your timidity, I have availed myself of the privileges of Leap Year to come and offer myself to you. (Rises and throws her arms around his neck.) Hiram, I love you,—do you reciprocate my affection?

Mr. B. (almost overpowered, and looking around, nervously). I—I—must take time to think of it—it is so sudden.

Mrs. P. It may be sudden—and yet why delay our happiness? (Her head droops on his shoulder.)

Mr. B. I—I need time to consider (a sound of approaching footsteps is heard)—I—I must go—let me go. I have an engagement at nine.

Mrs. P. Then give your consent to our marriage.

Mr. B. (struggling frantically to free himself). I cannot—I—(a sound is heard as of a person at the door). Let me go—let me go—(in an imploring tone) quick—somebody’s coming.

Mrs. P. Say yes, then, dearest Hiram.

Mr. B. (in an agony of fear). Yes, yes—anything, if you will only leave me. (Mrs. P. imprints an audible kiss upon his forehead and turns to leave the room. Apparently by mistake she grasps the bell-knob and pulls it vigorously. She goes out by one door, L., as servant enters by another, R.)

Servant. Did you ring, sir?

Mr. B. Ring? N—no. I don’t wish for anything.

S. That’s strange. The bell rang distinctly, and so loud that I thought you was in a hurry.

Mr. B. Well, it’s of no consequence. I don’t need anything.

(Exit Servant, R.)

Mr. B. (pacing the room and soliloquizing). What have I done? Engaged myself to this widow, notwithstanding all my resolutions to the contrary. But something must be done about it. What shall it be? I might leave town—but that would be cowardly. Besides, I shouldn’t want to shut up the house. I might write, saying I had changed my mind; but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be just the thing. (Paces back and forth a few moments without speaking.) The fact is, I shall be obliged to marry the widow. There seems to be no other way left me, after giving my promise to her. But I won’t say a word to Dick about it. (A pause.) After all, I might do a worse thing. She would be a credit to my establishment, and the presence of a woman would brighten up the house. I guess I must go there in the morning and talk the matter over.

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. P. Good-morning, Mr. Bliss.

Mr. B. Good-morning, and a charming morning it is. I came, Mrs. Payne, to speak further on the matter we were talking of last evening.

Mrs. P. Last evening? You mean a week ago.

Mr. B. No, I mean last evening.

Mrs. P. But you were not here last evening.

Mr. B. (perplexed). Certainly not; but you called on me.

Mrs. P. What do you mean, Mr. Bliss?

Mr. B. (smiling). I mean that you made a leap-year call on me last evening, and offered me your heart and hand, which I accepted.

Mrs. P. (casting down her eyes). I am sorry to dispute you, but I had a severe headache last evening, and did not leave the house.

Mr. B. (in a disappointed tone). Is that so? But certainly some one bearing your semblance called on me last evening. (A pause.) It must have been one of Dick’s harum-scarum tricks.

Mrs. P. No doubt it was. He is full of mischief.

Mr. B. Mrs. Payne—

Mrs. P. (smiling). Well, Mr. Bliss.

Mr. B. (fidgeting nervously). Couldn’t we make my vision of last evening a reality?

Mrs. P. Possibly we might, if you desired it very much. But I’m afraid you haven’t counted the cost. You have been a bachelor so long, that you might soon tire of a wife, and consider her an intruder.

Mr. B. I am satisfied it would not be so. Besides it seems as if I had known you before; where can I have met you?

Mrs. P. Why, don’t you remember? I knew you at once—I was formerly Minnie Warren.

Mr. B. Then I claim you by right of an engagement made between us forty-six years ago—when you were twelve and I was fourteen. Have you forgotten it?

Mrs. P. Oh, no, I remember it perfectly well; and how I cried when we left town because you could not go too.

Mr. B. (drawing his chair nearer and placing his arm around her). There is a good deal of change in the age and size of your lover as he was and as he is. Are you not afraid of repenting if you should marry him?

Mrs. P. (archly). Oh, no. It is a good trade to exchange a little Payne for a greater bliss. I am satisfied as far as I am concerned.

Dick (entering, L.). Hallo! What’s all this? I’m afraid I’m intruding. (Looks anxiously at his companions.)

Mr. B. Not at all. Allow me to present you to your future aunt.

Dick (bowing low—aside). There’s my inheritance gone to the dogs, and by my own act. (Aloud to uncle.) This is something new, isn’t it? How did it all come about?

Mr. B. (significantly). I had a leap-year vision last evening, and have concluded, this morning, to make it a reality.

(Curtain falls.)

HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS. — DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Katy. It is my private opinion that this blue dress is the purtiest of the lot, an’ as long as Miss Evelyn won’t wear it, there’s no reason why Katy Maguire shouldn’t. It won’t be long before it’ll be out of fashion; an’ it might as well be doin’ a little good to somebody, first.

(She takes out from jewel-case several sets of jewelry, and fastens them in conspicuous places on the waist of the dress. She puts all the bracelets she can find on her wrists, and places around her neck a gold chain, and also a string of cornelian beads. Taking a richly-embroidered handkerchief in her hand, she gazes complacently at herself in the mirror.)

K. There, Katy Maguire (courtesying to the image reflected), you look like a lady born and bred. If your mistress should see you now, she wouldn’t need to ask if you was an experienced dressing-maid. There aint many that shows such fine taste in dressin’, or has enough jewelry to set off the dress with. What an ilegant trail it has, sure! (glancing complacently back at the dress, and taking two or three steps forward to see the effect. Enter Mary, R.)

Mary (starting back in surprise). Well, Katy, who ever’d ha’ thought of this being you? What are you rigged up in Miss Evelyn’s finery for?

K. (loftily). I am Miss Maguire, now, and I expect you’ll treat me like a lady, as I am. I shall give a reception this evenin’ in the drawin’-room, an’ when you go downstairs, you can invite Miss Flaherty, Miss Maglone, an’ Mister Dunn to be present. An’ if Miss Flaherty thinks best, she might send in to the next house, an’ invite our friends there to come in.

M. What do you suppose Miss Evelyn will say?

K. (sarcastically). If you feel anxious to know ye might ask her when she gets home. The entertainment’ll be over before that time. But yer better be goin’ down now to deliver the invitation, as it’s gitting late (walks along a few steps, swinging her dress).

M. (with a look of hatred which changes to a malicious smile) I’ll be after goin’, thin, Miss Maguire. (With a mocking bow she leaves the room, R.)

K. It’s aisy to see that Mary is jealous of my good looks. But I pity the poor crathur, for she’s as homely as a sick duck. I must go downstairs now. It’s most time for James to be home from drivin’ Miss Evelyn to the party. He’s a nice lad, an’ I’ll be much surprised if he aint took wid my charms.

(Exit, R.)

(Curtain falls.)

M. (excitedly). Well, I never seen sich doin’s before! (All come forward expectantly.)

Bridget. An’ what is it, Mary?

Patrick (eagerly). What’s the row upstairs? Anybody kilt?

M. Katy’s been up to Miss Evelyn’s chamber an’ rigged up in her clothes, an’ she says she’s goin’ to give a grand party in the drawin’-room this avenin’, an’ invites all to be prisint.

James (rubbing his hands). Ah! Katy’s a jew’l.

Ann. Av course we’ll all accept the invitation.

M. She says if ye thought best, he might sind in to the next house an’ invite the frinds there.

B. Sure an’ we do think best. Pat., jist run over to Mr. Bradley’s an’ ask the cook an’ all the rest to come over here an’ pass the avenin’. We’re going to have a grand party here. Tell ’em to come right away.

P. I’ll bring ’em all in, in five minutes.

(Exit L., swinging his hat.)

M. An’ what d’ye think Miss Evelyn will say?

B. Arrah now, Miss Evelyn will niver know anything about it. We’ll be all through with the party before she comes home.

A. Indade an’ ye may trust Katy to get through’t safely. She’s lived with the quality before now, an’ knows how things is done. She’s shrewd, Katy is.

J. That’s thrue for you. An’ how can Miss Evelyn come home till I go after her? She tould me to have the carriage there at half-past twelve o’clock, an’ it isn’t ulleven yit.

A. I’m thinkin’ we ought to have a trate before the party is over.

B. Av coorse we must have some refrishments.

J. I ixpect you ladies can manage that.

A. We’ve got plinty o’ presarves and cake an’ wine. But we’ll want some ice-crame.

J. I’ll furnish that same. I’ll sind Pat. for it whin he comes back.

B. Thin we’ll go upstairs now.

A. The rest of yez go, an’ I’ll lay the table all ready for the trate. It won’t be long before I’ll be wid yez.

(Exit all but Ann. Curtain falls.)

J. This must be a very select party, when Miss Maguire didn’t invite more persons to be prisint.

B. Sure we don’t know how many invitations she has sint out. Fashionable people don’t come very airly. We’ll have more byme-by. (Bell rings.) They’re beginnin’ to arrive now.

K. Misther Dunn ye’ll oblige me by goin’ to the door, if ye plaze.

(James goes out, and soon returns L., with Corny Reilly, Ellen Sweeny and Julia Griffin. He conducts them to Katy.)

J. Miss Maguire, this is Miss Sweeny, Miss Griffin, and Misther Reilly.

Corny (bowing with many flourishes). My respects to yez, Miss Maguire. (The other two visitors bow, and Katy returns the salutations of all.)

J. Miss Maguire, won’t ye favor us with a little illegant music?

M. It’s little enough of that kind ye’ll get.

K. If ye’ll esquort me to the pianner, I’ll play pervidin’ yez will all sing.

A. (who has just entered). Av coorse we will.

M. I aint a-goin’ to sing anyway.

K. (sarcastically). Yer vice won’t be missed, Miss Finnegan.

J. Allow me to lade yez to the pianner.

(Katy takes his arm and goes to the piano, L. C., where she seats herself.)

K. (turning around). What can ye sing, ladies?

J. You choose the song for us.

K. Well, thin, it’s a midley I’ll play, an’ then ye can sing what ye plaze.

(She commences drumming on the piano, and her companions, grouped around her, sing, each one a different piece, a short one. Enter Pat., R., who dances round the stage till the close of the singing.)

P. (going to Katy and speaking in a low tone, but loud enough for all to hear). Say, Katy, I’ve been down-town, an’ got some ice-crame. It’s downstairs now. We’re going to have a big trate byme-by.

K. (smiling graciously). Is that so, Pat.?

P. Yis, an’ the things on the table looked so timptin’ that I stopped an’ refreshed mesilf wid a little cake an’ wine. (Begins to sing some Irish air.)

J. Look here, Pat.; what did ye meddle with that wine for? Ye spalpeen, I b’lave ye’re dhrunk.

P. (slyly). Sure, that’s where ye’re wrong, Misther Dunn. I jist took a wee dthrop to keep my sperits up. (Begins to dance.)

J. It’s more like ye’ve put all the sperits down yer throat, yer thafe of the world!

P. Owin’ to my partic’lar good nature, I shan’t notice that little insinivation o’ yours. But say, now, let’s have a dance. If you aint goin’ ter play, Katy, jest be my partner, will yer?

J. Miss Maguire’s engaged ter me.

K. Yis, I’m engaged to Misther Dunn.

P. Whew! That’s the way the wind blows, thin. Well dunn, Jimmy! (All laugh.)

J. (pushing Pat.). Jist be a little more respectful to your betters, ye blackguard! (Turning to Katy politely) Will you allow me, Miss Maguire? (Offers his arm, which Katy takes, and they take their places for the dance.)

P. Say now, who’s goin’ to fiddle for us? Or is we goin’ ter dance widout any music?

C. Miss Sweeny plays on the pianner at our house.

K. Then perhaps Miss Sweeny will do us the favor ter play for us.

(In imitation of James’ example, Pat. immediately rushes up to Ellen, saying with many flourishes:)

P. Allow me, Miss Sweeny. (She takes his arm and goes to piano and seats herself.)

(Pat. goes to Mary, and offers his arm for the dance, but she turns disdainfully from him, and goes out with a lofty air. Pat. then goes to Julia, who accepts him as a partner. Corney, at the same time, takes Bridget and Ann (one on either arm), and all have taken their places. At the sound of the piano, they break into an Irish jig of the wildest sort. Pat. cuts up the maddest capers. A bell rings outside, but in the uproar it is unheard by the dancers. A moment later, Miss Evelyn appears at the door, L. She stands for a moment, dumfounded at the scene before her. At first she is not seen by any of the company, but Ellen, happening to look up, beholds her and clasps her hands in alarm. The dancers, not hearing the sound of the piano, look toward it to discover the cause. They observe the dismay pictured in Ellen’s face, and, following the direction of her eyes, they behold Miss Evelyn. They stand with startled faces.)

Miss Evelyn (sternly). What does all this mean?

M. (triumphantly). It’s all Katy’s doin’s, miss.

K. (Darting a withering glance at the speaker, and then turning to Miss E.). We were only indulgin’ in a little innocent amusement, ma’am. I hope you’re not offended.

Miss E. But who gave you leave to deck yourself in this manner?

K. Sure I was only airin’ the dress, ma’am, as it had hung so long in the closet.

Miss E. Well, I don’t approve of any such airs. Leave the room, every one of you! The idea of my drawing-room being the scene of a servants’ party! You will all receive your discharge to-morrow morning.

(The servants leave the room, R., looking crestfallen enough—all but Katy, who sweeps out of the room with a lofty air, determined to keep up her character to the last.)

P. (aside to Ann, who goes out last). An’ aint we goin’ to have our trate then?

A. (aside). Whist! Yis. Say nothin’. We’re goin’ to have it right away. Miss Evelyn never comes down below at this time o’ night.

(Exeunt.)

Miss E. (seating herself C. in disgust). Was there ever any annoyance equal to that of keeping servants? Mine are a constant source of trouble. I have threatened to discharge them all to-morrow morning. But what shall I gain by it? I shall have another set who will perhaps try my patience even more than these have done. Servants understand their importance, and realize their power over their employers. It is becoming a species of tyranny. If I could only do without them I most assuredly would do so. (A shout of laughter is heard in the distance. Miss E. stands up.) What! haven’t they done yet? Probably they are gormandizing, downstairs, at my expense. (To the audience—a little sarcastically:) I have heard some persons wish for wealth, so that they could afford to keep servants to wait on them. They do not realize the emptiness of their desires. A person who has few wants, and can minister to them himself, is more independent than the wealthiest person living. Those who keep a multitude of servants are dependent on their whims, and should not be surprised at frequent outbursts of High Life Below Stairs.

(Curtain falls.)

BOARDING ON A FARM. — CHARACTERS.

Mrs. Montgomery. Mr. Montgomery.

Mr. Montgomery. Well, my dear.

Mrs. M. We must go into the country this summer.

Mr. M. Is it absolutely essential to your happiness?

Mrs. M. (with suppressed eagerness). Of course I should enjoy it very much. But I wasn’t thinking of myself. The children need it far more than I do. They are both quite feeble and need fresh air and country living.

Mr. M. I hadn’t noticed that the children were not as well as usual.

Mrs. M. No, I dare say not. Men never notice such things. But they are both ailing; and if I didn’t doctor them all the time, they’d be down sick.

Mr. M. We can’t afford to pay the extravagant prices charged for country board.

Mrs. M. I don’t expect to go to a fashionable place. But we might get boarded, at a low rate, at some farm-house where we could get fresh fruits and vegetables, and those things which can only be found in the country. I’m sure it’s better to pay one’s money for such things than to spend it for medicine.

Mr. M. The sea-breeze is better than the country air. You might take a trip with the children to Hingham or Nahant once or twice a week.

Mrs. M. (slightly ruffled). How foolishly you talk! But then it’s what I might expect. These short trips always fatigue people more than they benefit them. When it’s too late to help the children, perhaps you’ll think of my advice and wish you’d followed it.

Mr. M. If it’s as serious a matter as you suppose, and this is the only remedy, I should say go, by all means.

Mrs. M. You must judge for yourself.

Mr. M. But I don’t believe it is possible to find such a place as would suit you at a reasonable price.

Mrs. M. (eagerly). I found an advertisement in last week’s paper describing a place that I thought would be just such us we would like. Here it is. (Takes paper from table—reads.)

Mr. M. That sounds well enough. But what proof have you that things are as represented?

Mrs. M. I wrote to Mr. Jones, and received a very gentlemanly reply. As he says, the terms are quite moderate. Mrs. Livingston pays nearly twice as much.

Mr. M. What are the terms?

Mrs. M. Thirty dollars per week for you, myself, and the two children.

Mr. M. But are there trains at hours to accommodate me?

Mrs. M. Yes, I took pains to ascertain that.

Mr. M. Very well, then, make whatever arrangements you choose. We can but give it a trial.

(Exit Mr. M., L.)

Mrs. M. (triumphantly). That’s one point gained. The next thing is to make preparations for our journey. I was determined not to be cooped up in the city another summer, when all our acquaintances are boarding in the country.

(Curtain falls.)

Jonathan (to Mrs. M.). Be yeaou the folks what’s going to the Joneses?

Mrs. M. Yes, we wish to go to Mr. Jones’, at Honeysuckle Villa.

J. Honeysuckle Villa. Wal, that’s a good un. Ha, ha, ha!

Mrs. M. (aside). Is it possible that they have deceived me? But I shall soon learn. (Aloud.) Is the carriage ready?

J. (laughing). Ya—as, the kerridge is waitin’. You can see it from the door (nods toward door, L.)

Mrs. M. (looks out with some curiosity). I don’t see any carriage. There’s nothing but a farm wagon in sight.

J. That’s the kerridge that’s come for ye, anyway. Mr. Jones thought mebbe you’d hev a lot of baggage, so he sent the hay-riggin’.

Mrs. M. But there are no seats.

J. Yes, there’s a board to put across, after we get loaded up.

Mrs. M. (indignantly). And we are expected to ride in such a vehicle as that?

J. There aint no use in callin’ it names. It’s easy enough ridin’ in it.

Mrs. M. But we cannot all sit on one seat.

J. The children can set on the trunks. (Takes up one of the trunks to carry it out. Exit, L.)

George. Say, mother, have we got to ride in that old, ricketty wagon? It’ll jolt like everything, I know ’twill.

Mrs. M. (in a soothing tone). We’ve only got to ride a few steps.

J. (entering). Don’t know ’bout that. I reckon it’s a good mile down there, and the roads aint none of the best.

Mrs. M. (indignantly). Mr. Jones’ advertisement stated that his house was only five minutes’ walk from the station.

J. Mr. Jones got the schoolmaster to write that notice for the paper. He came up to the house one night and did it. Jones told him to put it in pretty strong. The marster read it out ’loud after he’d writ it, an’ I declair to goodness, I shouldn’t ha’ knowed ’twas the same place we lived in.

Mrs. M. (decidedly). Well, if I don’t like the place, we shan’t stay, that’s all.

J. (smiling incredulously). Oh, mebbe you’ll like it, after all. Folks need a change sometimes. (Takes out another trunk, L.)

Florence. Mother, I’m thirsty.

Mrs. M. There isn’t anything to drink here. We’ll soon get to Mr. Jones’.

Flor. (impatiently). I want something to drink now.

Mrs. M. Wait patiently a little longer, and then you can have a drink of nice, fresh milk. (Enter Jonathan.)

J. (aside). I shouldn’t be a mite surprised if they was disapp’inted in their expectations. I guess they won’t find many delicacies at Joneses. Leastways, I never did. (Aloud) Kerridge is ready, folks. (Takes bandbox and bag and goes out L., Mrs. M. and children follow.)

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. Jones (turning as she enters, and addressing Patty in next room). Dish up the beans, Patty, and be spry now. (Places pie on table and goes out, R. Florence enters L., and sits down.)

(Mrs. J. enters with potatoes, and Patty with a dish of baked beans, both of which are placed on table. Patty goes out, R.)

Mrs. J. (addressing Florence). Go and tell your mother dinner’s ready, child.

Flor. (bridling). My name’s Florence Malvina Montgomery.

Mrs. J. (glancing over the table to see if everything needful is upon it). Yes, I know it. Go and tell your mother dinner is ready.

