miscellanea. by juliana horatia ewing. society for promoting christian knowledge, london: northumberland avenue, w.c. , queen victoria street, e.c. brighton: , north street. new york: e. & j.b. young & co. [published under the direction of the general literature committee.] preface. the contents of this volume are republished in order to make the edition a complete collection of mrs. ewing's works, rather than because of their intrinsic worth. the fact that she did not republish the papers during her life shows that she did not estimate them very highly herself; but as each one has a special interest connected with it, i feel i am not violating her wishes in bringing the collection before the public. one of mrs. ewing's strongest gifts was her power of mimicry; this made her an actor above the average of amateurs, and also enabled her to imitate any special style of writing that she wished. the first four stories in this volume are instances of this power. _the mystery of the bloody hand_ was an attempt to vie with some of the early sensational novels, such as _lady audley's secret_ and _the moonstone_;--tales in which a glimpse of the supernatural is introduced amongst scenes of every-day life. during my sister's girlhood we had a family ms. magazine (as our mother had done in her young days), and two of the stories in mrs. gatty's "aunt judy's letters," _the flatlands fun gazette_ and _the black bag_, were founded on this custom, mrs. ewing being the typical "aunt judy" of the book. mrs. gatty described how the children were called upon each to contribute a tale for _the black bag_, and how no. remonstrated by saying--"i've been sitting over the fire this evening trying to think, but what _could_ come, with only the coals and the fire-place before one to look at? i dare say neither hans andersen nor grimm nor any of those fellows would have written anything, if they had not gone about into caves and forests and those sort of places, or boated in the north seas!" aunt judy replied that she also had been looking into the fire, and the longer she did so, the more she decided "that hans andersen was not beholden to caves or forests or any curious things or people for his story-telling inspirations"; but as it was difficult for the "little ones" to write she enclosed three tales as "jokes, imitations, in fact, of the andersenian power of spinning gold threads out of old tow-ropes." so far this was mrs. gatty's own writing, but the three tales were the work of the real aunt judy, mrs. ewing herself. these three are ( ) _the smut_, ( ) _the crick_, ( ) _the brothers_. the last sentence in _the brothers_ recalls the last entry in mrs. ewing's commonplace book, which is quoted in her life--"if we still love those we lose, can we altogether lose those we love?" _cousin peregrine's wonder stories_ and _traveller's tales_ were written after mrs. ewing's marriage, with the help of her husband; he supplied the facts and descriptions from things which he had seen during his long residence abroad. colonel ewing also helped my sister in translating the _tales of the khoja_ from the turkish. the illustrations now reproduced were drawn by our brother, alfred scott-gatty. in _little woods_ and _may-day customs_ mrs. ewing showed her ready ability to take up any subject of interest that came under her notice--botany, horticulture, archæology, folk-lore, or whatever it might be. the same readiness was shown in her adaptation of the various versions of the _mumming play_, or _the peace egg_. _in memoriam_ was written under considerable restraint soon after our mother's death. my sister knew that she did not wish her biography to be written, but still it was impossible to let the originator and editor of _aunt judy's magazine_ pass away without some little record being given to the many children who loved her writings. in ecclesfield church there is a tablet erected to mrs. gatty's memory by one thousand children, who each contributed sixpence. _the snarling princess_ and _the little parsnip man_ are adaptations of two fairy tales which appeared in a german magazine; and as both the tales and their illustrations took mrs. ewing's fancy, she made a free rendering of them for _aunt judy's magazine_. _a child's wishes_ and _war and the dead_ are more accurate translations, but it may be said they have not suffered in their transmission from one language to another. my sister's selection of the last sketch for translation is noticeable, as giving a foretaste of her keen sympathy with military interests. contents. the mystery of the bloody hand the smut the crick the brothers cousin peregrine's wonder stories: . the chinese jugglers, and the englishman's hands . waves of the great south seas cousin peregrine's traveller's tales: jack of pera the princes of vegetation little woods may-day, old style and new style in memoriam, margaret gatty tales of the khoja (_from the turkish_) the snarling princess (_adapted from the german_) the little parsnip-man (_adapted from the german_) a child's wishes (_from the german of r. reinick_) war and the dead (_from the french of jean macé_) the mystery of the bloody hand. chapter i. a memorable new year's day. _dorothy to eleanor_, dearest eleanor, you have so often reminded me how rapidly the most startling facts pass from the memory of man, and i have so often thereupon promised to write down a full account of that mysterious affair in which i was providentially called upon to play so prominent a part, that it is with shame i reflect that the warning has been unheeded and the promise unfulfilled. do not, dear friend, accuse my affection, but my engrossing duties and occupations, for this neglect, and believe that i now take advantage of my first quiet evening for many months to fulfil your wish. betty has just brought me a cup of tea, and i have told the girl to be within call; for once a heroine is not always a heroine, dear nell. i am full of childish terrors, and i assure you it is with no small mental effort that i bring myself to recall the terrible events of the year . oddly enough, it was on the first day of this year that i made the acquaintance of mr. george manners; and i think i can do no better than begin by giving you an extract from the first page of my journal at that time. "_jan. , _.