(Florence goes out L., and soon returns with her mother and brother.)

Mrs. J. Dinner’s ready, Mrs. Montgomery. Take that chair if you’re a mind to (indicating it), and the children can set, one on each side of you. (They sit.) Will you have some baked beans, ma’am?

Mrs. M. Thank you, no, I never eat them.

Mrs. J. Don’t eat beans! Why, they’re the wholesomest victuals there is. I’m sure I don’t know what I can give you to eat, then. I haint got nothin’ else but some cold corned beef, and was savin’ that for dinner to-morrer.

Mrs. M. I might, perhaps, eat a little of the cold meat.

Mrs. J. (in a loud voice). Patty, bring in the cold beef that was left yesterday.

Patty (outside). Yes’m. (Brings in meat R., then exit.)

Mrs. M. Haven’t you any new potatoes yet?

Mrs. J. Yes, but we thought, as we had these left, we’d use ’em up first.

Mrs. M. But these are watery, and not fit to eat.

Mrs. J. Oh, they aint bad for the time o’ year. Mr. Jones carried the new potatoes to market this morning. They bring a good price now.

Mrs. M. Well, I’m sure I cannot eat these. You may give me a piece of pie, if you please.

Geo. Mother, I can’t cut the pie-crust.

Mrs. M. I’ll cut it for you. (Tries to cut it, but it is so tough the knife slips and falls to the floor.)

Mrs. J. Let me cut it. (She, with some effort, cuts it and returns it to George.)

Mrs. M. Haven’t you any strawberries?

Mrs. J. Yes, we’re goin’ to have some on the table Sunday. We send them to market every day, the first of the season, they bring such a good price.

Mrs. M. (sarcastically). I suppose you sell your cream too.

Mrs. J. Yes, we find we can make more money that way than by makin’ butter and cheese. So we buy our butter at the store.

Mrs. M. (indignantly). We came to the country expecting to get fresh fruit and vegetables. But it seems we are more likely to find them in the city. I am half inclined to go directly back; however, I will perhaps remain one week. It depends on how we are treated whether we stop any longer.

(Exit with children, L.)

Mrs. J. Lor’ now, what airs these city people do put on! Seems to me there’s no end to their whims and wants. They don’t have the least thought about economy. (In a loud voice) Patty, you and Jonathan come to dinner.

P. (outside, R.). Comin’, ma’am.

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. M. I can’t stand boarding here much longer, that’s a fixed fact. Mrs. Jones sets a most wretched table, and the children are really growing thinner every day. If it hadn’t been for the name of it I should have left Hillsdale before this. The reputation of going to the country for the summer is hardly sufficient to pay for living in small rooms, sleeping on stifling feather-beds, and enduring such execrable cookery, and not a book but the Farmer’s Almanac to be found in the house.

(Florence runs in L., with a terrified expression of countenance. Her hat is hanging down from her neck, and her hair flying in all directions.)

Flor. Oh! oh! I’m so scared. (Runs to her mother.)

Mrs. M. Why, Florence Malvina, what a fright you make of yourself! Pray what is the matter?

Flor. I guess you’d be frightened if you’d been where I was. I just went outside of the road to find some blackberries, when I thought I heard somebody coming. I looked round, and there was a great ugly-looking cow running after me. I ran as fast us I could till I couldn’t go any further, and then I crept underneath the bars, and came up through the field.

Mrs. M. It’s a shame for people to allow their cows to run around the streets in such a way. It’s lucky that you were not killed.

Flor. The cow would have taken me up on her horns if she had caught me, I know she would. She held her head down all ready to do it. (Enter George, L., covered with mud and water). Why George, did you almost get drowned? Just look, mother. George is just as wet as he can be. (George looks askance at his mother, but says nothing.)

Mrs. M. (severely). Well, George Alexander, this is a pretty plight for you to be in. What have you been doing now?

Geo. (defiantly). I wasn’t doing anything, only building a dam down by the spring, and pretty soon some boys came along, and they laughed at me, and said they bet I couldn’t jump the ditch there. So I meant to show them I could, and I did do it too; but the ground was all soft and wet the other side, and when I tried to jump back again I fell into the ditch.

Mrs. M. What boys were they?

Geo. The Dunn boys. They knew it was wet the other side, and when I fell in, you ought to have heard them laugh.

Mrs. M. They are nothing but ill-bred country blockheads. (To George.) But don’t stand there any longer with those wet clothes on. Go and change them at once.

(Exit George, L. Florence follows him.)

Mrs. M. (sola). What a wretched place this is! If I was obliged to live in such a way at home, I shouldn’t think I could bear it. The family here haven’t even decent accommodations for keeping boarders.

(Enter Florence, L., in state of great excitement.)

Flor. O mother, two men are coming, and they are bringing father in. I’m afraid he’s killed.

Mrs. M. (starting up). What do you mean, child? (Enter men, L., bearing Mr. M. Mrs. M. clasps her hands in anxious suspense; goes up to her husband.) What is the matter, Henry? Has there been an accident? (The men place Mr. M. on sofa and exit L.)

Mr. M. It isn’t quite as bad as it seems. I was a little tired and thought I’d ride up from the village to-night, instead of walking. But the stage broke down, and I was thrown out. I was a good deal bruised, but I believe there are no bones broken. Dr. Bryant examined me, and said I would be all right in a few days.

Mrs. M. Well, as soon as you are able to leave, I’m going back to the city. I can’t stay here any longer.

Mr. M. (smiling). You don’t mean that you are willing to go back to the city, and endure all its discomforts again.

Mrs. M. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are as many annoyances in the country as in the city.

Mr. M. But you forget that the children cannot have country fare after our return.

Mrs. M. No, I do not. I find that the country fare we sought is all sent to the city, and we must return there in order to enjoy it. After two weeks’ trial of living in the country, I am thoroughly tired of it, and I think a long time will elapse before I again wish to try the experiment of Boarding on a Farm.

(Curtain falls.)

TAMING A WIFE. — CHARACTERS.

Mr. Farwell. Why don’t you get married, Grover? I suppose you intend, at some time, to take to yourself a wife.

Mr. Grover. I might if I could find a woman to suit me. But I don’t want any of the vain and frivolous creatures we constantly meet in society.

Mr. F. They are not all of this description. Now, there’s Gertrude Hobbs. She is a pretty girl.

Mr. G. And when you’ve said that, you’ve said all there is to say.

Mr. F. I’m sure she is pleasant and agreeable.

Mr. G. And weak-minded.

Mr. F. Ah! I see, you would like a girl of spirit. Then, why not take Kate Ross? The only objection to her is, that she has an imperious temper. I should not care to cross her if I were her husband.

Mr. G. (contemptuously). Pooh! that is your spirit, is it? For my part, there would be no pleasure in subduing a tame, spiritless creature; but, if somewhat mettlesome, there would be some excitement in it. I am half tempted to offer my hand to Kate Ross, to show you what a simple affair it would be to tame a spirited woman.

Mr. F. I hope you will do so, as I shall not change my opinion till it is practically refuted. And I will wager a hundred dollars that you will talk in quite a different way after marrying her.

Mr. G. You will probably lose your money. When I undertake anything, I usually bring it to a successful termination.

Mr. F. (smiling). I am willing to take the risk. Theory is very well in its way, but it is practice that tells the story. I confess I have some curiosity to see how the matter ends.

Mr. G. Well, you will probably have that satisfaction within six months, as Kate Ross will, without doubt, be Mrs. Grover before that time.

Mr. F. You seem quite confident. Have you proposed to Miss Ross?

Mr. G. No; but she would not think of refusing my offer. An opportunity of gaining such a position is seldom presented to a poor girl.

Mr. F. Very well. If you do not talk in quite a different way after marrying Kate Ross, the money is yours.

(Curtain falls.)

Mr. G. Bridget, I find that for two days past dinner has been served before I came home. Hereafter, you must wait till I return before doing so.

Bridget. But it was kept warm for ye’s. An’ the misthress told me to do it.

Mr. G. I know that; but you are bound to obey me rather than her.

B. (bewildered). Sir?

Mr. G. To-day I shall not be at home till four o’clock. Four, remember. On no account must you serve up dinner before that time.

B. (astonished). But what shall I say to misthress when she tells me?

Mr. G. Say? You must tell her that I threatened to dismiss you if you did so. Will you remember?

B. (confusedly). I’ll try.

Mr. G. (going toward door with satisfied smile). There, I think that will set matters right. I would give something to see how Mrs. Grover will take it, when Bridget, by my direction, refuses to obey her. She will begin to find out whom she has to deal with then.

(Exit, L.)

Mrs. Grover (enters by another door, R., in season to hear her husband’s last words). Has Mr. Grover forbidden you to follow my directions, Bridget?

B. Yes, mum. He told me he shouldn’t be at home until four, and he should send me away if I took up dinner before that time.

Mrs. G. (coolly). Indeed! he is interfering beyond his province. However, you are to obey me, not him. Be sure to have dinner on the table at two o’clock precisely.

B. But he will send me away if I do.

Mrs. G. And I will send you away if you don’t.

B. (in ludicrous dismay). Och, what will I do? It’s turned away I’ve got to be whether I do it or not.

Mrs. G. Better obey me, Bridget. If he should turn you away, you shall be back again in less than a week, and, meanwhile, I will pay you wages; but, if I turn you away, it will be for good.

B. Faix, mum, you’re a jewel. An’ if dinner isn’t on the table at two o’clock precisely, then my name isn’t Bridget McDermott.

(Curtain falls.)

Mr. G. (triumphantly). You may order up dinner now, Mrs. Grover.

Mrs. G. (surprised). Dinner! Is it possible that you have not eaten dinner at four o’clock?

Mr. G. (in an appalling voice). Have you eaten dinner?

Mrs. G. (coolly continuing her sewing). Certainly. The table was cleared an hour ago. Bridget kept the meat at the fire, but I was sure you had dined down town. Shall I ring for it?

Mr. G. (frowning). No. May I inquire if Bridget served up the dinner?

Mrs. G. Of course you may. I have no objection.

Mr. G. (in a loud voice). Madam, enough of this trifling. Did Bridget serve up dinner?

Mrs. Ross (expostulating). Really, Kate and Mr. Grover, you should not disagree.

Mrs. G. (interrupting her). Goodness! Mr. Grover, I could hear distinctly enough if you spoke a great deal lower. Of course, Bridget served up dinner. You don’t suppose I did it?

Mr. G. At two o’clock?

Mrs. G. Certainly.

Mr. G. (rings bell violently. Bridget appears, R.). Bridget, do you recollect my telling you this morning I should not be home till four?

B. Yes, sir.

Mr. G. And that dinner was not to be served up till that time?

B. Yes, sir.

Mr. G. Then, why did you dare to do otherwise?

B. (undaunted). The misthress tould me to.

Mr. G. Then I wish you to understand that I am the master, and my orders are to be obeyed. I dismiss you from my service.

B. (courtesying). Yes, sir.

Mr. G. (angrily). This instant. Do you hear?

B. (courtesying again). Yes, sir. My clothes are all packed. (Turning to Mrs. G.) Good-by, mum.

Mrs. G. (unconcernedly). Oh, good-by, Bridget. So you are going, are you?

B. Yes, mum.

Mrs. G. Perhaps you would like a recommendation.

Mr. G. I shall give none.

Mrs. G. Because, if you would, I will give you one very willingly.

B. No, mum; I don’t think I shall live out ag’in just yet. I’m goin’ to stop wid my sister a while.

Mrs. G. Very well, Bridget; (in a significant tone) you must call again soon.

(Exit Bridget, R.)

(A pause in which Mr. G. seats himself, L., leaning back exultantly.)

Mrs. G. (as if unconscious of what had passed). Is there any news from abroad?

Mr. G. (crustily). No.

Mrs. G. What course is Germany expected to take?

Mr. G. (in a forbidding tone). I don’t know.

(Mrs. G. rises and folds up her work. Mr. G. thinks, with a thrill of gratification, that, in the absence of Bridget, Mrs. G. will be obliged to get supper.)

Mrs. G. (having reached the door, turns back). By the way, Mr. Grover, my mother and myself are going out to tea. We are invited to Mrs. Haven’s.

Mr. G. (startled). But what am I to do?

Mrs. G. (carelessly). I don’t know, really, unless you come up with us. I presume Mrs. Haven will be very much pleased to see you. Will you come?

Mr. G. (sharply). No. (Mrs. G. opens the door, preparatory to going out.) Mrs. Grover, I have invited two gentlemen to dine with me to-morrow, and it will be your duty to prepare dinner for them. You will receive articles from the market by nine o’clock. You understand me, do you not?

Mrs. G. Perfectly.

Mr. G. And know what I expect?

Mrs. G. Certainly.

Mr. G. And you understand also, that I am a man of my word.

Mrs. G. I am very happy to hear it. I have always considered it a very desirable quality.

(Exeunt Mrs. Grover and her mother, R.)

Mr. G. (complacently soliloquizes). I think that will settle the matter. If Mrs. Grover married me with the idea of being a fine lady, and having an easy time, she is quite mistaken. I don’t intend to encourage female insubordination. I believe the man was made to govern, the wife to obey. If more husbands had my firmness, things would go on a little better in the world. But it isn’t everybody that has my tact at governing.

(Curtain falls.)

Mr. Huntly. Have you heard how Brown’s wife has treated him?

Mr. F. Not a word.

Mr. H. She has deserted him, and gone, no one knows whither. After dinner yesterday, Brown went to his room a moment, leaving his pocket-book on the table. When he returned, his wife, and his pocket-book—containing several hundred dollars—were gone. And although a thorough search has been instituted, no tidings have been had of either.

Mr. G. It seems to me that a woman who would do such a thing has not been properly trained by her husband.

Mr. F. In my opinion, there are some women of such a nature that they will not brook subjection even from their husbands; or, in fact, subordination of any kind.

Mr. G. (firmly). I would like to see any woman whom I could not bring under subjection. I cannot conceive of a man surrendering the authority, which is his natural right, into the hands of a woman.

Mr. H. (smiling). Do you intend, Grover, to carry out your theory of domestic government under your present circumstances?

Mr. G. I certainly do not mean to submit to petticoat government. In my eyes the husband should be at the head of the household, and, while I occupy that position, I shall delegate my authority to no one. (Mrs. Grover enters, R.) My dear, allow me to present to you, my friends, Mr. Farwell and Mr. Huntly.

Mrs. G. I am happy to see you, gentlemen. As friends of my husband, I am glad to make your acquaintance.

Mr. G. (turning to his wife). Is dinner ready?

Mrs. G. (promptly). It is on the table.

Mr. G. (with a smile of exultation). Sit down, gentlemen. Mr. Huntly will take a seat on my right (indicating it), and Mr. Farwell on my left (indicating it). I have provided a dinner to-day, gentlemen (sharpening the knife preparatory to carving), which is an especial favorite with me—I mean roast turkey. (Lifting the cover, his astonished gaze rested on an uncooked turkey. He lifts, successively, the covers of the other dishes, and sees uncooked squashes, and potatoes with their skins on.)

Mr. G. (sternly to his wife). Will you explain the meaning of this, madam?

Mrs. G. (smiling blandly). Certainly. Bridget left me yesterday afternoon, by your direction. I have done what I could toward supplying her place. I am truly sorry if the dinner is not to your taste.

Mr. G. What do you intend by this insult which you have put upon me in my own house?

Mrs. G. (fanning herself). You are a little excited, Mr. Grover. You remember that I warned you I should not supply Bridget’s place.

Mr. G. (angrily). So it seems you want to rule me.

Mrs. G. Not at all. I only object to being ruled.

Mr. G. It’s the same thing, madam. You would like to have me become a miserable, hen-pecked husband. But that will never happen. (Turning to guests) Gentlemen, I regret that circumstances have conspired to render useless the invitation I gave you to dine with me. I cannot, in such case, invite you to stay longer, but shall renew the invitation at a more convenient opportunity.

Mrs. G. (turning toward them). I, too, shall be glad to see you, gentlemen, and hope, on the next occasion, to offer you a more attractive collation. That, however, depends entirely on whether my husband decides to leave the management of the household where it belongs—in my hands.

(Exeunt Messrs. Farwell and Huntly, L.)

Mr. G. (angrily). Well, madam, I hope you are satisfied with this disgraceful exhibition.

Mrs. G. (quietly). I am not responsible for it.

Mr. G. You have disgraced me before my guests.

Mrs. G. Then why did you interfere with Bridget?

Mr. G. I am the head of the household.

Mrs. G. I beg your pardon. I imagined that Bridget was under my orders.

Mr. G. You are right, as long as your orders do not conflict with mine.

Mrs. G. Very well, sir, I leave you, then, to the sole management of the household. (Moves to go out.)

Mr. G. Where are you going?

Mrs. G. Home to my mother.

Mr. G. (alarmed). Would you desert your husband?

Mrs. G. Yes, until he knows his place. (Opens the door, R.)

Mr. G. But—what will the world say? Don’t go, Kate!

Mrs. G. (turning). I will stay on one condition, and on one only.

Mr. G. What is it?

Mrs. G. That you will never, again, interfere in the affairs of the household, and will agree to my recalling Bridget, at once.

Mr. G. (rather sheepishly). Very well, anything for peace.

(Exit, L.)

Mrs. G. (sola). There, sir, I have taught you a lesson. I understand you proposed to tame me. My impression is, that it is the husband that has been tamed. There is truth in the old couplet:—

(Curtain falls.)

JOHN SMITH’S TRIALS. — CHARACTERS.

Mr. Smith. Seems to me, Amanda, that for one who runs up such a bill as I paid yesterday, you don’t appear remarkably well dressed. What have you done with all the gay garments Madame Dubois has lately made for you?

Mrs. Smith. I haven’t run up any bill, and I don’t patronize Madame Dubois. She is too high in her charges for people in our circumstances.

Mr. S. But why should she send her bill here? It was directed in full, to John Smith, Taylor’s Block, Central Street.

Mrs. S. I’m sure I don’t know. All I can say is, there must be some mistake. She never made any garments whatever for me. By the way, have you the bill with you?

Mr. S. Yes, here it is. (Takes bill from his pocket, unfolds it, and shows it to his wife.)

Mrs. S. What is the amount?

Mr. S. One hundred and twenty-five dollars and forty-seven cents.

Mrs. S. (surprised). And you paid it?

Mr. S. Certainly; I supposed it was all right.

Mrs. S. Well, I don’t know what can be done about it. I never had any of the articles mentioned.

Mr. S. Do you suppose there is another person of the same name on this street?

Mrs. S. Yes, Bridget told me, last evening, there were three other John Smiths on this street, two of whom live in this block.

Mr. S. Then there’ll be no end of mistakes.

Mrs. S. None as serious as this, I hope.

(Enter Bridget, R., bearing a letter, which she passes to Mr. S.)

Bridget. An’ here’s a letther the postman brought, sir.

Mr. S. (examines superscription, which he reads aloud). “Mr. John Smith, Taylor’s Block, Central Street, B——.”

(Exit Bridget, R.)

Mrs. S. Where is it from?

Mr. S. It is postmarked Ramsey, Minnesota.

Mrs. S. Have you acquaintances there?

Mr. S. It seems so, though I wasn’t aware of it.

Mrs. S. Do open the letter. I’m really curious to know whom it is from.

Mr. S. Ah, yes, woman’s curiosity! How do you know but it may be privacy?

Mrs. S. I am satisfied that it is not. At all events, I’m willing to run the risk.

Mr. S. Courageous woman! Then I will venture to open it. (Cuts off edge of envelope and draws out a small, square piece of paper which he begins to read aloud.)

Mr. S. (turns towards his wife, smiling). There’s quite an inducement for John Smith. What do you think of that for a character? I’d better not have read the letter aloud. Perhaps you will begin to repent having married me.

Mrs. S. I ought to, certainly, if this letter is true. But you haven’t given me the dress and bonnet yet.

Mr. S. No, I never thought of it. I wonder if it was the wife of this John Smith whose bill I paid.

Mrs. S. Don’t know. I think it’s doubtful if you ever find the one to whom it rightfully belongs.

Mr. S. I must try, at all events. I don’t feel like losing so much money, or paying other people’s dressmaker’s bills.

(Curtain falls.)

Mr. S. What vile odor is that I smell? What have you for dinner, Amanda?

Mrs. S. (complacently). What you sent, of course.

Mr. S. And that is—

Mrs. S. Corned beef and cabbage.

Mr. S. I knew it. I thought I could not be deceived. Such a villanous smell!

Mrs. S. (surprised). Of course you knew it. Did you not send it to me this morning?

Mr. S. (excited). Never! I sent you a pair of the plumpest wild-fowl to be found in the market. My mouth fairly watered for a taste of them as I entered the door, when I was saluted by the scent of that odious cabbage.

Mrs. S. What do you suppose has become of them?

Mr. S. (indignantly). Some other John Smith is doubtless regaling himself on them.

Mrs. S. Wouldn’t it be a good plan to send Bridget to see?

Mr. S. Yes, and let her go at once.

(Exit Mrs. S., R.)

Mr. S. (soliloquizing). Some one asks, “What’s in a name?” If his name happened to be John Smith, he wouldn’t have to inquire. Why couldn’t my parents have called me Hezekiah, Ezekiel, or any other heathenish name rather than plain John? Then I should not have been victimized in this way.

(Enter Mrs. S., R., followed by a stranger.)

Mrs. S. This gentleman wishes to see you, John.

Stranger (inquiringly). Your name is Smith, sir? (Mr. S. nods.) John Smith, I believe.

Mr. S. That is my name, though I wish to goodness it wasn’t.

Str. No wonder, sir, no wonder. When I call on professional business, people almost always wish they were somebody else.

Mr. S. And what is your business, if I may be allowed to inquire?

Str. Certainly you may, though there’s no doubt you’d soon learn it without inquiring. I am Sheriff Bailey, and I came to levy an execution on your furniture.

Mr. S. And what is that for?

Str. Because it is not paid for. Messrs. Phillips & Hoffman sold you, some time since, a quantity of furniture amounting to two hundred and fifty dollars, which was to be paid for in thirty days. Here is the bill of it. (Passes to Mr. S.) This was three months ago, and though they have repeatedly sent letters calling your attention to it, no notice has been taken of them. Have you anything to say in regard to this matter?

Mr. S. (dryly). I think I have. In the first place, I haven’t bought any furniture for a year. In the second place, I never heard of Messrs. Phillips & Hoffman, and therefore, of course, never bought anything from them (sighing). The fact is, sir, you’ve got hold of the wrong John Smith.

Str. You can’t come that dodge on me. The John Smith that I was looking for lived in Taylor’s Block, and as this is the place, you must be the man I am seeking.

Mr. S. (indignantly). Do you doubt my word, sir? Let me inform you that there are two other John Smiths living in this block, as I know to my sorrow. Besides, if you’ll take the trouble to look at the furniture, you’ll see that it has been used a much longer time. I notice by the bill (glancing at it) that it was a suite of parlor furniture that was bought, and this is the only furniture of that description which we possess.

Str. (looking around him). This is not a new style of furniture, certainly. It is possible that I may be mistaken in the person. If so, I beg your pardon. I will make inquiries before proceeding further in this matter.

Mr. S. (with an injured air). You need make no apologies, sir. I’m getting used to this sort of thing.

(Exit Sheriff, L., and enter Bridget, R.)

B. It was to number seven that the fowls went, sir.

Mr. S. (eagerly). Did you bring them back with you?

B. No, sir, they’ve eaten ’em up. Ann McKay said Mrs. Smith thought somebody sent ’em as a present. But she told me privately that they had dinner an hour earlier than usual.

Mr. S. A present indeed! They knew very well it was a mistake, and took occasion to eat their dinner earlier, in order to have a nice meal before the mistake could be rectified. Bridget, take the corned beef and cabbage over, and tell them we have no use for it. Then come back and open all the windows, and see if we cannot get rid of this intolerable smell.

Mrs. S. But what are we to have for dinner?

Mr. S. Boiled eggs—some of yesterday’s roast—or anything you may happen to have in the house. For my part, I haven’t any appetite now.

(Exit Bridget, R. Curtain falls.)

Mrs. S. (soliloquizing). I don’t see where Mr. Smith can be. It is seldom he is out so late. (Calls the servant, who is passing the door.) Bridget!

B. (enters, R.). Yes, mum.

Mrs. S. Did Mr. Smith say where he was going when he left home?

B. No, mum. He axed me “was you out,” and I told him you had gone into Mrs. Clarke’s for a few minutes. He said it was no matter; he only wanted to know had you mended the pocket of his weskit.

Mrs. S. I entirety forgot it. Just pass it from the hall-closet, Bridget, and I will mend it at once. It will serve to pass the time away.

(Exit B., R.)

B. (enters, R.). Here it is, mum (passes vest to Mrs. S.). An’ I think I’ll be goin’ upstairs, if ye don’t want me any more. It’s gettin’ late.

Mrs. S. Very well, Bridget. I believe that is all I need.

(Exit Bridget, R.)

Mrs. S. I think it was the pocket on the right side that needed mending. (Turns pocket inside out.) What is this? (Picks up a letter in a small envelope, directed in a lady’s hand.) It cannot be a letter from his sister. I must open it. (Unfolds the letter and reads):—

Mrs. S. (bitterly). Is it possible that John has deceived me, and is carrying on an intrigue with such a woman as that?—I cannot believe it,—and yet it must be so. (Hears sound of a latch-key,—listens.) That is his step now. (Puts letter back in another pocket of vest, and begins to sew.)

Mr. S. (enters, L.). What? Amanda—up yet. I expected to find you asleep. Don’t trouble yourself with mending that vest to-night. I have several others.

Mrs. S. (coldly). Where have you been to-night, John?

Mr. S. I was out on business.

Mrs. S. It must have been important business to keep you out till this hour.

Mr. S. To tell the truth it was so. But it isn’t a matter you would be likely to understand.

Mrs. S. I understand it only too well. (Passes letter to him.) Who wrote that letter? (Eyes him sharply.)

Mr. S. (bursting into a laugh). I understand it all now,—you’ve read that letter, and are jealous. Confess, now, that that’s the case. But I didn’t suppose you’d be so ridiculous.

Mrs. S. (bridling). Ridiculous indeed! When one’s husband receives such letters as that, it’s about time for his wife to inquire into the matter.

Mr. S. I received the letter this morning, but, satisfied that it was written to some other John Smith, I thrust it hastily into my pocket, not dreaming that it would stir up such a breeze as this.

Mrs. S. I wish, John, that you would have your name changed.

Mr. S. That is what I am intending to do. At the next session of the Legislature, I have determined to apply for a change of name. I believe there are more rascals by the name of Smith than any other one name in the world. And if there is any villain who is brought before the police, he is sure to give his name as John Smith. I don’t care what the new name is,—Snooks, Jenkins, or Tubbs,—there isn’t one of them that would bring a man into trouble half as soon, as to be called plain John Smith.

(Curtain falls.)

AUNT RACHEL’S FRIGHT. — CHARACTERS.

Mr. Campbell. Well, I must say it seems pleasant to be home again, once more. After travelling two years through foreign countries, it is really refreshing to reach one’s native land. (Throws himself into an easy-chair, C.) But I wonder where Maria and her husband are? They will be somewhat surprised to see me here a month earlier than they expected. Fortunately, through all my travels I have kept my latch-key, and was able to gain an entrance without the aid of a servant. However, now that I am here, I feel impatient to see Maria and Arthur. I think I will ring. (Rings; servant enters, R.)

Mr. C. Are Mr. and Mrs. Lewis at home?

Servant. No, sir, the family are all away at a party. You are Mrs. Lewis’s brother, I suppose?

Mr. C. Yes. (Surprised.) Did she expect me to-night?

S. Yes, and she bade me say they were sorry to be obliged to be away. But they wished you to make yourself comfortable. Here is the evening paper, sir. (Hands it to him.) As they will not be home till late, I will conduct you to your room when you wish to retire.

Mr. C. There’s no occasion for that. I remember my old room very well. I will read a while before I go to bed. I may possibly sit up till they come home. At all events, I shall not need any further service from you.

(Exit Servant, L.)

Well, I must say I’m mystified. In the first place, I don’t see how Maria heard I should arrive to-day. In the second place, when I asked if Mr. and Mrs. Lewis were at home, the servant said all the family were away. Now people don’t use such an expression as that when the family consists of only two members. I wonder whether they have company? I wish I might meet my sister Eliza here. But I won’t trouble myself with needless conjectures. I shall learn all about the matter in the morning. (A pause.) I believe I’ll put on my slippers. (Opens bag, from which he takes slippers. He takes off boots, puts on slippers, then takes up evening paper.) I wonder what the news is. In fact, it will be all news to me. Ah! here’s the announcement of the arrival of the Rosamond. But if Maria had seen it she wouldn’t have supposed that I was a passenger. How could she have heard of my arrival? That is a mystery to me. (He commences reading, but in one or two minutes his eyes close, and he begins to nod. Suddenly his head falls back, and the paper drops from his grasp. He wakens with a start.) Why, bless me, I nearly lost myself! I feel very sleepy. (Looks at his watch.) No wonder—it is nearly half-past eleven o’clock. I think I will go to bed. (Picks up paper, and puts it on the table, then takes his bag—a small one—and a light, and leaves the room, R.)

(Curtain falls.)

Mr. C. It seems Maria has entirely refurnished this chamber. I can hardly recognize the room I have occupied so many times. But I am too sleepy to take much account of surroundings. If the bed is only comfortable, I shall not take much notice of anything else. (Takes off coat, vest, and slippers, which he puts near head of bed, and extinguishes the light. He then parts the curtains and throws himself upon the bed, drawing the curtains to after him.)

(A pause. Then the door opens, L., and an ancient maiden, in party attire, enters. She sets lamp down on the table. Sits down, herself, and proceeds to divest her head of its adornings. She takes off two sets of curls, two or three braids, and numberless hairpins. Also takes from her mouth a set of false teeth. While these preparations are going on, she soliloquizes:)

Aunt Rachel. What senseless people one meets at a party, to be sure!

Mr. C. (peeping from between curtains, aside). Who the deuce is this?

A. R. (continuing). There was that Fitznoodle, the puppy, trying to make himself agreeable to our little Agnes. To be sure, she’s old enough to have a beau, but I hope to goodness she won’t marry him. I wouldn’t if he was worth his weight in gold.

Mr. C. (again peeping out,—in a low tone). What a fate it would be for a man to marry such a woman as that! Though, for that matter, there won’t be much left of her, if she keeps on. She’s got her head most taken to pieces, already.

(Aunt R. puts on a very large night-cap, so that only a small portion of her face is visible. She suddenly discovers the other lamp. Mr. C. frequently peeps out.)

A. R. (in dismay). Where did that other lamp come from? I know it wasn’t here when I dressed for the party. (Looks around. Mr. C.’s head disappears, and the curtains are closed. She discovers a coat and vest on the chair near head of bed. Her eyes are fixed on them in horror. She wrings her hands.) Oh, there’s a man in the room, I know there is! I shall faint. (She suddenly considers that, under the circumstances, this would be improper.) If I only dared to go and look! (Stands a moment, with hands tightly clasped together, grows courageous, and slowly walks toward the bed, peeps through the curtain, and, darting back, screams.) Oh! oh! oh!

Mr. C. (parting the curtains a little). Don’t be so foolish, madam. I assure you it is all a mistake.

A. R. That’s what they always say. (Runs to door, L., looking back now and then, to see if she is pursued; screams:) Emmeline! James! Help! Murder! Thieves!

(Exit Aunt Rachel.)

(Mr. C. parts the curtain, and looks forth.)

Mr. C. Well, I must say, that’s rather curious. The mystery thickens. Pray who could that female be? I’m sure it’s no one that I ever saw before. Perhaps she’s left a handkerchief with her name written on it. I guess I’ll reconnoitre a little, as she has left me a light. (Goes to table, lifts, successively, the braids and masses of curls.) Here is part of her make-up. But there’s no name on it. In fact, there is nothing to give any clue to the mystery. But there’s one thing I can do. I’ll fasten the door so that I shall not be interrupted again. (Goes to door and locks it.) Now I believe I will retire once more, and see if I cannot get a little rest. And for fear I may be routed again, I will leave the light burning. (He goes to bed.)

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. Lewis. How glad I am to get home again! I feel very tired.

Philip. I don’t feel tired a bit. I wanted to stop longer. Didn’t you, Agnes?

Agnes. I had a nice time, and enjoyed myself very much. (Smiling.) I don’t suppose I should seriously have objected to stopping longer. Do you know, Phil, I made a good many new acquaintances this evening?

Phil. Yes, you seemed to be having a splendid time, talking with Fitznoodle. I can’t say I admire your taste.

A. Oh, as for that, I don’t fancy him much, myself, but you know one must be civil, even if they don’t like those they are talking with.

(Enter Aunt Rachel, R., with night-cap on, in a state of great excitement.)

A. R. Oh, murder! Help! Thieves!

Mrs. L. What is it, Rachel?

A. R. (gasping). Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

Mrs. L. Why, Rachel, what is the matter?

A. Do tell us, Aunt Rachel.

Phil. (sturdily). I’ll protect you, Aunt Rachel. Where’s the robber?

A. R. Oh, there’s a man in my room—and he spoke to me. (Clasping her hands.) What shall I do? Oh! oh!

Mrs. L. A man in your room! It can’t be. How could he get in with the doors all locked?

A. R. (tartly). I tell you there is a man there. Don’t you believe me? He spoke to me too.

Phil. What did he say, Aunt Rachel?

A. R. I’m sure I don’t know. I didn’t wait to hear.

Mr. L. (entering, L.). Pray what is the matter? You all look frightened.

Mrs. L. And well we may. There’s a man in Rachel’s room.

Mr. L. That’s all imagination. It is simply impossible that any one could get in, under the circumstances.

A. R. (in a high tone). What! Do you mean to insinuate that I don’t know what I’m talking about? I guess I haven’t lost the use of any of my faculties yet. And I saw him with my own eyes.

Mr. L. Don’t get disturbed, Rachel. We can easily learn whether there is any one there or not. I will go myself and see.

Mrs. L. Don’t go, Alfred. If there is a man there, of course he is armed. What could you do to protect yourself against the assault of a desperate man, and one well armed too? Take my advice and call a policeman.

Mr. L. Well, perhaps that would be a better way. (Starts to go out, L.)

Mrs. L. But what shall we do? We can’t be left alone. He might murder us all and escape before you got back.

Mr. L. That is true.

Mrs. L. Why can’t we arm ourselves, and all go, in a body? There wouldn’t be much chance for him to escape, and we could, all together, overpower him.

Mr. L. Very well. I’ll take the carving-knife. (Takes it from, table.)

Mrs. L. I’ll take the poker. (Takes it.)

Phil. I’ll take the tongs. (Takes them, and stepping up behind Aunt Rachel, pretends to take off her night-cap with them.)

A. R. I’ll take the broom, and use it well, too. (Takes it from behind the door.)

A. I’ll get the clothes-line to tie him with. (Exit Agnes, R. The rest go out, R., in the following order—Mr. and Mrs. L., Aunt R., and Philip.)

(Curtain falls.)

Mr. C. What’s to pay now, I wonder? I believe I shall have more adventures in this one night than I met with all the time I was abroad. (Great pounding at the door.) Halloo there! Don’t break the door down. What’s wanted?

Mr. L. (outside). Open this door at once, in the name of the law.

Mr. C. Well, well, wait a minute. (He steps out of bed, thrusts his feet in slippers, then goes and opens the door. Seems astonished at seeing so many strange faces. They enter,—Mr. L. and Philip pass to R.; the rest remain at L.,—eying him cautiously, but concealing their weapons behind them.)

Mr. L. Well, sir, what do you mean by entering my house at night, and frightening this lady (turning to Aunt R.) in such a manner?

Mr. C. I think I can explain it satisfactorily, sir; but I must first ask a few questions. Is your name Lewis?

Mr. L. It is.

Mr. C. How long have you occupied this house?

Mr. L. (puzzled). About a month.

Mr. C. What was the name of the former occupant?

Mr. L. His name was Lewis, also. I bought the house of him.

Mr. C. My name is Campbell. I am a brother of the other Mrs. Lewis. I have been travelling abroad for the last two years, and arrived here late last evening. Having a latch-key, and being ignorant of the change of owners, I entered, but was disappointed at not finding any one at home. The servant said the family were away at a party, and offered to conduct me to my room when I was ready to retire. She said Mrs. Lewis was expecting her brother.

Mrs. L. I was expecting him, but he didn’t come.

Mr. C. Under these circumstances, and misled by the name, I had no suspicion that I was trespassing. I therefore told the servant I could easily find the way to my room, as I had slept there many times before. I must apologize to this lady (turning to Aunt R.) for giving her such a fright, which I assure her was entirely unintentional on my part.

Mr. L. (laughing). Your explanation is perfectly satisfactory, sir. Mr. Arthur Lewis lives three blocks farther down-town. But it is late, and you must be our guest for the remainder of the night. We will furnish you with another bed, and——

A. R. (interrupting him indignantly). Do you suppose I would sleep in that bed after a man had slept there? Never! Let him stay here the rest of the night, if he wants to. I shall sleep in the other chamber myself.

Phil. That’s it, Aunt Rachel. Stand up for your rights.

Mrs. L. Very well, let it be arranged so. And we’d better all retire, for it is already an hour past midnight.

Mr. C. I thank you all for your hospitality, and hope in the morning to be able to vindicate my character more fully.

Mr. L. That is quite unnecessary. Your statement is entirely satisfactory. (Turns to go out, L.)

Phil. (to A. R.) Hadn’t you better take your braids and curls and things, Aunt Rachel? Mr. Campbell won’t have any use for them, and you look better with them on than you do without.

A. R. (hastily putting her hand to head—mortified). I didn’t expect, when I put this cap on, to receive callers. (Goes and gets things from table.)

Mr. C. You are very excusable, under the circumstances.

A. R. (bowing). Then I will bid you good-night.

Philip (bowing). Good morning.

(Exeunt, L., Mr. L., Mrs. L., Agnes, Aunt R. and Philip. Mr. C. remains.)

(Curtain falls.)

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC CURED. — CHARACTERS.

Mrs. Foster. Well, Maria, you look tired enough.

Maria. I do feel rather tired.

Mrs. F. (emphatically). It’s a shame for any man to be so trying as your uncle is. He hasn’t any business to be so, even if he is sick. It’s nothing but scold and fret from morning till night. And the more you do, the more you may. You can’t please him any way you can fix it.

M. I’ve tried to please him, but haven’t succeeded. Now I’m going to see if I can’t cure him both of his fault-finding and his sickness.

Mrs. F. How is that?

M. I think of inviting him to go away on a visit.

Mrs. F. I don’t believe he will go. He has an idea that he’s very sick; but, for my part, I think it’s because he wants to make himself a nuisance.

M. Hush, Mrs. Foster! You forget he is my uncle, and therefore entitled to my respect and attention.

Mrs. F. Well, I don’t see how you can stand it. I’d as soon wait on the old boy himself.

M. (smiling). I hope you don’t compare my uncle to that renowned personage?

Mrs. F. Well, I don’t know which I’d rather wait on. He’s the most contrary man I ever knew. (A knock is heard on the floor outside, R.)

M. Hark! (In listening attitude, and with uplifted finger. Knock repeated.) There’s my uncle’s knock. He’s awake and wants me.

(Exit, R.)

Mrs. F. It’s a wicked shame for him to make such a slave of her. He’s a real torment. (Knits vigorously—starts as if suddenly remembering.) But there, I promised to go over and sit with old Miss Barnard this afternoon. I guess I’ll go, and take my knitting.

(Exit. Curtain falls.)

Mr. Crowell (in a querulous tone). Where’s Maria? She’s always gone when I want her. I might die here, and nobody’d know anything about it. (Knocks on floor with cane. Maria enters, R.)