--it is mid-day, and very fine, but it was no easy matter to be at service this morning after all good dr. penn's injunctions, as last night's dancing, and the long drive home, made me sleepy, and harriet is still in bed. "though i am not so handsome as harriet, and boast of no conquests, and though the gentlemen do not say the wonderfully pretty things to me that they seem to do to her, i have much enjoyed several balls since my introduction into society. but for ever first and foremost on my list of dances must be lady lucy topham's party on new year's eve. let me say new year's day, for the latter part of the evening was the happy one to me. during the first part i danced a little and watched the others much. to sit still is mortifying, and yet i almost think the dancing was the greater penance, since i never had much to say to men of whom i know nothing: the dances seem interminable, and i am ever haunted by a vague feeling that my partner is looking out over my head for some one prettier and more lively, which is not inspiring. i must not forget a little incident, as we came up the stairs into the ball-room. with my customary awkwardness i dropped my fan, and was about to stoop for it, when some one who had been following us darted forward and presented it to me. i curtsied low, he bowed lower; our eyes met for a moment, and then he fell behind. it was by his eyes that i recognized him afterwards in the ball-room, for in the momentary glance on the stairs i had not had time to observe his prominent height and fine features. how strangely one's fancy is sometimes seized upon by a foolish wish! my modest desire last night was to dance with this mr. george manners, the handsomest man and best dancer of the room, to be whose partner even harriet was proud. though i had not a word for my second-rate partners, i fancied that i could talk to _him_. oh, foolish heart! how i chid myself for my folly in watching his tall figure thread the dances, in fancying that i had met his eyes many times that evening, and, above all, for the throb of jealous disappointment that came with every dance when he did not do what i never soberly expected he would--ask me. a little before twelve i was sitting out among the turbans, when i saw him standing at some distance, and unmistakably looking at me. a sudden horror seized me that something was wrong--my hair coming down, my dress awry--and i was not comforted by harriet passing at this moment with-- "'what! sitting out still? you should be more lively, child! men don't like dancing with dummies.' "when her dress had whisked past me i looked up and saw him again, but at that moment he sharply turned his back on me and walked into the card-room. i was sitting still when he came out again with mr. topham. the music had just struck up, the couples were gathering; he was going to dance then. i looked down at my bouquet with tears in my eyes, and was trying hard to subdue my folly and to count the petals of a white camellia, when mr. topham's voice close by me said-- "'miss dorothy lascelles, may i introduce mr. manners to you?' and in two seconds more my hand was in his arm, and he was saying in a voice as commonplace as if the world had not turned upside down-- "'i think it is sir roger.' "it is a minor satisfaction to me to reflect that, for once in my life, i was right. i did talk to mr. george manners. the first thing i said was-- "'i am very much obliged to you for picking up my fan.' to which he replied (if it can be called a reply)-- "'i wish i had known sooner that you were miss lascelles' sister.' "i said, 'did you not see her with me on the stairs?' and he answered-- "'i saw no one but you.' "which, as it is the nearest approach to a pretty speech that ever was made to me, i confide solemnly to this my fine new diary, which is to be my dearest friend and confidante this year. why the music went so fast, and the dance was so short on this particular occasion, i never could fathom; both had just ceased, and we were still chatting, when midnight struck, deep-toned or shrill, from all the clocks in the house; and, in the involuntary impressive pause, we could hear through the open window the muffled echo from the village church. then mr. topham ran in with a huge loving-cup, and, drinking all our good healths, it was passed through the company. "when the servant brought it to me, mr. manners took it from him, and held it for me himself by both handles, saying-- "'it is too heavy for your hands;' and i drank, he quoting in jest from _hamlet_-- "'nymph, in thine orisons be all my sins remembered.' "then he said, '_i_ shall wish in silence,' and paused a full minute before putting it to his lips. when the servant had taken it away, he heaved so profound a sigh that (we then being very friendly) i said-- "'what is the matter?' "'do you believe in presentiments, miss lascelles?' he said. "'i don't think i ever had a presentiment,' i answered. "'don't think me a fool,' he said, 'but i have had the most intense dread of the coming of this year. i have a presentiment (for which there is no reason) that it will bring me a huge, overwhelming misfortune: and yet i have just wished for a blessing of which i am vastly unworthy, but which, if it does come, will probably come this year, and which would make it the brightest one that i have ever seen. be a prophet, miss lascelles, and tell me--which will it be?--the joy or the sorrow?' "he gazed so intently that i had some difficulty in answering with composure-- "'perhaps both. we are taught to believe that life is chequered.' "'see,' he went on. 'this is the beginning of the year. we are standing here safe and happy. miss lascelles, where shall we be when the year ends?' "the question seemed to me faithless in a christian, and puerile in a brave man: i did not say so; but my face may have expressed it, for he changed the subject suddenly, and could not be induced to return to it. i danced twice with him afterwards; and when we parted i said, emphatically-- "'a happy new year to you, mr. manners.' "he forced a smile as he answered, 'amen!' "mrs. dallas (who kindly chaperoned us) slept all the way home; and miss dallas and harriet chatted about their partners. once only they appealed to me. what first drew my attention was mr. manners' name. "'poor mr. manners!' harriet said; 'i am afraid i was very rude to him. he had to console himself with you, eh, dolly?--on the principle of love me love my dog, i suppose?' "am i so conceited that this had never struck me? and yet--but here comes harriet, and i must put you away, dear diary. i blush at my voluminousness. if every evening is to take up so many pages, my book will be full at midsummer! but was not this a red-letter day?" well may i blush, dear nell, to re-read this girlish nonsense. and yet it contains not the least strange part of this strange story--poor mr. manners' presentiment of evil. after this he called constantly, and we met him often in society; and, blinded by i know not what delusion, harriet believed him to be devoted to herself, up to the period, as i fancy, when he asked me to be his wife. i was staying with the tophams at the time. i believe that they had asked me there on purpose, being his friends. ah, george! what a happy time that was! how, in the sweet days of the sweetest of summers, i laughed at your "presentiment"! how you told me that the joy had come, and, reminding me of my own sermon on the chequered nature of life, asked if the sorrow would yet tread it down. too soon, my love! too soon! nelly! forgive me this outburst. i must write more calmly. it is sad to speak ill of a sister; but surely it was cruel, that she, who had so many lovers, should grudge me my happiness; should pursue george with such unreasonable malice; should rouse the senseless but immovable obstinacy of our poor brother against him. oh, eleanor! think of my position! our father and mother dead; under the care of our only brother, who, as you know, dear nell, was at one time feared to be a complete idiot, and had, poor boy! only so much sense as to make him sane in the eyes of the law. you know the fatal obstinacy with which he pursued an idea once instilled; the occasional fits of rage that were not less than insanity. knowing all this, my dear, imagine what i must have suffered when angrily recalled home. i was forbidden to think of mr. manners again. in vain