M. Are you awake, uncle?

Mr. C. Awake? Of course I am. I’ve been awake this half hour. You might have heard me knocking long ago, if you were not deaf.

M. I came up as soon as I heard your knock. And how does your head feel?

Mr. C. A great deal worse. And my face is hot. I’m sure that I am going to have a fever.

M. The doctor said it was only a cold.

Mr. C. Doctors don’t know everything. Did you bring me up a cup of tea?

M. No; you didn’t say anything about it, did you?

Mr. C. Well, I supposed you’d know that I should need something by this time.

M. It was only an hour ago that you took a bowl of gruel, and I didn’t think you would wish for anything more so soon.

Mr. C. It was full three hours ago. And I want a cup of tea,—hot, mind you,—just as soon as I can have it.

(Exit Maria, R.)

Mr. C. (soliloquizing). It is strange that some people haven’t sense enough to know what a sick person wants, without being told everything. I always thought Maria was a good nurse; but she is no better than the rest of them. (Enter Maria.)

M. Here is a nice cup of tea for you, uncle.

Mr. C. (tastes it—throws down the spoon and turns his head away). It’s hot enough to take the skin off my mouth. I don’t want any more. Throw it away.

(Maria pours it away. She then takes a fan, and gently fans the invalid. He bears it a moment, then says:)

Mr. C. Don’t keep that fan going; I shall take more cold.

M. You said your face was hot.

Mr. C. Well, I don’t want to be cooled off so suddenly. Let me taste of that tea again.

M. I threw it away.

Mr. C. (in surprise). Threw my tea away?

M. Yes, you told me to. You said you didn’t want it.

Mr. C. I should think you might know by this time that I don’t mean what I say. Get me some more, quick.

(Maria goes out. During her absence Mr. C. remains quiet, and with his eyes closed. She soon returns.)

Mr. C. Why didn’t you stay all day?

M. I hurried all I could, uncle; you know I had to wait for the tea to get hot. (Tasting.) It’s very nice.

Mr. C. (shaking his head). I’ve got all off the notion for it, now.

M. Won’t you have some of it?

Mr. C. No; I’ve lost all desire for it. (M. places tea on the table. A knock is heard.) Who’s that making such a racket?

M. I’ll go and see. (Goes out—soon returns.) It’s Mr. Preston, uncle. He wishes to know how you are.

Mr. C. Tell him it’s none of his business.

M. Yes, uncle. (Goes out—soon returns.)

Mr. C. Well, what did he say?

M. He seemed quite angry.

Mr. C. Angry at what, pray?

M. I suppose at being told it was none of his business.

Mr. C. Maria, you didn’t tell him that?

M. Yes, I did, uncle. You told me to tell him it was none of his business, and he said he shouldn’t trouble you by calling again.

Mr. C. (angrily). Haven’t you got sense enough to know that I don’t mean what I say?

M. I supposed, of course, you meant what you said, though I didn’t exactly like to repeat your message to him.

Mr. C. (after a pause). I guess I’ll try a little of the tea, Maria. (She brings it.)

Mr. C. (languidly). You’ll have to feed me, Maria, I’m so weak.

M. Yes, uncle. (Places napkin under chin, and proceeds to feed him.)

Mr. C. Stop—stop—it’s hot. You’re choking me. (But Maria keeps on.)

Mr. C. (moving quickly one side).—Sto-op. Can’t you understand plain English? I don’t believe there’s a particle of skin left on my tongue. What do you mean?

M. You told me I ought to know by this time that you didn’t mean what you said. So I supposed I was to go on, at any rate.

Mr. C. It’s horrible tasting stuff. You’ve been putting pepper into it. While you were about it, why didn’t you put in vinegar, too?

(Maria, without a word, goes to the table, takes up the vinegar-cruet, and pours vinegar into the cup.)

Mr. C. (starting up). Maria Davidson, I believe you are either a fool or insane.

(Maria sits down, and begins to cry. Mr. C. gazes at her in astonishment. A drumming is heard outside, R.)

Mr. C. (putting his hands to his head). Oh, my poor head! my poor head! Maria, take my pistol from the closet, and shoot the rascal. (She goes to the closet, gets the pistol, and fires, according to his direction.)

Mr. C. What the deuce has got into the girl! (He starts up, and goes to the window, L.,—mechanically takes up the pistol which Maria had laid down. She glides out by one door, R., and immediately a policeman enters by another, L.)

Policeman. So here you are. I’ll just slip on these bracelets, so you won’t do any more mischief.

Mr. C. (drawing back). What do you mean by insulting me in such a manner?

P. You’ve been attempting to murder a man.

Mr. C. No, I haven’t.

P. Didn’t you fire a pistol from the window just now?

Mr. M. No, I didn’t fire it.

P. Who did fire it, then?

Mr. C. (hesitating). Why, I—you see—it was—my niece that fired it.

P. (looking around room). That’s a likely story. If she fired the pistol, where is she now?

Mr. C. She went out a few minutes ago.

P. You can’t come that dodge on me. It was only a moment ago that it was done, and there’s no one but you in the room, and I found you with the pistol in your hand. You must come along with me.

Mr. C. But I can’t—I’m sick.

P. (taking a look at him). You don’t appear to be dangerously sick. I guess you’re able to go with me.

Mr. C. But I had the doctor this morning. I’m quite feverish, and it might cause my death to go out.

P. If you’re sick you shall have a doctor to prescribe for you. Come along. (Takes him by shoulder.)

(Exeunt, L.)

Maria (entering, soliloquizing). My plot has been carried out well thus far. I don’t think uncle recognized the policeman. It is astonishing how the habit of complaining gains on one. But if a person is unreasonable, and given to complaining, there is nothing that will effect a cure so soon as taking him at his word. (Uncle enters, L.) Ah, have you returned so soon, uncle? I have felt quite anxious about you, fearing you might take more cold.

Mr. C. You are a very successful little manager, Maria, upon my word. I felt mortified enough on starting from my own house in the character of a criminal. But I could blame no one but myself, since my orders were all obeyed, not only very promptly, but very literally. Then I thought what an unreasonable bear I was, and what a patient little nurse you were, and by the time we stopped I had become quite subdued. Then I discovered that the policeman was my old and valued friend, Mr. Preston. It all flashed upon my mind that it was a plot to bring me to my senses, and to show how unreasonable I was.

M. Oh, no, uncle, not that exactly. We only aimed to show you that you imagined yourself worse than you really were. But hadn’t you better lie down awhile? You are not accustomed to such exertion.

Mr. C. No; I am thoroughly cured in mind and body. Nothing would tempt me to personate again the miserable hypochondriac I was when I left the house. I am cured, and I mean to stay so.

(Curtain falls.)

AUNT PATIENCE’S EAR-TRUMPET. — CHARACTERS.

Clara. Does your letter contain any sad news, ma?

Mrs. Granby. Not exactly sad news,—but disagreeable, to say the least.

C. (interested). What is it?

Mrs. G. (glancing at letter). This is a letter from Aunt Patience Burton. She is coming to make us a visit.

C. That is horrible news. I shouldn’t want Ernest to see her—she is so fussy and homely.

Mrs. G. He will, no doubt, feel as we do, that money is of more consequence than a handsome face. Besides, we shan’t be troubled with her long.

C. How long do you suppose she will stop here?

Mrs. G. A week or two, I suppose. That is the usual length of her visits.

C. (with the air of a martyr). Well, I suppose we must try to endure her presence for that length of time—hoping for our final reward.

Mrs. G. (in a brighter tone). If she could only be persuaded into making her will in our favor, I shouldn’t consider the trouble of having her here anything.

C. How much is she supposed to be worth?

Mrs. G. About thirty thousand dollars.

C. Just think how much more that amount would benefit us than it does her. I dare say she hoards it up like a miser.

Mrs. G. (smiling). That will be all the better for us.

C. Yes, if we get it. But when does the letter say she is coming?

Mrs. G. I did not notice particularly. Let me see. (Looks over letter—reads:) “You may expect me Friday, the twenty-fifth, wind and weather permitting.”

C. (interrupting). The twenty-fifth! Why, that’s to-day! (Bell rings outside.)

Mrs. G. And there is the bell. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that were she. (Both rise.)

(Enter, L., a prim, elderly lady, with corkscrew curls, and wearing an old-fashioned bonnet.)

Mrs. G. (greeting her with a smile of welcome, and shaking hands warmly). Why, Aunt Patience, how glad I am to see you! Clara and I were just speaking of you.

Aunt Prudence (diving into the recesses of an ample pocket). Wait a minute, Elviry. (Takes out an ear-trumpet, which she adjusts to her ear.) There, now we can talk.

Mrs. G. (in a loud tone). I had no idea you were so deaf, aunt.

A. P. I’m getting old, you know, and can’t expect to keep my faculties like younger people. But where’s Clara?

Mrs. G. This is Clara. (Steps aside for her daughter to approach.) Didn’t you recognize her?

A. P. No, she’s grown so I didn’t know her. How d’ye do, dear?

C. (shaking hands). How do you do, aunt? I’m glad to see you here.

A. P. Thank ye, child. It’s pleasant to find that old folks aint always forgotten and wished out of the way.

Mrs. G. (in a loud voice). Let me assist you in taking off your bonnet.

A. P. You needn’t speak so loud when I have my trumpet.

Mrs. G. Then you can hear without using it?

A. P. Yes, but not without you speak pretty loud. (Lays her trumpet down.)

Mrs. G. (taking aunt’s bonnet, and carrying it to table. Addressing daughter.) You see, she’s as deaf as can be. (Old lady sits down.)

C. That’s lucky. We can relieve our minds without her hearing us. Is she going to stay long?

Mrs. G. I don’t know. I will ask her. (In a loud voice:) I hope you are going to make us a long visit.

A. P. I shan’t be able to stop more than a month. But perhaps it won’t be convenient for you to have me with you so long.

Mrs. G. (in a loud tone to aunt). We shall be delighted (in a lower tone to her daughter) when you go away. That’s true, isn’t it, Clara?

C. Yes, indeed. But (dismally) do you suppose we can live through the month?

Mrs. G. We must try to, for the sake of the money. (To Aunt P.) Have you been well, lately, aunt?

A. P. No, I’ve enjoyed dreadful poor health this winter. I’ve been most dead with roomatiz and I haven’t got over it yet.

Mrs. G. It must have been hard to bear.

A. P. Yes, it made me feel as if I ought to make my will, and I think I shall make it as soon as I get home again.

Mrs. G. Oh, you have many years yet to live, aunt.

A. P. I can see well enough that I am getting old, and cannot live long, anyway. I get tired out very easy. I think I shall have to ask you to show me to the room I am to occupy, and I will lie down awhile. I aint much used to travelling, and it tires me.

Mrs. G. Shan’t I get you a cup of tea, aunt?

A. P. Oh, no. All I need is a little rest.

(Exit, R.)

Mrs. G. There, I think we have made a good impression. If she only makes a will in our favor, I shall consider the attentions we pay her a good investment.

C. But suppose she shouldn’t leave her money to us?

Mrs. G. Oh, don’t let your imagination run in that direction. We must manage to get into her good graces, so that we may become her heirs.

C. Well, I will do all I can to bring about so desirable a result.

(Exit Mrs. G., R. Curtain falls.)

A. P. Didn’t you hear the bell just now, Clara?

C. Yes, I am expecting a friend here to-night. Ah (rising as Ernest Montgomery enters, L.), good-evening, Ernest.

Ernest Montgomery. Good-evening. You were expecting me, I suppose.

C. Of course I was. I always remember appointments. But I suppose I must introduce you to my aunt. (In a loud tone:) Aunt Patience, this is Mr. Montgomery.

A. P. (extending her hand to the young man). I am very glad to see him.

C. (to E. M.). We shan’t need to take any further notice of her. She’s deaf as an adder, and can’t hear a word without her trumpet unless we scream at her. I believe you never saw her before.

E. M. No.

C. She isn’t very handsome, is she?

E. M. Aren’t you afraid she’ll hear you?

C. Oh no, she’s too deaf.

E. M. But deaf people generally hear things that are not intended for their ears.

C. Well, I’ll run the risk. When we speak to her she seldom hears the first time.

A. P. What was that you said?

C. (in a loud tone). Only that it was so long since you had been here that we should try to make you have a pleasant time.

A. P. (in a satisfied tone). Oh, was that it? Thank you, child.

E. M. (with admiration). You got out of that well.

C. Trust me for that. When one has a rich aunt, it is the best to keep on the right side of her.

A. P. Did you speak to me, Clara?

C. No; I was telling Mr. Montgomery how fond I was of cider.

A. P. I used to like cider when I was a girl; but that was the genuine article, and we used to go to the mill where they made it, and take it through a straw.

E. M. (interested). So your aunt is rich?

C. Yes; she is said to be worth thirty thousand dollars.

E. M. That’s quite a fortune.

A. P. (as if talking to herself). Yes; deafness is quite a misfortune; but one doesn’t mind it so much when they’re stopping among their own relations.

C. (smiling). Yes, it is quite a fortune, and of course we put up with her oddities for the sake of the money, which will, most of it, come to us.

E. M. She may outlive you.

C. That’s what I’m afraid of. It would be just our luck to have her live to be a hundred.

E. M. How old is she now?

C. About sixty-five.

E. M. Then you would only have to wait thirty-five years for it.

C. We might as well never have her money as to wait so long as that for it.

E. M. It would be rather a long while, that’s a fact. By that time you would look as your aunt does now. Do you know, I think you resemble her very much?

C. (tapping him playfully with her fan). Take that for your impertinence, sir. I must be a charming damsel, if that were the case.

E. M. So I thought; which was why I made the remark.

C. (flushing). I don’t esteem it any compliment.

A. P. What was that you said, Clara?

C. I was saying to Mr. Montgomery that people seldom say what they mean.

A. P. (nodding). That’s true—that’s true enough. (After a pause—holding up knitting.) Well, there, I’ve got that stocking pretty well along, and haven’t been knitting a great while, either. Mr. Montgomery, may I trouble you to tell me what time it is?

E. M. It is no trouble, madam, I assure you. (Looks at watch.) It is about (hesitates) five minutes past ten.

A. P. Five minutes past ten! I had no idea ’twas so late. (Gathers up her knitting.) That’s long past the time I usually go to bed. Good-night, Mr. Montgomery; good-night, Clara.

C. Good-night, aunt.

E. M. Good-evening, madam.

(Exit Aunt Patience, R.)

C. What made you tell her it was so late? It isn’t more than nine o’clock.

E. M. (looking at watch). It is just half-past eight. But although I enjoyed her society exceedingly, I was willing to deny myself that pleasure for the sake of having a little private conversation with you on a very important matter. (Clara casts down her eyes. Mr. Montgomery draws his chair near hers, and takes her hand.)

(Curtain falls.)

C. Doesn’t it seem a great relief to have Aunt Patience gone?

Mrs. G. I must say that it does. I was constantly anxious for fear she would learn our real feelings, though I flatter myself we concealed them quite carefully.

C. I don’t believe she suspected at all that we were glad her visit was over. Deaf people are most always obtuse.

Mrs. G. I hope it may prove so, for her money would be a great help to us. In fact, I don’t see how we can get along without it.

C. It would be very convenient if she would let us have an instalment of a few thousands soon—before my marriage, for instance.

Mrs. G. Yes, in that case we could afford to send to Paris for your trousseau. But has the time for the wedding been fixed?

C. Yes; Ernest wishes it to take place in June.

Mrs. G. I spoke of your marriage as liable to take place soon, and hoped Aunt Patience would take the hint; but she didn’t seem to.

C. What reply did she make?

Mrs. G. She said she hadn’t anything special against Mr. Montgomery, but that she would never think of choosing him for a husband.

C. Perhaps he reciprocates her feelings. I don’t think it would be a suitable match myself.

Mrs. G. (smiling). Being an interested party, perhaps you are not a suitable judge.

(Servant enters, R., bearing a letter, which she passes to Mrs. G.)

Mrs. G. (surprised). A letter from Aunt Patience, as I live!

Servant. Yes, ma’am, and there’s a box downstairs, with one end of the old lady’s ear-trumpet sticking out of it.

Mrs. G. Very well, you may let it remain there for the present.

(Exit Servant, R.)

C. (clasping her hands, while an expression of horror overspreads her face). Don’t say Aunt Patience is coming back again. I certainly think I couldn’t survive such an event.

Mrs. G. (who has read the letter—quite soberly). It is worse than that.

C. Worse! I don’t know of anything that could be worse than another visit from Aunt Patience.

Mrs. G. Very well—read the letter and satisfy yourself.

C. (Taking the letter, which she reads aloud:)

(Mrs. G. and Clara look blankly at each other.)

Mrs. G. So it seems we are not to have any of Aunt Patience’s money after all.

C. (indignantly). It’s a real mean thing for any one to be so deceitful—going round pretending to be deaf. I’m glad she isn’t coming here again. I couldn’t endure the sight of her.

Serv. (entering, R.). Here’s a note that Mr. Montgomery left for you.

C. (surprised). Has he been here?

Serv. Yes, he came just after the expressman brought the box.

C. But why didn’t he stop?

S. He heard you reading the letter, and he said he couldn’t stop but a moment; a message would do just as well as seeing you. So he wrote this note in the drawing-room, and asked me to give it to you. (Clara gazes at the note. Servant goes out, R.)

Mrs. G. Why don’t you read your note?

C. I am so surprised. (Unfolds the paper—reads aloud:)

Mrs. G. What does it mean?

C. (contemptuously). It means that he overheard enough of Aunt Patience’s letter to know that we are not to have any of her property; so he has magnanimously released me from my engagement.

Mrs. G. But what are you going to do about it?

C. Do? I don’t know as there is anything to be done. In fact, my present feelings of indifference towards him show that my affections were not involved, and I am well satisfied to have him leave me as he has done. As to Aunt Patience, I guess we can get along without any of her money. I have several accomplishments that can be turned to account if necessity requires it.

Mrs. G. (with motherly solicitude, and looking at the matter from a practical point of view). But young ladies who earn their own living are considered strong-minded, and never get married. I couldn’t bear to have you an old maid.

C. (calmly). Well, I don’t know as that would be a terrible fate. It would be a more independent life than marriage would give me. On the whole, I think I shall decide to live a single life. (Smiling.) Still, as an old lady of eighty once said: “I’ve made up my mind not to get married, and I don’t expect to; but if the Lord should see fit to send me a good husband, I should try to be resigned.”

(Curtain falls.)

THE GHOSTLY VISITATION. — CHARACTERS.

Flora. Oh, yes, mother believes in ghosts, and haunted houses, and all those things, and I suppose that, as a dutiful daughter, I ought to do the same; but I haven’t very much faith in them.

Mr. Percival. Perhaps, if you had had any experience in that direction, you might feel differently about the matter. I never believed in haunted houses till I visited Charlie Baldwin, my former chum, last summer.

F. Do tell us all about it. I should like to hear a real nice ghost story.

Mrs. Lawrence. I think we’d better wait till daylight before listening to a story of that character.

F. No, it’s just the time for it; it is cold and dark outside. We can more easily imagine the events real. So go on, please, Mr. Percival.

Mr. P.—But my story is not a ghost story at all, and there is really very little to tell. But we heard strange noises for which we could not account. For instance, a door, which led from the house into the shed, had swollen so that it was difficult to shut it, and whenever it was opened and shut it creaked most musically, so that it could be heard in all the lower rooms. One evening we were seated at the tea-table, when we heard the door creaking. “Who is that coming in?” asked Mrs. Baldwin. “It is very strange,” answered Charlie; “I am sure I closed and locked that door not ten minutes ago.”—“Suppose we go out and see what it is,” said Mr. Baldwin. “It certainly had a natural sound.” We all went out in a body, and behold! the door was shut and fastened and everything all right.

F. (interested). Did you hear any other noises while you were there?

Mr. P. Oh, yes, we frequently heard footsteps going up and down stairs after we had gone to bed. Sometimes we could hear the chairs moved about in the rooms below. And once, I remember, we heard a terrific noise, as if the side of the house had fallen in. But the next morning everything seemed as usual, and we laughed about the matter.

F. But were you not startled?

Mr. P. Well, I cannot say I should like to live in that house long.

Mrs. L. If you had heard all these things, Flora, don’t you think you would have faith to believe that there are some strange things which one cannot account for?

F. Oh, yes; “seeing is believing,” as the old saying is, and I suppose hearing is believing also. But I must ask you to excuse me now, Mr. Percival, as I have a letter to write, which must go out by the next mail.

Mr. P. Though we are sorry to lose your company, we will grant you leave of absence for a short time. (Rises and opens the door for her, L. Exit Flora.)

Mr. P. (sitting down near Mrs. L.). The turn which the conversation took just now suggested a plan to me, which, with your permission, I should like to carry out.

Mrs. L. What is it?

Mr. P. You are, of course, aware that I love your daughter, and would gladly marry her. She has rejected me, but still I think she likes me as well or better than any one else. Now, cannot I, by stratagem, bring her to consent to a marriage with me?

Mrs. L. I wish you might do so, and will gladly assist you in any way I can. But what is your plan?

Mr. P. I thought I might, with your assistance, personate the spirit of her former husband, and appear to her to-night while this conversation is fresh in her mind, and warn her, if she wishes him to rest in peace, that she must marry a certain Alfred Percival, who will make her a good husband.

Mrs. L. It is a capital idea. I think the conversation seemed to affect her considerably. Suppose you come here at ten o’clock to-night. I will remain up, and arrange your ghostship.

Mr. P. Very well, I will do so. And I believe I will go now, as I have some preparations to make.

(Exit Mr. Percival, L. Curtain falls.)

F. There’s something going on, I’m sure, but what it can be isn’t quite clear to me. Mother has asked me half-a-dozen times if it wasn’t bed-time; and yet she, herself, hasn’t made any preparation toward retiring. I shall lie down, with my clothes on, ready for any emergency. There’s no danger of sleep overtaking me. I feel as if I shouldn’t sleep any at all to-night.

(She lies down on lounge, in right-hand room, and covers herself with a blanket. A moment after, Mrs. L. looks into Flora’s room and seems satisfied at seeing her apparently asleep. She goes out into left-hand room. A tap is heard at outer door of left-hand room. Exit Mrs. L.)

F. Hark! what noise is that? (Assumes a listening attitude.)

(Voices of Mrs. L. and Mr. P. are heard from behind the scenes.)

Mrs. L. (outside). I am glad you are so punctual. Everything is in readiness. I just looked into Flora’s room and found she was fast asleep.

Mr. P. (in rather a high key). Where shall I go to arrange my costume?

Mrs. L. (deprecatingly). Hush! you mustn’t speak so loud, as her door is ajar. Come with me, and we’ll soon have you fitted out.

(They enter left-hand room cautiously. A sheet lies unfolded on a chair. This Mrs. L. drapes around her companion. He gathers it together so as to conceal his clothes.)

Mrs. L. It will never do to allow your features to show so plainly. You are only Alfred Percival, after all. Flora would recognize you at once.

Mr. P. Suppose I put the sheet over my head? (Does so.) Is that any improvement?

Mrs. L. Yes; but still I think your features would betray you. Let me think a moment. I have it. I will get Mr. Willis’s wig; that will be just the thing.

Mr. P. So it will. That’s a good idea. (She takes wig out of box. Mr. P. puts it on.)

Mrs. L. That’s capital. Now stoop a little, and no one would be likely to recognize you, particularly if they had just waked.

(Flora covers herself again and feigns sleep. Mr. P. enters her room and advances to lounge. Flora moves uneasily; then opens her eyes, and fixes them upon her visitor.)

F. (in apparent horror). Who are you?

Mr. P. (in sepulchral voice). Flora Willis, I am the spirit of your dead husband.

F. But why do you appear to me in this way? If you are really he, why should you come to me at the dead of night?

Mr. P. (in hollow tones). We, who are tenants of another sphere, mingle not with mortals; and it is only when all eyes are closed in slumber that we are permitted to walk the earth.

F. (gaining confidence). But what is your object in coming?

Mr. P. (slowly). I come to warn and advise you. You are young, and, I know, cherish my memory fondly; but I feel sure that you would be happier and enjoy life more, if you should marry again.

F. But who is there I should be happy with?

Mr. P. You have many suitors; choose among them.

F. I’m afraid they want my money more than myself, and such a union would cause a lifetime of misery.

Mr. P. You are mistaken. There is Alfred Percival. He would be a kind husband. It is my wish that you marry him. Promise me that you will do so.

F. I cannot promise; it is too sudden.

Mr. P. Think of it, then. One week from to-night I will visit you again. (Passes slowly out into left-hand room.)

F. (musing). Well, that’s curious. I’ve heard ghost stories of almost every description, but never before did I hear of a ghost making love. For, though he intended to personate a spirit, he certainly spoke of himself. And I suppose he is congratulating himself on having completely deceived me. (Suddenly.) I’d like to know what he and mother are saying about it. And why can’t I? They are only in the next room.

(She rises and creeps cautiously to the door, which stands ajar. Mr. P. has laid aside his ghostly covering and is in the act of passing his wig to Mrs. L. Flora listens.)

Mrs. L. Then you think she did not suspect you?

Mr. P. Apparently not. She appeared quite startled at first, but soon regained her composure.

Mrs. L. I suppose it would be better not to allude to the subject to-morrow.

Mr. P. Not on any account. That would tend to arouse her suspicions. I wouldn’t have her know that I took part in the stratagem.

Mrs. L. And what do you expect will come of it? Of course she would not be likely to come forward and tell you that she was willing to marry you, even if she felt favorably inclined toward you.

Mr. P. (hesitatingly). I think I shall call upon her to-morrow, and then I shall be governed entirely by circumstances.

(Flora hurries back to the lounge. Mr. Percival goes out, L. Mrs. L. cautiously goes and looks in at Flora, who appears to be asleep. Exit Mrs. L., R. Curtain falls.)

F. (soliloquizing). So Mr. Percival is going to call on me to-day. It is quite fortunate I happened to overhear his plans. I suppose he will repeat that momentous question again, and I’ve about made up my mind to accept him. Then the matter will be settled, and I shan’t be worried any more by his importunities. Besides, he is a person of good standing, and I don’t know as I love any one else more; and I don’t think he is after my money. (A pause in which she completes the arrangement of the flowers. Mr. P. enters.)

F. (advancing toward him). Ah, Mr. Percival, I was just thinking of you, and you know the old saying, “If you think of the angels, you’ll soon hear the rustling of their wings.”

Mr. P. Excuse me, but I never heard it expressed in that way before. It has been told me in this wise: His Satanic Majesty is always near when you’re talking of him.

F. I must say my version is more complimentary than yours.

Mr. P. So do I, and I draw encouragement from that fact. If you were thinking of me, I take it as a favorable omen, and shall consider that I am not so disagreeable to you as I feared I was.

F. (interrupting). Oh, by the way, Mr. Percival, I had quite an adventure last night. I saw a real, bona fide ghost.

Mr. P. Did you really?

F. Yes; as I was quietly dozing, a tall figure, clad in white, stalked into my room, and when I opened my eyes I beheld him close beside me, and looking down upon my face.

Mr. P. (avoiding her eyes). And what did he say?

F. (laughing). Oh, he pretended to be the spirit of my former husband, and said I must marry again.

Mr. P. (taking both her hands in his). Why will you not heed his advice? Let me, too, add my solicitations. Marry me, Flora, and you shall never have cause to regret it. (He anxiously waits her reply.)

F. (looking up into his face with an amused smile). Why, Mr. Percival, how much you remind me of my last night’s visitor! The expression of your face, and the lines about your mouth—all but the white sheet and wig.

Mr. P. (changing color). I see that you know all; but grant me a favorable answer, and I shall be well satisfied.

F. (smiling). I suppose I ought to, since it is decided on high authority that it is right and proper I should do so. In that way, if in no other, I shall convince you that I am not afraid of ghosts, if I promise to marry one.

Mr. P. (warmly). And I shall feel well repaid for personating one by the promised reward. Henceforth I shall look with kindness on shadowy apparitions, feeling that, in other cases as well as my own, even ghosts may be of some practical use.

(Curtain falls.)

PRACTICAL HUSBANDRY. — CHARACTERS.

Edwin. Well, Frank, you look decidedly cosey and comfortable, that’s a fact.

Frank (not altering his position, but motioning his visitor to a seat). That’s the way to do. One might as well enjoy life as he goes along. Have a cigar, Aldrich? (Offers him an open case, in which are cigars.)

E. (throwing himself on a lounge, L. C.). No, Frank, I believe not. The fact is, I’ve reformed—given up smoking.

F. Whew! I’ll wager that’s one of the consequences of matrimony.

E. I don’t deny it. But I think smoking is a bad habit, and have thought of giving it up before, but never could persevere till now. That reminds me, Frank; why don’t you marry? I dare say you could find some one in the city foolish enough to take you for better or worse. And you don’t know what a comfort ’tis to a man to have a good wife and a pleasant home.

F. That’s where the trouble is (fondly stroking his mustache). As you say, I could easily persuade some one to marry me, knowing as they do that I possess plenty of money. But don’t you think it would make a difference if I were a poor man?

E. I dare say it might with some persons; but all are not alike. I am sure there are many who esteem wealth of less importance than personal worth.

F. (assuming a sitting posture, and laying cigar down). I have often thought I should like to marry; but when I looked around among the ladies with whom I was brought in contact, I became disgusted to see what frivolous lives they led.

E. But all women are not alike, Frank.

F. That may be so, but where shall I go to look for a different class? I have strong domestic tastes, and would be glad to change my present state of single blessedness for a married life. If I could find my ideal of a wife, I would marry at once.

E. I’ll tell you what it is, Frank. You must go into the country. The girls are mostly sensible there, and think less about dress and fashion. You can assume another name, and then look around you, and become acquainted with some of the country girls. My wife was born and brought up in the country, so I can speak from experience.

F. But how could I manage? I couldn’t go to a hotel and stop with nothing to do. Country girls are ambitious as well as those who live in the city, and if I remained there with no occupation, I should be supposed to be a man of some property, and I shouldn’t be much better off than I am here.

E. That’s so, my friend. I never gave you credit for so much shrewdness. But isn’t there anything you could do,—any kind of business, I mean?

F. I have it. I’ll hire myself out on a farm. In that way, as one of the family, I shall become more intimately acquainted with the neighborhood—girls included.

E. Imagine fastidious Benjamin Franklin Webster dressed in coarse clothes and cowhide boots! (Looking upward.) Shades of the illustrious men whose names he bears, look down with benignity on the depth of degradation to which he proposes to descend!

F. (smiling). That’ll do, Ed. I am only following the example of at least one of those illustrious men in working on a farm.

E. And those delicate hands, that never did any manual labor, are to be used in milking the cows and holding the plough!

F. Laugh away, Ed. I’ve made my plans, and now I’m going to carry them out.

E. But, seriously, will your strength hold out?

F. Without doubt. Besides, every one says farming is the most healthful occupation any one can follow. So you may expect to see me back in the fall so stout and fleshy that my friends will hardly know me.

E. And perhaps you will bring Mrs. Benjamin Franklin Webster with you.

F. That’s very uncertain. I haven’t really very great faith in the project myself; but I’m tired of my present way of living, and any change will be welcome, even if it does not bring about the desired result.

E. But how are you going to obtain the situation?

F. How am I? (Smiling.) That’s the question before the meeting.

E. Suppose you advertise for one. That would be the best way, I think.

F. The very thing. Couldn’t you write an advertisement for me, Ed? You know I’m modest, and couldn’t, of course, speak of my qualifications as well as you could.

(Edwin takes sheet of paper from the table, and writes for a few moments; then reads it.)

E. (reading). “Wanted—By a young man, a situation on a farm. Is willing to work for moderate wages, provided he can learn the business. Address Franklin Forrester, Box 68.” How will that do, Frank?

F. I guess that’ll answer. But what paper would it be best to insert it in? The evening “Herald”?

E. Oh no, that wouldn’t do. It must be an agricultural paper. Better put it into several; then you will be more sure of a reply.

F. I’ll insert it in every agricultural paper in the city. If I get one reply from each, I shall have at least six.

E. Very well. If one has an object in view, there’s nothing like taking every method to accomplish it.

(Curtain falls.)

E. Well, I must say the agricultural papers in the city have a goodly number of subscribers, judging from appearances. This is the first edition of letters, I suppose.

(Exit, L.)

F. Yes, and, judging from the slight examination I have made, it already needs to be revised and corrected. But there’s no doubt about my getting a situation, Ed. You see what a demand there is for my services. Sixty letters already! I can almost imagine myself at the head of a village post-office.

E. The quality may not be as satisfactory as the quantity. But if all these letters are to be examined, we must to work, and use diligence too. Suppose you open them, and read them aloud.

F. That’s a good way. Here’s one written in a wretched hand, which I will read first.

(Cutting off one end of the envelope he draws out a piece of paper about six inches square, which runs thus:)

F. (reading).

E. (laughing). Ha! ha! ha! That’s a good one. If you go there you’ll be sure to learn one branch of the business pretty thoroughly. Shall you accept, and become a member of Mr. Porcupine’s family? By the way, he has a charming name.

F. Yes, characteristic, I dare say. Accept the first chance? No indeed; not as long as I have fifty-nine more left. (Opens another letter.) But what is this?

E. I’m all attention.

F. (reading). Mr. Forrester: “I notice by my paper that you want to learn to farm. I should like to teach you ‘what I know about farming.’ It would take some time to do it, but I would warrant you a good knowledge of farming in six years. You couldn’t fail to get a thorough knowledge of the business, as I should let you do all the work. My health is poor, and I am only able to oversee the work. As you want a situation, you may as well consider yourself engaged. I shall expect you next Monday. Horace Gregory.”

F. Well! that’s cool! I am afraid that man is troubled by a disease called indolence. But, Ed, we are getting along too slowly. Suppose you and I read letters as fast as we can, and if either of us finds one that we consider suitable it shall be read aloud. If not, it shall be thrown into the waste basket.

E. Agreed.

(They look over letters very hurriedly, occasionally laughing aloud as they read something which excites their mirth. At length Edwin says:)

E. Here, Frank, here’s just the place for you. Shall I read?

F. Do so by all means. I am nearly discouraged.

E. (reading). “Franklin Forrester, Esq.—Dear Sir: Uncle William wishes me to write to you concerning an advertisement of yours which he read in our paper. He judges from it that you are not accustomed to working on a farm. He has already two men, but wishes a little more help, provided arrangements satisfactory to both parties could be made. He is willing to pay whatever is reasonable as regard wages, but not knowing how much you can do, he can say nothing more definite. If you wish any further information, a letter directed to William Leighton, Ballardvale, Vermont, will receive prompt attention. But if you prefer to come without writing, uncle will be glad to see you at any time after the receipt of this letter.”

F. (eagerly). What is the signature?

F. There is none, but it is evidently a lady’s hand. What do you think of it?

F. I think I shall start for Ballardvale to-morrow.

E. That’s a wise conclusion. You will be back by Christmas, I doubt not. Probably by that time you will have become a practical farmer.

F. (absently). Time will show.

(Curtain falls.)

Mrs. Leighton. Well, Mr. Forrester, how do you like your first day’s experience on a farm?

F. Very much, indeed. But, you know, I have not had any work to do yet. Mr. Leighton, unlike most employers, has given me a vacation to start with.

Mrs. L. He wishes you to have a little time in which to look around first.

Annie (smiling). You find the hour for rising a little earlier here than in the city, I suppose.

F. Yes, I do. This morning I was awakened by the sound of a bell. I listened, wondering what could be the matter. There were sounds from below, as if something had happened. Doors were opened and shut hurriedly, and I could hear the voices of men outside. I dressed as quickly as I could, and hurried downstairs. But it appeared that nothing unusual had taken place. Mrs. Leighton was getting breakfast, and you were laying the table. I glanced up at the clock, and saw that it was a quarter past four o’clock (smiling),—about four hours earlier than I have been accustomed to rise. Then it occurred to me that people living on farms are obliged to get up early.

Mrs. L. Yes, my mother used to say that an hour in the morning was worth three later in the day. But did you rest well, Mr. Forrester?

F. Oh yes, very well.

Mrs. L. When I pass the night in the city I can’t sleep, there is so much noise. But last summer a lady who was visiting here could not sleep because she missed the noise.

F. There is a great deal in habit. (A pause.) By the way, I said that I had done no work to-day. I forgot to mention that I had accomplished a feat which I never attempted before.

A. What was that?

F. I unharnessed the horse.

A. How did you succeed?

F. I got the harness off, but not very scientifically, I’m afraid, for I heard Mike tell Jerry that that city chap was the curiousest feller he ever see, for he unfastened every buckle that was in the harness, and then left it in a heap on the floor.

A. (smiling). I think that’s a little worse than I should do, for I believe I should endeavor to hang the harness up.

F. To tell the truth, I thought of doing so, but there were so many small pieces that it was impossible. If I had found a basket near, I should have gathered them up and put them in that.

A. That would be a novel method of disposing of it.

Mrs. L. I expect, Mr. Forrester, that you are one of those students who don’t know much about anything but books.

F. At all events I find, in looking around me, that I don’t know much about farming. But there’s one good feature in the case: I am anxious to learn.

Mrs. L. Oh, I haven’t any doubt but you’ll make quite a farmer yet!

(Curtain falls.)

F. (taking up the basket). Now I feel like treating myself and you. Here are some tempting clusters.

(Annie spreads a clean napkin over her dress, while Frank places the grapes upon it. They sit for a moment eating the fruit.)

Mrs. L. (entering, R.). So you have got back again. I was wondering what kept you so long.

F. Congratulate me, Aunt Lucy. Annie has promised to marry me.

Mrs. L. That accounts for your being gone so long. I thought you couldn’t be all this time getting a few grapes. But I’m very glad for you, and think you have both chosen wisely.

F. (slyly glancing at his companion). Perhaps you wouldn’t think it, but Annie offered to pay me for doing it.

A. (with mock indignation). Why, Franklin Forrester!

F. Didn’t you offer me a penny for my thoughts? And haven’t I been thinking of this very thing for the last three months? (Turning to Mrs. L.) But I indignantly refused to receive the money.

Mrs. L. (benignantly). Don’t be foolish, children. Come out now—supper is ready.

(Exit, Mrs. L., R.)

F. (gently detaining Annie, who is about to follow her aunt).—Wait a moment, Annie, I have a disclosure to make. My name is not Frank Forrester, but Franklin Webster.

A. What! Benjamin Franklin Webster, who lives on Marlborough street?

F. Yes.

A. Then you are the Mr. Webster that I have heard Edwin Aldrich speak of.

F. (surprised). Are you acquainted with him?

A. Oh, yes, he’s my cousin.

F. Your cousin? The young reprobate! Excuse me, but he was the very person who suggested the idea of my coming here. I believe he planned the whole affair.

A. I think you are mistaken there; for Uncle William had no thought of hiring another person till he saw your advertisement.

F. Well, of course Ed knew about it when he saw Mr. Leighton’s letter in reply to the advertisement. But, as I was saying, I had the misfortune to lose my parents when quite young, and thereby became heir to a large amount of property. As I grew up to manhood, my society was sought after by all the marriageable young ladies and managing mammas. I determined to find someone who would love me for myself alone; so I came out here, and found my wishes realized. Can you forgive me, Annie?

A. What! for coming out here, and wishing to marry me? Yes, I’ll try to. But (archly) I, too, have a confession to make. I also am possessed of property, and came out here to Uncle William for the self-same reason that you did. But I didn’t change my name. I lived on the street beyond you, in the city. But it seems we were obliged to go a hundred miles from home to become acquainted.

(Edwin enters R., Frank and Annie start up in surprise.)

Edwin. Look here, supper’s been ready this half hour, and the biscuits are nearly cold already.