i asked for reasons. they had none, and yet a thousand to give me. when i think of the miserable stories that were raked up against him,--the misconstruction of everything he did, or said, or left undone,--my own impotent indignation, and my poor brother's senseless rage, and the insulting way in which i was watched, and taunted, and tortured,--oh, nelly! it is agony to write. i did the only thing left to me--i gave him up, and prayed for peace. i do not say that i was right: i say that i did the best i could in a state of things that threatened to deprive me of reason. my submission did not produce an amount of harmony in the house in any way proportionate to the price i paid for it. harriet was obliged to keep the slanders of my lover constantly in view, to quiet the self-reproach which i think she must sometimes have experienced. as to edmund, my obedience had somewhat satisfied him, and made way for another subject of interest which was then engrossing his mind. a man on his estate, renting a farm close to us, who was a quaker, and very "strict" in his religious profession, had been for a long time grossly cheating him, relying, no doubt, on my poor brother's deficient intellect. but minds that are intellectually and in reason deficient, are often endowed with a large share of cunning and caution, especially in monetary affairs. edmund guessed, watched, and discovered; but when the proof was in his hands, his proceedings were characteristically peculiar. he did not discharge the man, and have done with it; he retained him in his place, but seemed to take a--let me say--insane delight in exposing him to the religious circle in which he had been a star, and from which he was ignominiously expelled; and in heaping every possible annoyance and disgrace upon him that the circumstances admitted. my dear, i think i should have preferred his wrath upon myself, to being the witness of my brother's miserable exultation over the wretched man, parker. his chief gratification lay in the thought that, exquisite as were the vexations he heaped upon him, the man was obliged to express gratitude for his master's forbearance as regarded the law. "he said he should never forget my consideration for him till death! ha! ha!" "my only puzzle," i said, "is, what can induce him to stay with you." and then the storm turned upon me, eleanor. you will ask me, my dear, how, meanwhile, had mr. manners taken my letter of dismissal. i know now, nell, and so will not revive the mystery that then added weight to my distress. he wrote me many letters,--but i never saw one! * * * * * and now, dear friend, let me pause and gather courage to relate the terrible events of that sultry, horrible--that accursed june. chapter ii. the terrible june. it was about the middle of the month. harriet was spending some hours with a friend, edmund was out, and i had been left alone all day for the first time since i came home. i remember everything that happened with the utmost distinctness. i spent the day chiefly in the garden, gathering roses for pot-pourri, being disinclined for any more reasonable occupation, partly by the thundery oppressiveness of the air, partly by a vague, dull feeling of dread that made me restless, and which was yet one of those phases of feeling in which, if life depended on an energetic movement, one must trifle. in this mood, when the foreclouded mind instinctively shrinks from its own great troubles, little things assume an extraordinary distinctness. i trode carefully in the patterns of the terrace pavement, counted the roses on the white bush by the dial (there were twenty-six), and seeing a beetle on the path, moved it to a bank at some distance. there it crept into a hole, and such a wild, weary desire seized on me to creep after it and hide from what was coming, that--i thought it wise to go in. as i sat in the drawing-room there was a rose still whole in my lap. i had begun to pluck off the petals, when the door-bell rang. though i heard the voice distinctly when the door was opened, i vow to you, dear nell, that my chief desire was to get the rose pulled to pieces before i was disturbed. i had flung the last petal into my lap, when the door opened and mr. manners came into the room. he did not speak; he opened his arms, and i ran straight into them, roses and all. the petals rained over us and over the floor. he talked very fast, and i did nothing but cling to him, and endure in silence the weight which his presence could not remove from my mind, while he pleaded passionately for our marriage. he said that it was the extreme of all that was unreasonable, that our lives' happiness should be sacrificed to the insane freak of a hardly responsible mind. he complained bitterly (though i could but confess justly!) of the insulting and intolerable treatment that he had received. he had come, he said, in the first place, to assure himself of my constancy--in the second, for a powerful and final remonstrance with my brother--and, if that failed, to remind me that i should be of age next month; and to convey the entreaty of the tophams that, as a last resource, i would come to them and be married from their house. i made up my mind, and promised: then i implored him to be careful in his interview with my brother, for my sake--to calm his own natural anger, and to remember edmund's infirmity. he promised, but i saw that he was slightly piqued by my dwelling so much on edmund's feelings rather than on his. ah! nelly, he had never seen one of the poor boy's rages. it may have been half-past six when mr. manners arrived; it had just struck a quarter to nine when edmund came in and found us together. he paused for a minute, clicking his tongue in his mouth, in a way he had when excited; and then he turned upon me, and heaped abuse on insult, loading me with accusations and reproaches. george, white with suppressed rage, called incessantly upon me to go; and at last i dared disobey no longer; but as i went i touched his arm and whispered, "remember! for my sake." his intense "i promise, my darling," comforted me then--and afterwards, nelly. i went into a little room that opened into the hall and waited. in about twenty minutes the drawing-room door opened, and they came out. i heard george's voice saying this or something equivalent (afterwards i could not accurately recall the words)-- "good-night, mr. lascelles; i trust our next meeting may be a different one." the next sentences on both sides i lost. edmund seems to have refused to shake hands with mr. manners. the last words i heard were george's half-laughing-- "next time, lascelles, i shall not ask for your hand--i shall take it." then the door shut, and edmund went into his study. an hour later he also went out, and i was left alone once more. i went back into the drawing-room; the rose-leaves were fading on the floor; and on the table lay george manners' penknife. it was a new one, that he had been showing to me, and had left behind him. i kissed it and put it in my pocket: then i knelt down by the chair, nell, and wept till i prayed; and then prayed till i wept again; and then i got up and tidied the room, and got some sewing; and, like other women, sat down with my trouble, waiting for the storm to break. it broke at eleven o'clock that night, when two men carried the dead body of my brother into his own kitchen--foully murdered. but when i knelt by the poor body, lying awfully still upon the table; when i kissed the face, which in death had curiously regained the appearance of reason as well as beauty; when i saw and knew that life had certainly gone till the resurrection:--that was not all. the storm had not fully broken till i turned and saw, standing by the fire, george manners, with his hands and coat dabbled with blood. i did not speak or scream; but a black horror seemed to settle down like mist upon me. through it came mr. manners' voice (i had not looked again at him)-- "miss dorothy lascelles, why do you not ask who did it?" i gave a sharp cry, and one of the labourers who had helped to bring edmund in said gravely-- "eh, master! the less you say the better. god forgive you this night's work!" george's hoarse voice spoke again. "do you hear him?" and then it faltered a little--"dorolice, do you think this?" it was his pet name for me (he was an italian scholar), and touched me inexpressibly, and a conviction seized upon me that if he had done it, he would not have dared to appeal to my affection. i tried to clear my mind that i might see the truth, and then i looked up at him. our eyes met, and we looked at each other for a full minute, and i was content. oh! there are times when the instinctive trust of one's heart is, so far more powerful than any proofs or reasons, that faith seems a higher knowledge. i would have pledged ten thousand lives, if i had had them, on the honesty of those eyes, that had led me like a will-o'-the-wisp in the ball-room half a year ago! the new-year's dance came back on me as i stood there--my ball-dress was in the drawer up-stairs--and now! oh dear! was i going mad? chapter iii. the time of trial. meanwhile he was waiting for my answer. i stepped forward, intending to take his hand, but the stains drove me back again. where so much depends upon a right--or a mis-understanding, the only way is to speak the fair truth. i did so; by a sort of forced calm holding back the seething of my brain. "george, i should like to touch you, but--i cannot! i beg you to forgive the selfishness of my grief--my mind is confused--i shall be better soon. god has sent us a great sorrow, in which i know you are as innocent as i am. i am very sorry--i think that is all." and i put my hand to my head, where a sharp pain was beginning to throb. mr. manners spoke, emphatically-- "god bless you, dorolice! you know i promised. thank you, for ever!" "if you fancy you have any reason to thank me," i said, "do me this favour. whatever happens, believe that i believe!" i could bear no more, so i went out of the kitchen. as i went i heard a murmur of pity run through the room, and i knew that they were pitying--not the dead man, but me; and me--not for my dead brother, but for his murderer. when i got into the passage, the mist that had still been dark before my eyes suddenly became darker, and i remember no more. when my senses returned, harriet had come home. from the first she would never hear george's name except to accuse him with frantic bitterness of poor edmund's death; and as nothing would induce me to credit his guilt, the subject was as much as possible avoided. i cannot dwell on those terrible days. i was very ill for some time, and after i had come down-stairs, one day i found a newspaper containing the following paragraph, which i copy here, as it is the shortest and least painful way of telling you the facts of poor edmund's death. "the murder at crossdale hall. "universal horror has been excited in the neighbourhood by the murder of edmund lascelles, esq., of crossdale hall. mr. lascelles was last seen alive a little after ten o'clock on friday night, at which time he left the house alone, and was not seen again living. at the inquest on saturday, james crosby, a farm labourer, gave the following evidence:-- "'i had been sent into the village for some medicine for a sick beast, and was returning to the farm by the park a little before eleven, when near the low gate i saw a man standing with his back to me. the moon was shining, and i recognized him at once for mr. george manners, of beckfield. when mr. manners saw me he seemed much excited, and called out, "quick! help! mr. lascelles has been murdered." i said, "good god! who did it?" he said, "i don't know; i found him in the ditch; help me to carry him in." by this time i had come up and saw mr. lascelles on the ground, lying on his side. i said, "how do you know he's dead?" he said, "i fear there's very little hope; he has bled so profusely. i am covered with blood." i was examining the body, and as i turned it over i found that the right hand was gone. it had been cut off at the wrist. i said, "look here! did you know this?" he spoke very low, and only said, "how horrible!" i said, "let us look for the hand; it may be in the ditch." he said, "no, no! we are wasting time. bring him in, and let us send for the doctor." i ran to the ditch, however, but could see nothing but a pool of blood. coming back, i found on the ground a thick hedge-stake covered with blood. the grass by the ditch was very much stamped and trodden. i said, "there has been a desperate struggle." he said, "mr. lascelles was a very strong man." i said, "yes; as strong as you, mr. manners." he said, "not quite; very nearly though." he said nothing more till we got to the hall; then he said, "who can break it to his sister?" i said, "they will have to know. it's them that killed him has brought this misery upon them." the low gate is a quarter of a mile, or more, from the hall.' "death seems to have been inflicted by two instruments--a wounding and a cutting one. as yet, no other weapon but the stake has been discovered, and a strict search for the missing hand has also proved fruitless. no motive for this wanton outrage suggests itself, except that the unhappy gentleman was in the habit of wearing on his right hand a sapphire ring of great value." (an heirloom; it is on my finger as i write, dear nell. oh! my poor boy.) "all curiosity is astir to discover the perpetrator of this horrible deed; and it is with the deepest regret that we are obliged to state that every fresh link in the chain of evidence points with fatal accuracy to one whose position, character, and universal popularity would seem to place him above suspicion. we would not willingly intrude upon the privacy of domestic interests, but the following facts will too soon be matters of public notoriety. "a younger sister of the deceased appears to have formed a matrimonial engagement with george manners, esq., of beckfield. it was strongly opposed by mr. lascelles, and the objection (which at the time appeared unreasonable) may have been founded on a more intimate knowledge of the suitor's character than was then possessed by others. the match was broken off, and all intercourse was suspended till the night of the murder, when mr. manners gained admittance to the hall in the absence of mr. lascelles, and was for some hours alone in the young lady's company. they were found together a little before nine o'clock by mr. lascelles, and a violent scene ensued, in the course of which the young lady left the apartment. (miss lascelles has been ill ever since the unhappy event, and is so still. her deposition was taken in writing at the hall.) from the