A. (interrupting). Why, Cousin Ed, when did you arrive?

F. Look here, you villain! You planned this affair!

E. (striking an attitude and speaking in a melancholy tone). He calls me a villain for being the means of making him happy. Annie, if I were you, I’d release him from the engagement at once.

A. (smiling). Come, Edwin, you haven’t told me when you arrived.

E. I have been here two hours.

F. (in a comico-threatening manner). Tell me, sir, did you not plan this whole affair?

E. (more seriously). No, I knew nothing of it till I read the letter in reply to the advertisement. I then recognized the handwriting, and in that way discovered that Annie was stopping here. I felt sure that you would be pleased with one another, and would both pass a pleasant summer, if nothing more came of it. Yesterday was the first day of my vacation, and I thought it time to be looking after you. But aunt tells me you are engaged.

F. Yes, and I feel amply repaid for coming so far, and for working three months on a farm, in order to secure a wife to my mind. If any of my friends in the city are troubled in the same way that I was, I shall recommend to them to try my remedy, trusting it may produce the same gratifying results.

E. And in that way I suppose they may expect to get a good knowledge of “Practical Husbandry.”

(All three bow, and Curtain falls.)

MR. SMITH’S DAY AT HOME. — CHARACTERS.

Mr. Smith. Well, Mrs. Smith, what is the news? You look as sober as if you had lost all your friends.

Mrs. Smith. It is a serious matter. This letter informs me that my sister Sarah is sick, and it is doubtful if she recovers. I ought to go and see her, but I am afraid I shall not be able to do so.

Mr. S. Why, what is the difficulty? I see nothing to prevent your going. I’m sure you haven’t much to do. There are only three of us in the family, and Bridget does all the work.

Mrs. S. Yes, Bridget will do very well, if there’s some one to look after her. But she isn’t one to be depended upon. I shouldn’t dare to leave Willie with her.

Mr. S. I think she would get along well enough.

Mrs. S. I shouldn’t be willing to go under any such circumstances.

Mr. S. Would you be any better satisfied if I should stay at home and look after things?

Mrs. S. Oh, yes, certainly. But could you leave the office for a whole day?

Mr. S. I think so.

Mrs. S. Well, then, I will go on the first train to-morrow morning.

Mr. S. You needn’t hurry back. We shall get along famously, I am sure; so you’d better stay till the late train, if you have the least desire to.

Mrs. S. I should like to do so. That would give me a nice long day there.

Mr. S. (rising). If you take the first train we must be up betimes. What time do the cars leave here?

Mrs. S. At eight o’clock, I believe.

Mr. S. I will go now and write a note to Mr. Ferguson, saying I shall not be at the office to-morrow.

(Exit.)

Mrs. S. (sola). This is a good chance for me. I want very much to see Sarah. And then Mr. Smith is constantly telling me that I can’t have much to do. It will be a good thing for him to have a little experience in house-keeping. I think one day’s trial will be sufficient to satisfy him.

(Curtain falls.)

Bridget, R. C. (washing dishes). An’ what’s Misther Smith at home to-day for, I wonder? Didn’t the missis think she left me enough to do, widout havin’ him round? I was goin’ to invite Ann Malony to come and pass the afthernoon and take tay wid me; but how can I do it wid him spyin’ round?

(Enter Mr. Smith, L.)

Mr. S. Well, Bridget, we are left to keep house all alone to-day.

B. (sullenly). Yis, sir.

Mr. S. What did Mrs. Smith say we were to have for dinner?

B. Cold roast beef and rice puddin’; an’ I was to make some hot biskit.

Mr. S. It won’t take very long to do that, will it?

B. (hoping for leave of absence after dinner). No, sir, I could do that much in an hour.

Mr. S. Well, Bridget, Mrs. Smith is to be away all day, and I thought we’d clean the kitchen closet while she’s gone, and so surprise her when she comes home.

B. An’ d’ye think I’ll begin a big job like that while she’s away? She always helps me at cleanin’-house time.

Mr. S. Oh, well, I’ll help you. I’ll take down the dishes, and you can wash and wipe them, and wash out the closet. Then I’ll help you put them back again.

B. Axin’ yer pardon, sir, I can’t do it.

Mr. S. What! do you refuse to obey orders? (Sarcastically.) I suppose you’ll expect to receive your wages just the same.

B. Av coorse I shall. I never refuses to do anything the missis requires, but I aint goin’ to be ordered round by a man.

Mr. S. If you’re not willing to do what I tell you, the sooner you find another place, the better.

B. (angrily). I’m goin’ to lave the house this blessed minnit, so I am. It’s Bridget McFinnigan that won’t be imposed upon by the likes uv you, or any other man! (She takes off her apron hastily, throws it over a chair, and leaves the room, R., full of indignation.)

Mr. S. Well, I’m afraid I’ve got myself into trouble. I’d better have waited till after dinner before speaking about cleaning. But, as it seems I’ve got to do what I can, alone, I might as well finish washing the breakfast dishes. (Takes Bridget’s apron, and ties it on loosely. He begins to wipe a plate, but it falls from his hands and is broken.) There goes a plate. I must go and throw it into the stove, or Mrs. Smith will be twitting me about breaking things. (Goes to the next room, R., where a stove is supposed to be, and leaves the broken plate. Returns and commences washing dishes again.) After all, there isn’t much work about keeping house. It’s astonishing how these women can employ all their time! Perhaps it is better that Bridget left me as she did to-day, as now I can show Mrs. Smith how easily housework may be disposed of.

Willie (enters, L., with torn clothes, and rubbing his eyes with his hands). Ur-r-r-r, ur-r-r-r, (louder) ur-r-r-r!

Mr. S. What’s the matter? What’s the matter?

W. (crying). Sammy Snow set his dog on to me, and hurt me. Ur-r-r-r!

Mr. S. Well, be a brave boy, and don’t cry.

W. (crying). Give me some raisins, and I won’t.

Mr. S. I don’t know where mamma keeps them.

W. I do; it’s in the kitchen closet.

Mr. S. Does mamma give them to you?

W. Sometimes, and sometimes I get them myself.

Mr. S. Well, you can get a very few. Raisins are not good for little boys.

W. (aside). I guess I’ll have enough raisins this time. (Goes out, R.)

Mr. S. I ought to finish washing the dishes, but perhaps I’d better see about dinner, first. Let me see. We were to have rice pudding. I haven’t time to make an elaborate pudding. I think I’ll just boil some rice. That is always good.

(He goes toward the table, but steps on his apron and falls. He reaches forward to take hold of the table, but, instead, grasps the paper of rice, and both go on to the floor, the rice scattering in all directions. He gets up, rubbing his bruised arm, and looks ruefully at the scene before him; just then Willie comes in crying.)

W. There aint any raisins there, ur-r-r! Papa, what was I crying for, ur-r-r!

Mr. S. (coaxing him). Don’t cry, Willie, but come and help papa pick up this rice, and you shall have an orange when I go to the store.

W. I want it now.

Mr. S. I haven’t got one now; but here’s an apple, and I’ll give you an orange this afternoon. (Willie takes the apple. They gather up some of the rice, leaving the greater part of it on the floor.) I wonder how much of this I ought to boil. There are only two of us. I think a quart will be enough. (Measures it.) I don’t know but it ought to be picked over. (Looks at watch.) No, I shan’t have time. Of course it’s clean enough; the floor is swept every day. (Goes out, R., with rice; returns.) The next thing is biscuit. That’s an easy matter. I have only to mix flour and water together, and put it into the oven. (Pours flour into a pan, and adds water.) I believe it is customary to knead it well with the hands. (Puts his hands in, and stirs ingredients together. At that moment a ring is heard at the door.) I declare if that isn’t the door-bell. But I shan’t answer it,—not if they ring a dozen times.

W. (who has peeped out of the window, L.) Papa, it’s the Ashtons! (An aristocratic family who have never before called on the Smiths.)

Mr. S. Is it? (Thinks for a moment; the bell rings again.) Willie, can’t you go to the door, and show the ladies into the parlor? Then come out here, and I will go in and see them. Stop a moment, your face isn’t clean. (The bell rings again.) No matter; come here and wipe it on my apron. Now go, like a good boy.

(Willie goes to answer the bell, but, being a little confused, shows the visitors into the dining-room, L. Mrs. and Miss Ashton look around the room and exchange significant glances.)

Mr. S. (discomposed, takes his hands out of the dough, and wipes them on his apron). Willie, why did you bring the ladies into this room? I beg your pardon, ladies; won’t you go into the parlor? I will be in directly.

Mrs. A. (superciliously). Thank you; but we called to see Mrs. Smith. Is she at home?

Mr. S. No, she is not. Her sister is dangerously ill, and has sent for her. She will be at home this evening.

Mrs. A. Then we will call again (significantly), at a more auspicious time.

Mr. S. I trust you will excuse my appearance. Soon after Mrs. Smith was gone, the servant left me and—

Mrs. A. Ah, yes! I understand—Good morning! (Aside to her daughter.) What a low family! I shall not think of calling again.

(Exeunt, L.)

Mr. S. (provoked). Why didn’t you take those ladies into the parlor, as I told you, Willie?

Willie (terrified). I didn’t mean to, papa. Don’t scold. I won’t do so again.

Mr. S. Well, see that you don’t. (Soliloquizes.) I wonder if I ought to put this bread in another pan before baking. I guess, however, this one will do just as well. I’ve got dishes enough to wash already. I must put this bread into the oven, and look after the rice. It is fortunate we have some cold meat for dinner, as I haven’t time to cook any. (Goes out with bread; returns.) I must pile up those dishes and set the table for dinner. Then I can wash all the dishes at once. Who would think that that rice would have swelled so? There is nearly a peck of it already, and it is still rising. Half a cup full would have been enough. But, no matter, we shan’t have to cook any again very soon. I declare I must go and see to the bread; it must be done by this time. (Goes out; returns, and finishes setting the table.) The bread is all done. It didn’t rise much, and, somehow, I can’t get it out of the pan, but it seems to have baked well. Perhaps I ought to have buttered the pan. (Suddenly.) There, I forgot to boil some potatoes. Well, it can’t be helped. At all events, we’ve got plenty of rice, and that must take its place.

(Exit, R.)

(He brings in a small dish of meat, the pan of bread, and afterwards an enormous soup tureen heaped up with boiled rice. The tureen may be nearly filled up with any other substance, and the rice placed on top, causing an observer to think it is entirely filled with rice.)

Mr. S. (goes to the door, L., and calls). Willie! Willie! dinner is ready.

W. (entering). I’m as hungry as a bear.

Mr. S. Well, we’ve got plenty to eat. (Helps him to meat and rice.)

W. Isn’t there any potatoes?

Mr. S. No, but here’s some bread. (Tries to cut the bread, but does not succeed. At that moment the door opens, and Mrs. Smith walks in, L. She glances at the table, and bursts into a laugh.)

Mrs. S. What have you got for dinner, Mr. Smith? I think you must be fond of rice!

Mr. S. (rising). Don’t say a word, my dear, don’t say a word! I’ve had trials enough this morning to drive a man crazy. Say anything you please about the drudgery of housework, and I will agree with you. I’ve had an experience this forenoon which I shall not forget in a lifetime!

Mrs. S. If it causes you to be more considerate in future, I shall not regret having left you. I think you must have done something, judging from the appearance of the room. (Looks around.)

Mr. S. And I suppose you think the prospect is, that there is still something left to do. But as you have got home so early, I think I’ll go down to the office a while. I have a slight headache, and think a change of scene would benefit me.

(Exit, L.)

W. (rushing to door). Don’t forget my orange, papa.

(Curtain falls.)

THE COUNTRY COUSIN. — CHARACTERS.

Mrs. Atherton. Did you hear your father say we were to expect a visitor to-day?

Blanche (surprised). No, I heard nothing of it. Who is it?

Mrs. A. The daughter of his only sister, who married a farmer in the little village of Donnellsville.

B. Do you know anything of her?

Mrs. A. No. They live at such a distance, that there has been but little communication between the two families. Your father met Mr. Haynes in the city a few days ago, and invited him to send his daughter here for a visit. This letter, which he has just received, announces that she will be here to-day.

B. Do you know her name?

Mrs. A. Eunice Haynes.

B. What a wretchedly countrified name! And how unfortunate that she should come just at this time. Next week, you know, we are to have our party, and of course she will have to be present. I have no doubt she is a country gawky, whose conversation will be mostly of “aour caows,” and how much butter and cheese we make.

Mrs. A. No doubt. I wonder that your father should have invited her here until some of us had seen her.

B. As to that, I don’t know how we should ever see her unless she came here. It will be bad enough to receive a visit from her, but it would be still worse for us to visit them. I have no doubt they are genuine rustics, who keep no servants, talk bad grammar, and take their meals in the kitchen.

Mrs. A. Very likely.

B. And then I suppose her dresses will all be calico or gingham, having all the colors of the rainbow. No doubt she will select the gayest of them all for the party. How disgusted I am at the thought of this visit! I wish it were well over.

Mrs. A. So do I. But couldn’t you pass her off as Isabel’s governess?

B. No, that wouldn’t do at all. In fact, she probably couldn’t sustain that character. Besides, papa has such strange, out-of-the-way notions on such points, that I fear he would be angry if such a thing were attempted.

Mrs. A. Perhaps, after all, it may not be as bad as you think, Blanche. We will wait patiently, and not judge her till she arrives.

B. And, by the way, you promised to go out with me to select a dress for the party. We ought to go now, I think. Otherwise we shall be obliged to invite our cousin (with emphasis) to go with us.

(Exeunt, R. Curtain falls.)

Servant. This is the room you are to have, miss. Mrs. Atherton and Miss Blanche have gone out, but will be in soon.

Eunice. Very well. (Exeunt Servant, R. Eunice takes off bonnet and shawl, and lays them on the table. Afterward takes up a book, sits down, and begins to read.)

(Mrs. B. and Blanche enter the other chamber, L., and lay aside their outer garments.)

B. I wonder when our rustic friend will arrive? (Eunice looks and listens attentively.) I am quite curious to see her. I suppose she will begin by giving me an account of all the household matters in particular, and the farm-work in general. I can imagine her dressed in a rainbow-colored costume, making a deep courtesy to you, and giving a nod of recognition to your humble servant. I dare say before night she will tell me confidentially all about the country swain whom she most favors.

Mrs. A. Why, Blanche, how you do run on! Don’t, I beg of you, make her appear any more ridiculous than she naturally is. And, above all things else, pray don’t introduce the subject of cows.

B. I’m sure I don’t see any harm in drawing her out. It will be so amusing. I will invite her to go shopping with me to-morrow, just to see how she will stare in the windows. There will be a slight contrast between our large and fashionable stores and the one little variety store in her native village, where they sell everything from a peck of potatoes to a silk dress.

Mrs. A. I should be too much mortified to do so. But she may have arrived already. Let us go down and see.

(Exeunt.)

E. (astonished and amused). Is it possible that my aunt and cousin expect to find me so countrified? It would be cruel in me to disappoint their expectations. I have always been considered quite good at imitation, and I have a great mind to personate, for a little while, the character of a backwood’s maiden—for my amusement as well us theirs. I must practise a little, first, in order to carry it out well. (Goes to mirror and makes a low courtesy.) Why, haow d’ye do, Aunt Tildy? I’m proper glad to see ye. And haow d’ye do, Blanche? I’m dreadful tickled to meet ye. (Turns round smiling.) I wonder how it would do to give her what Charlie calls a “Down East hug.” They would be fairly horrified, I think. But I will be governed by circumstances, and go down to meet them without further delay.

(Goes out, R. Curtain falls.)

E. (looking round). What! are they not here yet? I supposed they were coming directly downstairs. However, I will sit down and await their coming. Ah! there they are now.

(Mrs. A. and Blanche enter, L.)

Mrs. A. (coming forward). I didn’t know you had arrived, Eunice. I have just returned from—

E. (interrupting her by advancing and throwing her arms around her neck). Why, haow d’ye do, Aunt Tildy? I’m proper glad to see ye. (Mrs. A. withdraws from the embrace with a disgusted expression of countenance, and smooths down her collar, which was disarranged by it. E. advances to Blanche, who, fearing a like salutation, takes a step backward, and holds out the tips of her fingers to her cousin. E. grasps them vigorously, and, stepping forward, bestows a loud kiss upon her cousin’s cheek. Blanche, with a slight frown, takes her handkerchief and wipes it off.) How d’ye do, Cousin Blanche? I’m dreadful tickled to meet ye.

B. (smiling). And I am glad to make your acquaintance, Eunice. When did you leave home?

E. Day before yesterday.

Mrs. A. You must be quite fatigued (E. stares)—tired, perhaps I should say—with your journey.

E. No; I aint tired a mite.

B. Were you ever in the city before?

E. I guess not. I don’t remember it if I was. It looks queer enough to see the houses crowded so thick together. And I haven’t seen a barn since I came. I suppose, though, they’re all in back of the houses; but then I don’t see how folks get their caows in and out. I s’pose they pastur’ ’em on the common.

B. Oh, no, they wouldn’t be allowed in any of the parks. It is too thickly settled here for any one to keep cows.

E. You don’t mean to say that you have to buy all your butter! It must cost a sight. Why, if I’d a’ known it, I’d have brought you a mess. We churned the day before I came away, and the butter came tip-top.

(Mrs. A. quietly leaves the room, R.)

E. (noticing her aunt’s exit). I s’pose your mother’s gone out to get tea. If you want to help her, don’t let me hinder you. And if there’s anything that I can do, jest let me know, for I’d just as lieves help as not.

B. Thank you, but there’s no need. We leave that for the servants.

E. How many helps do you keep?

B. There are four, I believe.

E. And how many have you in family?

B. (smiling). Four persons.

E. (in assumed amazement). Well, that beats all that ever I heard. What do they all do?

B. We have a cook, housemaid, chambermaid, and seamstress, and they all seem to find enough to occupy their time.

(Bell rings.)

E. What’s that bell for?

B. (rising). That is to call us to dinner.

E. (rising). What, dinner at six o’clock! At home we have dinner at twelve, and supper at five. And you ought to see our bell! Why, you can hear it most half a mile. We have it to call the men from the field to their meals.

(Exeunt, R. Curtain falls.)

B. Well, ma, what do you think now? Isn’t Eunice the most countrified specimen you ever saw?

Mrs. A. I must admit that she is decidedly rustic.

B. But did you notice the blunders she made at dinner?

Mrs. A. I saw that she ate with her knife, and didn’t use her napkin.

B. (much amused). That reminds me that when I took my napkin from the ring, she asked me if I used a towel in my lap because I was afraid of spoiling my dress. She also said that, at home, the younger children wore bibs, and she wondered we didn’t put one on to Isabel. (Greatly amused.) Imagine Isabel,—a girl nine years old, with a bib on!

Mrs. A. I’m afraid she wouldn’t submit to it very quietly.

B. Then she took butter from the plate with her own knife, and when pa asked her if she would have more of the meat, she said, “No; I’ve had enough for this time.”

Mrs. A. I think your father must have noticed her awkwardness.

B. I don’t see how he could help it. But he would not allow her to see that he noticed it.

Mrs. A. What did she say to the piano? I heard you playing for her.

B. (laughing). She thought it was a queer-looking thing, and said it must be hard to work it.

Mrs. A. Where is she now?

B. She has retired. She said she always went to bed as soon as it grew dark. I should think she had been living in the woods all her life.

Mrs. A. And yet, with all her blunders, she is quite pretty, and dresses with a good deal of taste.

B. That is true. And yet, with such an ignorance of conventional rules, what sort of a figure will she make at our party?

Mrs. A. You will have to make the best of it, and hint to any one that you may introduce to her that she is a country cousin.

(Curtain falls.)

B. (beckoning to Mr. W., who comes to her, and speaking in a low but audible tone). Mr. Warner, I wish to introduce you to a cousin of mine, a rustic damsel, who has never been to the city before. She is fresh from the country, and I doubt not you will be greatly amused by her conversation. There she is near the piano.

Mr. Warner (surprised). What, that young lady so tastefully dressed! It cannot be! You are surely joking, Miss Atherton.