young lady's evidence it appears, first, that the passions of both were strongly excited, and she admits having felt sufficient apprehension to induce her to twice warn mr. manners to self-control. secondly, that mr. manners avowed himself prepared to defy mr. lascelles' authority in the matter of the marriage; and thirdly, the two sentences of their final conversation that she overheard (both mr. manners') were what can hardly be interpreted otherwise than as a threat, that 'their next meeting should be a different one,' and that then '_he would not ask for mr. lascelles' hand, but take it_.' the diabolical character of determined and premeditated vindictiveness thus given to an otherwise unaccountable outrage upon his victim, goes far to take away the feeling of pity which we should otherwise have felt for the murderer, regarding him as under the maddening influences of disappointed love and temporary passion. perhaps, however, the most fatally conclusive evidence against mr. manners lies in the time that elapsed between his leaving the hall and being found in the park by the murdered body. he left the house at a quarter past nine--he was found by the body of the deceased a little before eleven; so that either it must have taken him more than an hour and a half to walk a quarter of a mile--which is obviously absurd--or he must have been waiting for nearly two hours in the grounds. why did he not return at once to the house of mr. topham? (where it appears that he was staying). for what--or for whom--was he waiting? if he were in the park at the time of the murder, how came it that he heard no cries, gave the unhappy gentleman no assistance, and offers no suggestion or clue to the mystery beyond the obstinate denial of his own guilt, though he confesses to having been in the grounds during the whole time of the deadly struggle, and though he was found alone with scratched hands and blood-stained clothes beside the corpse of his avowed enemy? we leave these questions to the consideration of our readers, as they will be for that of a conscientious and impartial jury, not, we trust, blinded by the wealth and position of the criminal to the hideous nature of the crime. "the funeral is to take place to-morrow; george manners is fully committed to take his trial for wilful murder at the ensuing assizes." the above condemning extract only too well represented the state of public feeling. all middlesex--nay, all england--was roused to indignation, and poor edmund's youth and infirmities made the crime appear the more cowardly and detestable. chapter iv. drifting to the end. my misery between the time of the murder and the trial was terrible from many causes: my brother's death; george's position; the knowledge of his sufferings, and my inability to see or soothe them--and, worst of all, the firm conviction of his guilt in every one's mind, and harriet's ceaseless reproaches. i do not think that i should have lived through it, but for dr. penn. that excellent and revered man's kindness will, i trust, ever be remembered by me with due gratitude. he went up to town constantly, at his own expense, and visited my dear george in newgate, administering all the consolations of his high office and long experience, and being the bearer of our messages to each other. from him also i gleaned all the news of which otherwise i should have been kept in ignorance; how george's many friends were making every possible exertion on his behalf, and how an excellent counsel was retained for him. but far beyond all his great kindness, was to me the simple fact that he shared my belief in george's innocence; for there were times when the universal persuasion of his guilt almost shook, not my faith, but my reason. there were early prayers in our little church in the morning; too early, harriet said, for her to attend much, especially of late, when dr. penn's championship of george manners had led her to discover more formalism in his piety, and northern broadness in his accent, than before. but these quiet services were my daily comfort in those troublous days; and in the sweet fresh walk home across the park, my more than father and i hatched endless conspiracies on george's behalf between the church porch and the rectory gate. our chief difficulty, i confess, lay in the question that the world had by this time so terribly answered--who did it? if george were innocent, who was guilty? my poor brother had not been popular, and i do not say that one's mind could not have fixed on a man more likely to commit the crime than george, under not less provocation. but it was an awful deed, nelly, to lay to any man's charge, even in thought; and no particle of evidence arose to fix the guilt on any one else, or even to suggest an accomplice. as the time wore on, suspense became sickening. "sir," i said to him one day, "i am breaking down. i have brought some plants to set in your garden. i wish you would give me something to do for you. your shirts to make, your stockings to darn. if i were a poor woman i should work down my trouble. as it is--" "hush!" said the doctor; you are what god has made you. my dear madam, janet tells me, what my poor eyes have hardly observed, that my ruffles are more worn than beseems a doctor in divinity. now for myself--" "hush!" said i, mimicking him. "my dear sir, you have taught me to plot and conspire, and this very afternoon i shall hold a secret interview with mistress janet. but say something about my trouble. what will happen?--how will it end?--what shall we do?" "my love," he said, "keep heart. i fully believe in his innocence. there is heavy evidence against him, but there are also some strong points in his favour; and you must believe that the jury have no object to do anything but justice, or believe anything but the truth, and that they will find accordingly. and god defend the right!" eleanor!--they found him guilty. * * * * * i have asked dr. penn to permit me to make an extract from his journal in this place. it is less harrowing to copy than to recall. i omit the pious observations and reflections which grace the original. comforting as they are to me, it seems a profanity to make them public; besides, it is his wish that i should withhold them, which is sufficient. _from the diary of the rev. arthur penn, d.d., rector of crossdale, middlesex._ "when he came into the dock he looked (so it seemed to me) altered since i had last seen him; more anxious and worn, that is, but yet composed and dignified. doubtless i am but a prejudiced witness; but his face to me lacks both the confusion and the effrontery of guilt. he looks like one pressed by a heavy affliction, but enduring it with fortitude. i think his appearance affected and astonished many in the court. those who were prepared to see a hardened ruffian, or, at best, a cowering criminal, must have been startled by the intellectual and noble style of his beauty, the grace and dignity of his carriage, and the modest simplicity of his behaviour. i am but a doting old man; for i think on no evidence could i convict him in the face of those good eyes of his, to which sorrow has given a wistful look that at times is terrible; as if now and then the agony within showed its face at the windows of the soul. once only every trace of composure vanished--it was when sweet mistress dorothy was called; then he looked simply mad. i wonder--but no! no!--he did not commit this great crime,--not even in a fit of insanity. "mr. a---- is a very able advocate, and, in his cross-examination of the man crosby and of mistress dorothy, did his best to atone for the cruel law which keeps the prisoner's counsel at such disadvantage. the counsel for the prosecution had pressed hard on my dear lady, especially in reference to those farewell words overheard by her, which seem to give the only (though that, i say, an incredible) clue to what remains the standing mystery of the event--the missing hand. then mr. a---- rose to cross-examine. he said-- "'during that part of the quarrel when you were present, did the prisoner use any threats or suggestions of personal violence?' "'no.' "'in the fragment of conversation that you overheard at the last, did you at the time understand the prisoner to be conveying taunts or threats?' "'no.' "'how did you interpret the unaccountable anxiety on the prisoner's part to shake hands with a man by whom he believed himself to be injured, and with whom he was quarrelling!' "'mr. manners' tone was such as one uses to a spoilt child. i believed that he was determined to avoid a quarrel at any price, in deference to my brother's infirmity and his own promise to me. he was very angry before edmund came in; but i believe that afterwards he was shocked and sobered at the obviously irresponsible condition of my poor brother when enraged. he had never seen him so before.' "'is it true that mr. manners' pocket-knife was in your possession at the time of the murder?' "'it is.' "'does your window look upon the "honeysuckle walk," where the prisoner says that he spent the time between leaving your house and the finding of the body?' "'yes.' "'was the prisoner likely to have any attractive associations connected with it, in reference to yourself?' "'we had often been there together before we were engaged. it was a favourite walk of mine.' "'do you suppose that any one in this walk could hear cries proceeding from the low gate?' "'certainly not.' "the cross-examination of crosby was as follows:-- "mr. a.---- 'were the prisoner's clothes much disordered, as if he had been struggling?' "'no; he looked much as usual; but he was covered with blood.' "'so we have heard you say. do you think that a man, in perfectly clean clothes, could have lifted the body out of the ditch without being covered with blood?' "'no: perhaps not.' "'was there any means by which so much blood could have been accumulated in the ditch, unless the body had been thrown there?' "'i think not. the pool were too big.' "'i have two more questions to ask, and i beg the special attention of the jury to the answers. is the ditch, or is it not, very thickly overgrown with brambles and brushwood?' "'yes; there be a many brambles.' "'do you think that any single man could drag a heavy body from the bottom of the ditch on to the bank, without severely scratching his hands?' "'no; i don't suppose he could.' "'that is all i wish to ask.' "not being permitted to address the jury, it was all that he could do. then the recorder summed up. god forgive him the fatal accuracy with which he placed every link in a chain of evidence so condemning that i confess poor george seemed almost to have been taken _in flagrante delicto_. the jury withdrew; and my sweet mistress dorothy, who had remained in court against my wish, suddenly dropped like an apple-blossom, and i carried her out in my arms. when i had placed her in safety, i came back, and pressed through the crowd to hear the verdict. "as i got in, the recorder's voice fell on my ear, every word like a funeral knell,--'_may the lord have mercy on your soul!_' "i think for a few minutes i lost my senses. i have a confused remembrance of swaying hither and thither in a crowd; of execration, and pity, and gaping curiosity; and then i got out, and some one passed me, whose arm i grasped. it was mr. a----. "'tell me,' i said, 'is there no hope? no recommendation to mercy? nothing?' "he dragged me into a room, and, seizing me by the button, exclaimed-- "'we don't want mercy; we want justice! i say, sir, curse the present condition of the law! it _must_ be altered, and i shall live to see it. if i might have addressed the jury--there were a dozen points--we should have carried him through. besides,' he added, in a tone that seemed to apologize for such a secondary consideration, 'i may say to you that i fully believe that he is innocent, and am as sorry on his account as on my own that we have lost the case.' "and so the day is ended. _fiat voluntas domini!_" * * * * * yes, eleanor! dr. penn was right. the day did end--and the next--and the next; and drop by drop the cup of sorrow was drained. and when the draught is done, should we be the better, nelly, if it had been nectar? i had neither died nor gone mad when the day came--the last complete day that george was to see on earth. it was sunday; and, after a sleepless night, i saw the red sun break through the grey morning. i always sleep with my window open; and, as i lay and watched the sunrise, i thought-- "he will see this sunrise, and to-morrow's sunrise; but no other! no, no!--never more!" but then a stronger thought seemed to rise involuntarily against that one-- "peace, fool! if this be the sorrow, it is one that must come to all men." and then, nelly (it is strange, but it was so), there broke out in the stone pine by my window a chorus of little birds whom the sunbeams had awakened; and they sang so sweet and so loud (like the white bird that sang to the monk felix), that earthly cares seemed to fade away, and i fell asleep, and slept the first sound, dreamless sleep that had blessed me since our great trouble came. chapter v. between two worlds. dr. penn was with george this day, and was to be with him to the last. his duty was taken by a curate. i will not attempt to describe my feelings at this terrible time, but merely narrate circumstantially the wonderful events (or illusions, call them which you will) of the evening. we sat up-stairs in the blue room, and harriet fell asleep on the sofa. it was about half-past ten o'clock when she awoke with a scream, and in such terror that i had much difficulty in soothing her. she seemed very unwilling to tell me the cause of her distress; but at last confessed that on the two preceding nights she had had a vivid and alarming dream, on each night the same. poor edmund's hand (she recognized it by the sapphire ring) seemed to float in the air before her; and even after she awoke, she still seemed to see it floating towards the door, and then coming back again, till it vanished altogether. she had seen it again now in her sleep. i sat silent, struggling with a feeling of indignation. why had she not spoken of it before? i do not know how long it might have been before i should have broken the silence, but that my eyes turned to the partially-open window and the dark night that lay beyond. then i shrieked, louder than she had done-- "harriet! _there it is!