B. (smiling). You will discover by her conversation that I have spoken truly. But here we are.—Mr. Warner desires the honor of an introduction, Cousin Eunice. Miss Haynes—Mr. Warner.

(Blanche retires to another part of the stage, L. Eunice bows without any show of embarrassment.)

Mr. W. Have you been long in the city, Miss Haynes?

E. But a few days.

Mr. W. And how do you enjoy it?

E. You will perhaps laugh at my lack of taste, when I say that, in my judgment, it does not compare favorably with the country. City life is too artificial to satisfy me.

Mr. W. And yet city life has many advantages which you probably do not get in the country,—lectures, concerts, and the opera, for example.

E. I confess these are advantages which I should be glad to enjoy, and should fully appreciate. In these latter days, however, most of the lectures are reported in the papers.

Mr. W. Yes, but in reading them one does not get the full enjoyment that is had in hearing them delivered.

E. That is true. It is also a great deprivation not to be able to hear the great singers of the day.

Mr. W. Then you are fond of music?

E. I am very fond of it.

Mr. W. Do you play?

E. A little, sometimes, for my own amusement.

Mr. W. Then let me beg a favor of you. There is a pause in the conversation and music is called for. Allow me to lead you to the piano.

E. I will play if you wish it, but I fear you will be disappointed.

(Mr. W. conducts her to the piano, R. C., to Blanche’s great astonishment. Guests look on and listen with interest. E. plays a short prelude, and sings in a clear, sweet voice, which excites general admiration, the following song:)

(Curtain falls.)

B. Do tell me, Eunice, what this means. I am so curious to have it explained.

E. So I supposed. But confess the truth, Blanche. Didn’t you think me a genuine rustic, very ignorant, and quite countrified?

B. I certainly did, but you surely gave me reason. I give you credit for acting your part well. But what induced you to take upon yourself such a character?

E. I was afraid of disappointing you.

B. (surprised). Disappointing me?

E. (smiling). Yes. The day of my arrival I was shown by the servant into the room provided for me. I had scarcely laid aside my bonnet and shawl when you and Aunt Matilda came into the chamber adjoining mine. Unintentionally I overheard you conversing of me. You both had the impression that, as I lived in the country, I must be ignorant and uncultivated. I therefore decided to continue the illusion for a short time. When the party came off, it seemed a fitting time for me to appear in my true character.

B. I am glad that you are not what you seemed. I was almost overcome by your vigorous salute, and your talk about pasturing cows in the parks, and so on; and I feared that you might introduce these topics as the subjects of your conversation at the party.

E. Fortunately no such mishap occurred, and since you prefer me in my present character, I will still retain it, trusting that you may never again have cause to be disturbed at the rusticity of your Country Cousin.

(Curtain falls.)

TAKING POISON. — CHARACTERS.

Mr. Fisher. How weak I am! I wonder what can be the matter? (Presses his hand first on one cheek, and then the other.) I think I’m a little feverish. (Coughs as if it pained him.) And then this cough; I’m sure my lungs must be affected. But then that’s no wonder, for most of our family died of consumption, and I dare say I shall go in the same way. (Petulantly.) I wonder where Susan is; she’s always gone when I want her. (Rings the bell; servant enters, L.) Mary, where is Mrs. Fisher?

Mary. She went an hour ago, sir. Your sister, Miss Helen, came for her to go shopping, and the two of them went out then.

Mr. F. (sighing, and leaning back in his chair). Did she say what time she would be back?

M. She did not, then. May be they won’t be home till dark.

Mr. F. I shall be sick in bed before that time.

M. Couldn’t I do something for you, sir?

Mr. F. (shaking his head mournfully). No. (A pause.) Do you know where Mrs. Fisher keeps the cough drops?

M. I do not, sir.

Mr. F. Well, then, it’s no matter. I’ll wait till she comes.

M. Very well, sir.

(Exit Mary, L.)

(Mr. F. leans back in his chair, and rocks for a few moments with closed eyes. He then opens his eyes, and rises slowly.)

Mr. F. It must be that Susan keeps the cough mixture in the closet. I’ll see. (Goes to closet, L., and returns, bringing a bottle, having no label on it, with him.) Yes, here it is. I will take a teaspoonful. (He takes a spoon from the table, and filling it carefully, swallows the contents.) I hope that will make me feel better. (Sits down again in the rocking-chair.) I don’t see what keeps Susan away so long. It always was a mystery to me how women could enjoy shopping as they do. (Begins to cough.) I believe I’ll go into the dining-room and get some water. (Goes out, R.; enter Mary, L.)

M. (looking around). So master’s gone out. It’ll do him good, I’m thinking. Sure I don’t see how missis gets along wid him, when he’s so fussy. (Goes to closet, L., and after a short stop, returns and exit, L. Mr. F. reappears, R., bearing a glass of water, which he places on the table. He continues to cough.)

Mr. F. The water does not remove the irritation in my throat. I must take some more of the drops. (Goes to closet, L., and returns with a bottle; a label on it this time. He gazes at the label, and starts back in terror.) What’s this? Poison? And I’ve already taken a spoonful of it! That was what made me feel so strangely. Oh, I’m a doomed man! (He rings the bell violently, and sinks into a chair. Mary enters, L.)

M. Oh, lor sakes, what makes you look so pale, sir?

Mr. F. (excitedly). I’ve taken poison, Mary. I feel a pain in my side, already. Why doesn’t Mrs. Fisher come home? Oh, dear, what shall I do?

M. Can’t I get you something to take, sir?

Mr. F. (impatiently). Oh, no, no. I’ve taken too much already. Nothing would help me now. I feel the poison coursing through my veins already, and cold chills are passing over me. Bring a blanket to cover me, Mary. I hope I shan’t die before Susan comes.

(Mary brings a pillow, which she places behind him, and puts a blanket over his knees.)

M. Don’t you feel a little better now, sir?

Mr. F. (with an injured look.) Better! People don’t usually feel better when they are dying. (Sound of a bell is heard outside.)

M. Mrs. Fisher is come.

(Exit Mary, L., and, in a moment, enter Mrs. Fisher and Helen, R.)

Mrs. Fisher (with solicitude; going toward her husband). Why, Lewis, what’s the matter? Are you sick?

Mr. F. Yes, Susan; not merely sick, but dying.

Mrs. F. (perplexed). What can you mean, Lewis? You left home this morning apparently well, and, after an hour’s absence, I return to find you nervous and excited. You look sick, too. Do tell me what is the cause.

Mr. F. (excited). That I can very easily do. I was sick—quite feverish—and had a bad cough, so I thought I’d take some drops to relieve it.

Mrs. F. That was right.

Mr. F. I went to the closet, and took a spoonful, and thought they helped me. So, in half an hour, I went and got some more to take, when I noticed the label on the bottle, and found that, instead of cough-drops, I had been taking poison.

Mrs. F. O Lewis, how could you make such a mistake? (Clasping her hands.) What shall we do?

Helen (coolly). Send for the doctor, I should say, if you haven’t both taken leave of your senses.

Mrs. F. Yes, send Mary for the doctor at once. Why didn’t we think of it sooner?

Mr. F. (dismally). It will do no good. Nothing can be done now. I feel cold chills passing over me. I shall not probably be alive when he reaches here. It will only take up the little time there is left.

H. I shall send Mary for the doctor, at all events.

(Exit, L.)

(Mr. F. moans frequently. Mrs. F. is occupied in chafing his wrists. Suddenly Mr. F. speaks.)

Mr. F. Susan.

Mrs. S. (through her tears). Well, Lewis.

Mr. F. You’ve been a good wife to me, Susan.

Mrs. F. I’ve tried to be, Lewis.

Mr. F. I’m glad you will be left in comfortable circumstances at my death. I’ve left my whole property to you. In my little black trunk you will find all my valuable papers. Here is the key. (Passes it to her.)

Mrs. F. (sobbing, but takes the key). Don’t think of such things, Lewis. You must live—for me. I’m sure that the doctor can help you.

Mr. F. (mournfully). No, it’s too late—too late. I would like to have lived longer, but I must submit to my fate.

(Enter Dr. Gibbs, L.)

Dr. Gibbs (cheerily). Well, my friend, what’s the matter with you?

Mr. F. (tragically). Poison!

Dr. G. (surprised). What! Got tired of living, hey?

Mr. F. (wearily). Tell him about it, Susan.

Mrs. F. It was a terrible mistake, doctor. He intended to take some cough drops, but, instead, took some laudanum.

Dr. G. (feeling his pulse). How do you feel?

Mr. F. I feel cold chills passing over me, and it seems us if a thousand needles were pricking my flesh; and I have got a terrible headache.

Dr. G. But those are not the symptoms of poison. How long is it since you took it?

Mr. F. More than an hour and a half ago.

Dr. G. I don’t believe it was poison at all. I see no signs of it.

Mr. F. But I saw the label.

Dr. G. Let me see the bottle. (Mrs. F. brings the bottle from closet, L. Dr. G. smells of the mixture, and then prepares to taste it.)

Mrs. F. Oh, don’t taste it, doctor. It may be the death of you too.

(The doctor lifts the bottle to his lips.)

Dr. G. This is not poison. It is cough-drops, as I expected. Moreover, it is some that I mixed myself, and I know there’s no poison in it. But how came that label on it?

Mrs. F. I prepared the label just before I went away, and told Mary to paste it on the bottle of laudanum. But it seems she must have pasted it on the wrong bottle.

Mr. F. (eagerly). And haven’t I swallowed poison, after all?

Dr. G. (dryly). Not unless you’ve taken it from some other bottle.

Mrs. F. How thankful I am that it was a mistake; aren’t you, Lewis?

Mr. F. Indeed I am. (A pause.) By the way, Susan, you might as well hand me back the key of the little black trunk.

(Curtain falls.)

DEACON ROBINSON’S PRESENT. — CHARACTERS.

(Deacon Robinson is attired in a blue suit. The coat is short-waisted, old-fashioned, and ornamented with brass buttons. He wears a broad-brimmed beaver, far from new. Charles Herbert Fitz Howard is dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a jaunty little hat on the side of his head, and a suit of clothes cut in the most fashionable style.)

Landlord. Good-evening, deacon.

Dea. Robinson. Good-evening. I’ve come down from Morristown to ’tend the convention. I may be here two or three days. Can you give me a room?

L. (suavely). Oh, yes, certainly; a nice room, too. Will you order supper before going up stairs?

Dea. R. Supper! No, indeed! It’s nine o’clock, and I’m going to bed. Besides, I took supper afore I left home.

L. But you’ll register your name, first? (Passes pen to him.)

Dea. R. (takes from his pocket a tin case, which he opens, takes therefrom a pair of spectacles, which he adjusts upon his nose). Wal, yes, I hain’t no objection. (Writes.)

L. Here, John, take this lamp and show the gentleman up to Number 33.

John. Yes, sir. (Takes lamp and goes out, followed by the Deacon.)

(Enter Charles Herbert Fitz Howard, L.)

Fitz Howard. Aw—I say—aw—can you give me a good room?

L. Yes sir, directly. But, beg pardon, sir; perhaps you’d like some supper first?

F. H. Aw—yes, but I’ll go to my room first—aw, and make my toilet—remove the dust and travel—aw.

L. Your name, sir! (Offers pen.)

F. H. Aw—yes—I had forgotten. (Looking at pen—tries it.) What a deuced poor pen! (Enter John, R.)

L. Here is another. (Offers it.)

F. H. (takes it; gazes at book before him). Deacon Jonathan Robinson—aw. What a name! Not much like the next one. (Writes.) Charles Herbert Fitz Howard—aw.

J. Ain’t he a swell, though?

L. (in a warning tone). John.

J. Yes, sir.

L. Show this gentleman up to number 35.

J. Yes, sir. (To Fitz Howard.) This way, sir.

(Exeunt, R. Curtain falls.)

Dea. R. I don’t see but I’ve got to wear these clothes, as long as the others are gone, for the convention meets at nine, and I shan’t have much more’n time to eat my breakfast. But it beats all where them other clothes went to, and where these come from. I declare, I never heard o’ such a thing in my born days. (He thinks a moment—his face brightens.) Yes, it must be—there’s no other way. Some of my friends here in Rossville must ha’ clubbed together, and bought me this new suit, knowing I was to be here to the convention. But when could they ha’ brought them in, and taken my others away, for I’ve had my door locked ever since I came into the room? Oh, I remember now, last night, when there was an alarm of fire, I slipped on my overcoat, and went into the entry to see where ’twas; but findin’ ’twas a false alarm, I came back in less than ten minutes. They must ha’ been dreadful spry to ha’ made the change so quick. (Apprehensively—taking up the coat.) I’m afraid they’re too gay for me, but I seem to be ’bleeged to wear ’em. (Puts on the vest.) I wonder if the coat fits as well as the rest. (Puts it on and stands up before the glass, R. Complacently.) Well, it’s a complete fit, and it does really improve me amazin’ly—makes me look a good deal younger. The cloth seems good too. They must ha’ cost a good deal. Really, my friends have been very kind, but I do wish they’d brought a different hat. (Puts on the hat, which looks very jaunty for one of his years.) Perhaps I can exchange it to-morrow, but I’ve got to wear it to-day, at any rate. There’s one thing I haven’t thought of afore (feeling in pockets). I wonder whether they thought to change things in the pockets from the old to the new. There aint a single thing in any of ’em. (Irresolutely.) And what shall I do without money? (Goes quickly to overcoat, and puts his hand in pocket.) Ah, here is the old wallet. (With a sigh of relief.) Lucky for me I bought a newspaper last evening, or that pocket-book would ha’ been gone too. I must go down and see if I can hear anything about the rest of the things.

(Exit, L. Curtain falls.)

F. H. Well—aw—I’m sure, I don’t see what I’m going to do. I never can go out on the street—aw—wearing such wretched-looking clothes. (Standing up suddenly and gazing upon them.) Why, they’re absolutely horwid. It’s strange—aw—how anybody could have been quick enough—aw—to change those clothes in the five minutes I was out—aw—last night at the alarm of fire. I should just like to get hold of the thief—aw—that’s all. I guess—aw—he’d never steal anything else. (A pause. Emphatically.) I won’t wear this horwid-looking coat (lifting it up.) What would Dick Hayes or Harwy Nichols say—aw—to see me dressed in this style! I won’t wear the shabby ole thing. (Throws it to the other end of the room, R.) I should feel—aw—as if I was my own grandfather. And this horwid old hat. (Takes it in his hand, and with a kick sends it after the coat.) Aw—I’ll ring for the landlord. (Rings furiously. John enters, R.)

F. H. Aw—where’s the landlord—aw?

J. He’s gone away.

F. H. When he comes back—aw—I want to see him.

J. Yes, sir; but he may not be back till noon, but I’ll tell him when he comes.

(Exit John, R.)

F. H. (solus). Well—aw—there’s no help from that quarter. I don’t see but I’ve got to come to it, for if I don’t wear these clothes—aw—what shall I wear? There isn’t any shop that sells ready-made clothing that I’d be willing to wear—aw—and if there was I haven’t money enough to spare to buy another suit. (Groaning.) I don’t see but I must wear it. (Puts on vest and coat—looks in mirror.) Oh, dear! Aw—what a fright! And I was going to call on Arabella Meade this morning. (Puts on hat, which, being a little too large for him, settles down on the back side of his head. He paces back and forth, looking down.) But there’s no use in my going there to-day. The servants would take me—aw—for a ragamuffin, and thrust me out of the house—aw—if I attempted to enter it. I suppose I shall have to go down in this costume—aw—and see if I cannot find some clue to my own clothes—aw.

(Exit, L. Curtain falls.)

Dea. R. (cordially). How do you do, Dr. Cummings?

Dr. C. (distantly). Really, sir, you have the advantage of me!

Dea. R. What, don’t you recognize me? You’ve known me for the last twenty-five years. I’m Deacon Jonathan Robinson, of Morristown.

Dr. C. Why, bless my soul, so you are! But, good gracious, deacon, what possessed you to dress in this strange way?

Dea. R. Strange?

Dr. C. (sternly). Yes. I consider it discreditable to one of your years, sobriety, and position in the community, to make such a popinjay of yourself.

Dea. R. (uncomfortably). But it isn’t my doings.

Dr. C. Isn’t your doings? Then whose is it? I don’t understand it. Surely Mrs. Robinson doesn’t countenance such folly!

Dea. R. She doesn’t know anything about it.

Dr. C. No; I thought not.

Dea. R. (a little vexed). If you won’t be in such a hurry, Dr. Cummings, I’ll explain it all. You see I came over to Rossville last evening and put up here. I went to bed early, but about midnight there was a cry of fire. I slipped on my overcoat, and went into the entry to learn whether it was near by. In a few minutes I heard that it was a false alarm. I hurried back to my room, which I couldn’t have been out of more’n ten minutes, and locked my door. Then I went to bed and to sleep. When I waked in the morning my old clothes, which have done me such faithful service, were gone, and these were left in their place.

Dr. C. How do you suppose they came there?

Dea. R. It is my opinion that my friends in Rossville, knowing that I was to attend a convention, took this way of presenting me with a new and fashionable suit of clothes.

Dr. C. (shaking his head). It’s a strange story.

(Enter Mrs. R. R. She starts back, surprised at the appearance of her husband.)

Mrs. Robinson (sharply). I should like to know, Deacon Robinson, what has put it into your head to dress in this ridiculous style; you, a man most sixty years old!

Dea. R. I’m only fifty-eight.

Mrs. R. And you dress as if you were eighteen. You refuse me a silk dress, and then go and squander your money on this foolish rig. I should think you had gone stark, staring mad.

Dea. R. (anxiously). Stop, Reeny, I’ll explain it all. My friends in Rossville came and brought me this suit in the night.

Mrs. R. (contemptuously). Fiddlestick! Do you expect me to believe that ridiculous story? I’m really afraid you’ve been drinking. Nothing else could ha’ brought you to make such a fool of yourself.

Dea. R. (excitedly). Mrs. Robinson, I command you to be silent. It’s you that are makin’ a fool o’ yourself, I’d have you to know. It’s enough for you to think of your own dress, and not interfere with mine.

Mrs. R. (wringing her hands). O Jonathan, is this the way you speak to me, who’ve been a faithful wife to you for more than thirty years?

(Fitz Howard, clad in the Deacon’s old-fashioned garments, bursts into the room, L., and rushes up to Dea. R., assuming a belligerent attitude.)

F. H. So you’re the thief—aw—you rascal—

Dr. C. (rising and coming forward). What does this mean?

F. H. (gesticulating violently). It means—aw—that this fellah has run off with my clothes—a hundred-dollar suit, and left—aw—this worthless rubbish (extending his arms as if to show the clothes) in its place. (In a loud tone.) Help! Police—aw—where’s the police?

Mrs. R. (indignantly). O Jonathan, have you brought disgrace upon your innocent wife and family by this strange conduct?

Dr. C. (in tones of horror). O Deacon!

Dea. R. Hear me; hear me. There’s some strange mistake.

F. H. There’s no mistake about it. Bring the police.

(Police enter, L., and endeavor to handcuff him. Dea. R. struggles furiously.)

Dea. R. I won’t go to jail. Call the landlord.

Mrs. R. (earnestly). Yes; call the landlord. Perhaps he can explain about it.

(One of the policemen goes out, R., and immediately returns with the Landlord.)

F. H. This man—aw—has stolen my clothes, and I demand his arrest.

Dea. R. Well, landlord, you’ve known me a good many years. Do you think I should be likely to steal now—at my age?

L. Impossible; there must be some mistake.

F. H. But there can’t be any mistake; don’t you see—aw—he’s got on my clothes, and I his?

L. (smiling). Yes; but if he intended to steal them he wouldn’t come in, and sit quietly in the parlor with the garments on. But I haven’t heard how it came about. Did either of you leave your room last night?

F. H. I only left it for five minutes—aw—when the alarm of fire was raised—aw—and this morning when I waked—aw—my new suit was changed into these horwid things. (Glances with contempt upon them.)