_" there it was--to my eyes--the detached hand, round which played a pale light--the splendid sapphire gleaming unearthlily, like the flame of a candle that is burning blue. but harriet could see nothing. she said that i frightened her, and shook her nerves, and took pleasure in doing so; that i was the author of all our trouble, and she wished i would drop the dreadful subject. she would have said much more, but that i startled her by the vehemence of my interruption. i said that the day was past when i would sacrifice my peace or my duty to her whims; and she ventured no remonstrance when i announced that i intended to follow the hand so long as it moved, and discover the meaning of the apparition. i then flew downstairs and out into the garden, where it still gleamed, and commenced a slow movement towards the gate. but my flight had been observed, nelly, by robert, our old butler. i had always been his favourite in the family, and since my grief, his humble sympathy had only been second to that of dr. penn. i had noticed the anxious watch he had kept over me since the trial, with a sort of sad amusement. i afterwards learnt that all his fears had culminated to a point when he saw me rush wildly from the house that night. he had thought i was going to drown myself. he concealed his fears at the time, however, and only said-- "what be the matter, miss dorothy?" "is that you, robert?" i said. "come here. look! do you see?" "see what?" he said. "don't you see anything?" i said. "no light? nothing?" "nothin' whatever," said robert, decidedly; "it be as dark as pitch." i stood silent, gazing at the apparition, which, having reached the gate, was slowly re-advancing. if it were fancy, why did it not vanish? i rubbed my eyes, but it was there still. robert interrupted me, solemnly-- "miss dorothy, do _you_ see anything?" "robert," i said, "you are a faithful friend. listen! i see before me the lost hand of your dead master. i know it by the sapphire ring. it is surrounded by a pale light, and moves slowly. my sister has seen it three times in her sleep; and i see it now with my waking eyes. you may laugh, robert; but it is too true." i was not prepared for the indignant reply: "laugh, miss dorothy! the lord forbid! if so be you do see anything, and it should be the lord's will to reveal anything about poor dear master edmund to you as loved him, and is his sister, who am i that i should laugh? my mother had a cousin (many a time has she told me the story) as married a sailor (he was mate on board a vessel bound for the west indies), and one night, about three weeks after her husband had--" "robert!" i said, "you shall tell me that story another day with pleasure; but no time is to be lost now. i mean to follow the hand: will you come with me and take care of me?" "go in, ma'am," he said; "wrap up warm, and put on thick shoes, and come quietly down to this door. i'll just slip in and quiet the servants, and meet you." "and bring a lantern," i said; "this light does not light you." in five minutes we were there again; and the hand was vivid as ever. "do you see it now?" whispered the butler, anxiously. "yes," i said; "it is moving." "go on," he said; "i will keep close behind you." it was pitch dark, and, except for the gleaming hand, and the erratic circles of light cast by the lantern, we could see nothing. the hand gradually moved faster, increasing to a good walking pace, passing over the garden-gate and leading us on till i completely lost knowledge of our position; but still we went steadily forward. at last we got into a road, and went along by a wall; and, after a few steps, the hand, which was before me, moved sharply aside. "robert," i said, "it has gone over a gate--we must go too! where are we?" he answered, in a tone of the deepest horror-- "miss dorothy! for the lord's sake, think what you are doing, and let us turn back while we can! you've had sore affliction; but it's an awful thing to bring an innocent man to trouble." "the innocent man _is_ in trouble!" i said, passionately. "is it nothing that he should die, if truth could save him? you may go back if you like; but i shall go on. tell me, whose place is this?" "never mind, my dear young lady," he said, soothingly. "go on, and the lord be with you! but be careful. you're sure you see it now?" "certain," i said. "it is moving. come on." we went forward, and i heard a click behind me. "what is that?" i said. "hush!" he whispered; "make no noise! it was my pistol. go gently, my dear young lady. it is a farmyard, and you may stumble." "it has stopped over a building!" i whispered. "not the house!" he returned, hoarsely. "i am going on," i said. "here we are. what is it? whose is it?" he came close to me, and whispered solemnly-- "miss dorothy! be brave, and make no noise! we are in farmer parker's yard; and this is a barn." then the terror came over me. "let us turn back," i said. "you are right. one may bear one's own troubles, but not drag in other people. take me home!" but robert would not take me home; and my courage came back, and i held the lantern whilst he unfastened the door. then the ghastly hand passed into the barn, and we followed it. "it has stopped in the far corner," i said. "there seems to be wood or something." "it's bundles of wood," he whispered. "i know the place. sit down, and tell me if it moves." i sat down, and waited long and wearily, while he moved heavy bundles of firewood, pausing now and then to ask, "is it here still?" at last he asked no more; and in a quarter of an hour he only spoke once: then it was to say-- "this plank has been moved." after a while he came away to look for a spade. he found one, and went back again. at last a smothered sound made me spring up and rush to him; but he met me, driving me back. "i beg of you, dear miss dorothy, keep away. have you a handkerchief with you?" i had one, and gave it to him. his hands were covered with earth. he had only just gone back again when i gave a cry-- "robert! _it has gone!_" he came up to me, keeping one hand behind him. "miss dorothy, if ever you were good and brave, hold out now!" i beat my hands together--"it has gone! it has gone!" "it has not gone!" he said. "master edmund's hand is in this handkerchief. it has been buried under a plank of the flooring!" i gasped, "let me see it!" but he would not. "no, no! my dear lady, you must not--cannot. i only knew it by the ring!" then he made me sit down again, whilst he replaced the firewood; and then, with the utmost quietness, we set out to return, i holding the lantern in one hand, and with the other clinging to his arm (for the apparition that had been my guide before was gone), and he carrying the awful relic in his other hand. once, as we were leaving the yard, he whispered-- "look!" "i see nothing," said i. "hold up your lantern," he whispered. "there is nothing but the dog-kennel," i said. "miss dorothy," he said, "_the dog has not barked tonight!