L. (to Deacon). And did you leave your room, too?

Dea. R. Yes; but only long enough to go into the entry and back again.

L. I see how it is; your rooms were side by side. You both left them, and when you returned, you each went into the other’s room. That accounts for the change of clothing. (One policeman beckons to the other, and they go out, L.)

Dea. R. By George, that must ha’ been the way ’twas done. But I declare to goodness, I never should ha’ thought about it. (To Landlord.) Thank you, landlord, for gettin’ me out o’ this scrape. (To Fitz Howard.) And look here, young man, suppose we just go up stairs and swap clothes again. I guess these aint any more becomin’ to me than them are to you.

F. H. You’re right there—aw—old man. (Exeunt Dea. R. and F. H., L.)

Mrs. R. Well, I thank goodness things have turned out as they have. I wouldn’t ha’ had Jonathan gone to the convention in that rig for nothin’ in the world.

Dr. C. (sarcastically). Not even if they had been a present to him from his friends in Rossville!

(Curtain falls.)

MRS. MARDEN’S LESSON. — CHARACTERS.

John (entering room, R., with boots in his hand). It’s most time for me to go to the store, Mary. (Sits down, C., and puts on boots.) I declare it’s astonishing how soon eight o’clock comes these short mornings.

Mary (who is dusting the room). It brings to mind the mornings, in the days gone by, when you were obliged to go to school, I suppose.

J. Yes; and I can’t say I enjoy one any more than the other. It’s about as disagreeable as leaving a nice, cosey fire on a winter’s night and getting into a cold bed.

M. But then I think one appreciates his home more, and enjoys the time he is able to pass in it more fully, than if he remained at home.

J. Perhaps you are right, Mary; but I shouldn’t object to try the other way for awhile. (Tosses slippers under the sofa.)

M. John, dear, hadn’t you better put your slippers in their place?

J. Oh, we’ll consider this their place. Then I shan’t have to go searching after them to-night.

M. There won’t be any need of searching for them. If you put them where they belong, they will be sure to remain there.

J. But it’s a great bother to go out of one’s way for such trifles. They’re much handier lying there, and will be all ready for me to put on to-night.

M. But life is made up of trifles, and leaving things round clutters up the room so.

J. Why, no; a thing looks as well in one place as another. Besides, what’s the use of having a house if you can’t keep things where you want to? But there (pushing them still farther under the sofa with his foot), they’re out of sight now. They will be handy, and no one will be the wiser for their being there.

M. But I have to go around every day and pick things up after you.

J. Oh, well, don’t pick them up; just let them stay where they are, and then I can find them when I want them. (Takes up overcoat from chair, where he had left it on previous evening, puts it on, takes hat from table, and exit, L.)

M. (alone). Something must be done to cure John of this careless habit of leaving things around; but how it can be arranged, I cannot tell yet. I must think it over.

(Curtain falls.)

Aunt Rebecca. And you have married since I saw you last; married happily, I hope. (They sit down, C.)

M. Yes; I couldn’t wish for a kinder or pleasanter husband. But between you and me, Aunt Rebecca, he has one fault that distresses me exceedingly.

A. R. And what is that?

M. He is so careless about his things. You have only to look about you, and you will see at once what I mean. I haven’t been in this room until now since he went to the store this morning. There are (looking at each as she speaks) two hats, two coats, dressing-gown, vest and slippers lying around. He is in such a hurry when he goes away, that he doesn’t notice anything about it, and when he comes home, I have put them all in their places, so I don’t think he realizes what an untidy appearance the room presents.

A. R. That is rather a disagreeable habit. Have you spoken to him about it?

M. (laughing). Spoken? Yes; I’ve delivered whole lectures on the subject.

A. R. And what does he say?

M. Oh, he makes light of it, and manages to change the subject whenever it is brought up. I don’t like to spoil the peace of our cosey home by scolding, but I feel as if something must be done.

A. R. I see how it is, Mary. You must declare war.

M. (looking up surprised). In what way?

A. R. I haven’t fully matured a plan yet, but we will open the campaign to-night, and, my word for it, if you follow my directions, you will come off victorious.

M. I am filled with curiosity to know how it is all to come about.

Servant (entering, R.) A littir for you, ma’am. (Passes letter to M. and exit, R. Mary reads the letter.)

M. It is a line from John, saying that he will bring his friend, Mr. Hastings, home to dine with us. I suppose he thought it possible I might be out.

A. R. What kind of a man is Mr. Hastings?

M. Very pleasant indeed, and as fond of a good joke as any one I know of. He and John are great friends.

A. R. Then it will be just the time for us to open the campaign.

M. You have it all arranged, then?

A. R. Yes; draw your chair this way, and I will explain it to you. (Mary moves near A. R.)

(Curtain falls.)

John (glancing in surprise, first around the room, then at his wife). What! house-cleaning, Mary?

M. Oh, no. (Turns to greet his companion.) I’m glad to see you, Mr. Hastings. Sit down, do. (Takes coat from chair, and tosses it carelessly on sofa.) You haven’t been here for a long time.

Edwin (looking round with an amused smile). It is a long time for me to be away.

J. (taking M.’s shawl and bonnet from easy-chair.) Say, Mary, what shall I do with these dry-goods?

M. Oh, lay them on the table.

J. But there isn’t room.

M. Isn’t there? Well, put them on the piano.

J. But I was just going to open it, so that we might have some music.

M. Well, put them on the sofa, then. There’s certainly room enough there.

J. But some one may sit on them there.

M. I guess not.

J. (glancing uneasily around). Hadn’t you better pick up things a little, Mary?

M. (carelessly). Oh, no, just let them lie as they are.

J. But they look so bad. And you know we frequently have callers in the evening.

M. Oh, they don’t look bad. I don’t see but a thing looks as well in one place as another.

J. I never saw your room look like this before, Mary.

M. (apparently surprised). Didn’t you? But I thought we might as well keep things handy. What’s the use of having a house, if you can’t keep things where you want to?

J. Oh, that’s it. So you’re giving an imitation of me, are you?

M. (smiling). I’ve tried to. But don’t you like it?

J. No, I don’t; that’s a fact.

M. Well, then, if you’ll agree not to do so again, I’ll straighten up the room; but if you have a relapse, mind, I shall have one, too.

J. Oh, I shan’t; don’t fear. If I’m in danger of it, the recollection of this scene will bring me back to the paths of rectitude.

E. (coming forward, and bowing with mock deference). I congratulate you, on the success of your scheme, Mrs. Marden, and have no doubt it will prove efficacious. It is worth a dozen scoldings, and is a far more agreeable remedy.

J. (exultantly). I rather think it touches you a little, old fellow, too, judging from the appearance of your bachelor apartments when I have called there.

E. I am sure of that, and have taken a part of it to myself already. When next you come to my rooms, you will, without doubt, be struck with the transformation, and will perceive at once, that I, as well as yourself have profited by Mrs. Marden’s lesson.

(Curtain falls.)

THE MAGIC MIRROR. — CHARACTERS.

Harry. Hallo, Dick, what’s up?

Dick (with a significant smile). Who says anything’s up?

H. There is, I know there is; I can tell it by your looks. Come, tell us, like a good fellow.

D. You must have a very vivid imagination to suppose one of my dignity (straightening himself up) would descend to such trifles.

Tom. One of your dignity! That’s a good one. But come now, Dick, do tell us if anything is going on. It’s been the perfection of dulness here for the last three weeks. Any change would be welcome.

D. (dryly). Does your last remark refer to your pockets, or some other part of your habiliments?

T. (smiling). Apply it where you choose. But come, you’ve got some plan, I know. What is it?

D. You are right, boys, I have got a plan. But remember (impressively), it must be a profound secret with us.

Walter. We are willing to make the most solemn protestations of secrecy. Who’s to be the victim?

D. Joe Sherman.

H. Good! What’s the programme?

D. He is to have his fortune told. (The boys crowd around Dick.)

T. (eagerly). How is it to be done?

D. Perhaps you have learned that Madame Devineresse, the fortune-teller, is stopping at the Everett House. It wouldn’t be very difficult for her to flatter Joe into the belief that he was born for some great and glorious end.

W. He’s satisfied on that point, already.

D. But you don’t understand. We will give her some hints of what he will expect, and then can have the fun of listening to the whole performance, and be better prepared to enjoy his remarks about it afterward. I have had a little conversation with Madame Devineresse, and I feel sure she will consent to co-operate with us.

T. (excitedly). I’ll wager an inkstand that Dick’s already had his fortune told by madame.

H. That’s nothing strange. He has had it told by every fortune-teller that’s visited the town for the last two years.

D. (coolly). What difference does that make, when every one tells a different story? A fellow must have some excitement in a little country village like this. Of course I don’t believe a word said by any one of them. But Sherman would. He’s just one of that kind. If she told him anything he wished to believe, he would put implicit faith in it.

W. (shaking his head). I don’t know about that. Joe is pretty cunning. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he should discover the plot.

D. Trust me for that. I’ve got things arranged so it is impossible he could suspect anything.

T. When is it to come off?

D. This evening, at the rooms of Madame Devineresse. We are to be concealed in the ante-room, and hear all that is said. It will be rich, I assure you. Come to my room at seven o’clock, and we will be ready to follow him. He will be there by half-past seven.

H. How do you know he is going at all?

D. I don’t expect he is thinking of it at present; but I must plan some way to induce him to go, and to be there at that hour. So I must leave you now. Don’t fail to be on hand at the appointed time.

(Exit Dick, L. Curtain falls.)

Joe. You are the fortune-teller, I presume, madame.

Madame Devineresse. Yes; I am called so by those whom I serve. I unveil the secrets of the future to those who desire to know them. Do you wish to look into the magic mirror?

J. I should like to know something of the future.

Mme. D. You shall do so. Bring me the magic mirror, Faustina. (F. passes mirror to her.) Young man, approach. (J. draws near.) You wish to learn something of the future. (J. bows.) You are permitted to look three times into this mirror, where you will see three scenes in your future life. Take it into your own hands. (J. does so.) What do you see?

(Exit Faustina, R.)

J. I see a school-room. There are many people present. It must be examination day.

Mme. D. Do you see yourself there?

J. Yes; the other scholars are all crowding about me, and seem to be congratulating me for some reason. The teacher has come forward, and presents me with a richly bound book.

Mme. D. That picture represents a scene in your life three years hence, when you will leave this school. You will graduate as first scholar in your class. You see yourself as having just delivered the valedictory. The other pupils are congratulating you, but many of them are envious at the distinction accorded you, and which you have so richly merited.

(Joe’s face beams with pleasure. Mme. D. holds out her hand for the mirror. Taking it, she wipes it carefully, lays it on the table, waves her wand over it three times, and then returns it to Joe.)

Mme. D. What see you now, young man?

J. A crowded court-room. A case has just been tried. I am the centre of a crowd of people, who are pressing up to shake hands with me. The opposing lawyer sits at a little distance, casting glances of bitterness toward me.

Mme. D. That picture represents a scene fifteen years hence. You have gained a famous law-suit, which has placed you, though young, in the front ranks of your profession. Envious persons have maligned you, and opponents assailed you; but, without deigning to notice them, you have steadily gone on, till you have attained a high position in the profession which you adorn.

(Mme. D. again takes the mirror. Taking a box from the table, she shakes on the surface of the mirror a white powder. Wiping it carefully, she makes passes over it with her wand, and hands it to the young man. He gazes upon it for a moment in silence, and with pleased wonder. Mme. D. looks on benignantly.)

Mme. D. The picture pleases you, then. What does the mirror disclose?

J. I see a beautiful house. On the balcony a gentleman is standing. He is addressing a throng of people who are assembled before the house. They wave their hats, and are full of enthusiasm. What does it mean?

Mme. D. Do you not recognize the gentleman?

J. It looks like myself, but cannot be, for it is too old.

(Mme. D. takes the mirror, and gazes on it for a moment.)

Mme. D. It does look somewhat older, and more mature. But why should it not? It represents you as you will appear thirty years hence. You have steadily pressed onward, distancing all with whom you started at school. You have just been elected as member of Congress, and the people, wild with enthusiasm, are shouting your name, and calling for a speech. (Joe gazes, as if spellbound, on the mirror.) Are you satisfied with the glimpses of the future which I have given you?

J. (with dignity befitting his future position, and, returning the mirror to her). Yes, my good woman, you have done very well.

Mme. D. There are few persons to whom such a brilliant future opens. Whenever the glass has mirrored such scenes as I have shown you, it loses power ever after to delineate scenes in common lives. I therefore present it to you, that, when depressed by the trials of life, you may gain courage by gazing at its magic surface. I will place it in a box, in which it must always be kept. Otherwise, it will lose all its power.

(Exit Mme. D., R.)

J. (pacing back and forth). And this is to be the end of my career! No, not the end, for I may yet become President. I wonder what Harry, Dick, and Walter would say, if they knew what I do. They have always thought I put on airs; but they will, some time, realize that it was only my natural dignity, which could not fail to assert its superiority to the common herd around me. (Enter Mme. D., with box, which she hands to Joe.)

Mme. D. Here is the precious mirror. (J. takes it.) Handle it carefully. When not in use, on no account leave it out of the box. It is capable of producing other scenes in your life than those which I have shown you. Whenever you wish to test it, you have but to wipe its surface carefully, wave your hand over it three times, and it will produce your image and surroundings more faithfully than they have yet been shown you.

J. Thank you, madame, for your great, your inestimable gift. I will guard it sacredly, and, when I become famous and powerful, I will reward you as you deserve.

(Curtain falls.)

J. (solus). I thought I should find a dictionary here. Dick told me this morning I was the most “stultiloquent orator” he ever listened to. I never heard the word before, but it has quite a grand sound, and I mean to use it the first chance I get, but I want to know its meaning. (Turns over the leaves, and finds between them a letter not yet folded.) Hallo, what’s this? (Takes up letter.) A letter to Tim Bellamy. How I’d like to read it! But then it wouldn’t be just the thing. (Glances towards bottom of sheet.) What’s this? (Reads.) “Now I tell you how we duped Joe Sherman.” Why, that’s me. I must find out about that. (Sits down and reads.) “You know Joe is one of the most conceited boys in school. Well, some of us fellows thought we’d have a little fun at his expense through this failing. I heard, one evening, that a fortune-teller had arrived at the hotel. You know I always had a weakness for having my fortune told. So I went to see her, and finding her very pleasant and obliging, I arranged with her to tell Joe’s fortune in a way that would tickle his vanity. As I agreed to pay her for it, she was nothing loth to do her part, and she did it well. Several of us fellows were in the next room, and heard all that was said. She flattered him with glimpses of the future which raised his opinion of himself so much that, since then, he carries his head like a peer of the realm. By the way, these glimpses of the future were had by looking into a seven-by-nine mirror, which reflected pictures hung up behind Joe, and which we changed each time he looked into it. We enjoyed, hugely, listening to the interview, as I think we ought, for it took three of us several hours to draw the three pictures. It was also quite a tax on the imagination, which had to be stretched to the utmost to make Joe satisfied with his fortune. But we were successful. I can’t help laughing when I think how carefully he carried that little mirror home, promising to guard it sacredly. The fortune-teller told him that when next he looked in it it would reflect his image even more faithfully than it had yet done. I wonder what he thought when he did look in it and saw nothing but his own homely countenance just as it was?” (Puts back letter and closes the book.)

J. (solus). Well, that’s the meanest thing I ever knew Dick to do. I wonder who were with him; Harry and Tom most likely. But Dick was the ringleader. He always is. The idea of my being made such a laughing stock! (Paces back and forth.) It was the climax of meanness. But I’ll turn the table on them. I guess Nat and I are capable of planning something which will pay up old scores. We’ll have a consultation to-night, for I want it done before Dick sends his letter, so he can not only tell the story of his exploit, but also give the sequel. (A noise is heard, L.) Ah, somebody’s coming; I mustn’t be seen here.

(Exit, R. Curtain falls.)

D. I don’t see who could have sent me this notice. The handwriting is evidently that of a lady. Possibly it is that of Mme. Marie herself. But the puzzle is, how she happened to send it to me. I suppose, though, some one informed her that I liked to have my fortune told occasionally. (Reads.) “Madame Marie, the veiled prophetess of the East, respectfully gives notice that she has taken up her residence at Number 27 Osborne Street, where she will remain for seven days only, during which time she is willing to unfold the future of those who may wish to become acquainted with its secrets. Madame Marie will disclose the mysteries of the past, as well as the hidden events of the future. As her stay is of limited duration, those wishing to consult her will do well to call at once.” (Places note in his pocket and paces back and forth with his hands clasped behind him.) I received this note only an hour ago, and hastened to call upon her. But although I have been here full fifteen minutes, I have as yet seen no one. Where is Madame Marie? (Enter Mme. Marie, L., shrouded with a black veil.)

Mme. Marie (in measured tones.) She is here. What would you have? Shall I tell you the past, or only the future?

D. I would hear something of the past as well as of the future, if you please, madam.

Mme. M. That is well. I will consult the oracles, and give you their testimony. (A pause. Dick looks expectant.) Ah, yes, the events of our past life come crowding up before me. I see that you are credulous, impulsive, and somewhat superstitious.

D. Credulous and superstitious! Oh, no.

Mme. M. (waving her hand). Silence. It is not meet that you interrupt the disclosures of the oracles. Superstition signifies a fondness for the unknown and mysterious; therefore you are superstitious. You are also credulous; for did you not believe the revelations of Madame Devineresse, who came here a short time ago, and who is an arrant impostor? You were the means of bringing to her a young man who wished to look into the magic mirror.

D. (smiling at the recollection). Yes, and he went away with higher aspirations, and a feeling of inward pleasure which cannot be described. I think praise rather than blame is due me for this deed.

Mme. M. I need not tell you of the deception which you practised on him. Even now circumstances are at work which will bring to you direful consequences on account of that deed.

D. (somewhat troubled). What do you mean? Has he discovered the trick?

Mme. M. (without heeding him). I see the young man standing before a tall, stern-looking person. The young man is talking earnestly, but I cannot hear his words. The tall man listens attentively, and soon the young man goes out. The tall man seems angry. Hark! he speaks: “So this is the way the boys spend the hours they should be employed in study. No wonder recitations are poor. But it is fortunate that I have discovered the cause in such good time. I will make an example of this case, and will inflict on the chief offender such a severe punishment that it will strike terror into the hearts of the remainder of the school. What shall it be? Ha! I have it. John, bring me a strong rope, and a couple of good willow switches. Then call together the scholars.”

D. (in a fever of excitement). Is there no way of avoiding this punishment?

Mme. M. (unheeding him). I see the scholars crowding into the room, but there is one of them who cannot be found. No one knows where he is gone. Now a note is handed to the tall man. He nods approvingly, and tells all the scholars to follow him. Ha, they come this way! They are at the door! They enter! (She starts back, and the boys from behind the screen come noisily forward. They surround Madame M. Dick is in a state of great excitement.)

Nat. Hooray for the great fortune-teller, Madame Marie! (Pulls off her veil and cloak, disclosing the features and figure of Joe Sherman.)

J. (comes forward smiling). Is your fortune satisfactory, Dick?

D. (confused). I don’t know. Let me see. (Recovering himself.) Yes, very much so. It’s turned out far different from what I expected, a moment ago. I anticipated a more tragic and striking close. (Comes forward, and takes Joe’s hand.) We’re quits now, Joe. I give you credit for turning the tables on me completely. But henceforth I shall keep clear of fortune-tellers. They are great humbugs, as I have had ample opportunity to know. Besides, it would be far more sensible for us boys to plan our future ourselves, and then try to live up to it, than to listen to the idle talk of those who care for nothing but the money of their victims. Now, Joe, I challenge you to enter the list with me, to gain the prize offered for the greatest number of perfect recitations during this term. What do you say?

J. I’ll do it, Dick. I’ll try for the prize, anyway.

D. That’s it, old fellow. And whichever is successful, the progress we have made will stimulate us to strive for still higher honors. And who knows but we may yet gain as great distinction as was pictured to you by Madame Devineresse, in the Magic Mirror?

(Curtain falls.)