_" by the time we reached home, my mind had fully realized the importance of our discovery, and the terribly short time left us in which to profit by it, supposing, as i fully believed, that it was the first step to the vindication of george's innocence. as we turned into the gate, robert, who had been silent for some time broke out-- "miss dorothy! mr. george manners is as innocent as i am; and god forgive us all for doubting him! what shall we do?" "i am going up to town," i said, "and you are going with me. we will go to dr. penn. he has a lodging close by the prison: i have the address. at eight o'clock to-morrow the king himself could not undo this injustice. we have, let me see, how many hours?" robert pulled out his old silver watch and brought it to the lantern. "it is twenty minutes to twelve." "rather more than eight hours. heaven help us! you will get something to eat, robert, and put the horses at once into the chariot. i will be ready." i went straight up-stairs, and met harriet at the door. i pushed her back into the room and took her hands. "harriet! robert has found poor edmund's hand, _with the ring_, buried under some wood in thomas parker's barn. i am going up to town with him at once, to put the matter into dr. penn's hands, and save george manners' life, if it be not too late." she wrenched her hands away, and flung herself at my feet. i never saw such a change come over any face. she had had time in the (what must have been) anxious interval of our absence, for some painful enough reflection, and my announcement had broken through the blindness of a selfish mind, and found its way where she seldom let anything come--to her feelings. "oh, dolly! dolly! will you ever forgive me? why did i not tell you before? but i thought it was only a dream. and indeed, indeed i thought mr. manners had done it. but that man parker! if it had not been for mr. manners being found there, i should have sworn that parker had done it. dolly! i saw him that night. he came in and helped. and once i saw him look at mr. manners with such a strange expression, and he seemed so anxious to make him say that it was a quarrel, and that he had done it in self-defence. but you know i thought it must be mr. manners--and i did so love poor edmund!" and she lay sobbing in agony on the ground. i said-- "my love, i pray that it is not too late: but we must not waste time. help me _now_, harriet!" she sprang up at once. "yes! you must have food. you shall go. i shall not go with you. i am not worthy, but i will pray till you come back again." i said, "there is one most important thing for you to do. let no soul go out or come into the house till i return, or some gossip will bring it to parker's ears that we have gone to london." harriet promised, and rushed off to get me food and wine. with her own hands she filled a hot-water bottle for my feet in the chariot, supplied my purse with gold, and sewed some notes up in my stays; and (as if anxious to crowd into this one occasion all the long-withheld offices of sisterly kindness) came in with her arms full of a beautiful set of sables that belonged to her--cloak, cuffs, muff, etc.--and in these she dressed me. and then we fell into each others arms, and i wept upon her neck the first tears i had shed that day. as i stood on the doorstep, she held up the candle and looked at me. "my dear!" she said, "how pretty your sweet face does look out of those great furs! you shall keep them always." dear harriet! her one idea--beauty. i suppose the "ruling passion," whatever it may be, is strong with all of us, even in the face of death. moreover, hers was one of those shallow minds that seem instinctively to escape by any avenue from a painful subject; and by the time that i was in the chariot, she had got over the first shock, and there was an almost infectious cheerfulness in her farewell. "it _must_ be all right, dolly!" then i fell back, and we started. the warm light of the open door became a speck, and then nothing; and in the long dark drive, when every footfall of the horses seemed to consume an age, the sickening agony of suspense was almost intolerable. oh, my dear! never, never shall i forget that night. the black trees and hedges whirling past us in the darkness, always the same, like an enchanted drive; then the endless suburbs, and at last the streets where people lounged in corners and stopped the way, as if every second of time were not worth a king's ransom; and sedan-chairs trotted lightly home from gay parties as if life were not one long tragedy. once the way was stopped, once we lost it. that mistake nearly killed me. at last a watchman helped us to the little by-street where dr. penn was lodging, near which a loud sound of carpenters' work and hurrying groups of people puzzled me exceedingly. after much knocking, an upper window was opened and a head put out, and my dear friend's dear voice called to us. i sprang out on to the pavement and cried-- "dr. penn, this is dorothy." he came down and took us in, and then (my voice failing) robert explained to him the nature of our errand, and showed him the ghastly proof. dr. penn came back to me. "my love," he said, "you must come up-stairs and rest." "rest!" i shrieked, "never! get your hat, doctor, and come quickly. let us go to the king. let us do something. we have very little time, and he must be saved." i believe i was very unreasonable; i fear that i delayed them some minutes before good dr. penn could persuade me that i should only be a hindrance, that he would do everything that was possible, and could do so much better with no one but robert. "my love," he said, "trust me. to obey is better than sacrifice!" i went up-stairs into the dingy little sitting-room, and he went to call his landlady--"a good woman," he said: "i have known her long." then he went away, and robert with him, to the house of the home secretary. it was three o'clock. five hours still! i sat staring at the sprawling paper on the walls, and at the long snuff of the candle that dr. penn had lighted, and at a framed piece of embroidery, representing abraham sacrificing isaac, that hung upon the wall. were there no succouring angels now? the door opened, and i looked wearily round. a motherly woman, with black eyes, fat cheeks, and a fat wedding-ring, stood curtseying at the door. i said, "i think you are dr. penn's landlady? he says you are very good. pray come in." then i dropped my head on my hand again, and stared vacantly as before. exhaustion had almost become stupor, and it was in a sort of dream that i watched the stout figure moving softly to and fro, lighting the fire, and bringing an air of comfort over the dreary little parlour. then she was gone for a little bit, and i felt a little more lonely and weary; and then i heard that cheerful clatter, commonly so grateful to feminine exhaustion, and the good woman entered with a toasted glow upon her face, bearing a tray with tea, and such hospitable accompaniments as she could command. she set them down and came up to me with an air of determination. "my dear, you must be a good young lady and take some tea. we all have our troubles, but a good heart goes a long way." her pitying face broke me down. how sadly without feminine sympathy i had been through all my troubles i had never felt as i felt it now that it had come. i fairly dropped my head upon her shoulder and sobbed out the apparently irrelevant remark-- "dear madam, i have no mother!" she understood me, and flinging her arms round me sobbed louder than i. it would have been wicked to offer further resistance. she brought down pillows, covered them with a red shawl, and propped me up till the horsehair sofa became an easy couch, and with mixed tears and smiles i contrived to swallow a few mouthfuls, a feat which she exalted to an act of sublime virtue. "and now, my dear," she said, "you will have some warm water and wash your hands and face and smooth your hair, and go to sleep for a bit." "i cannot sleep," i said. but mrs. smith was not to be baffled. "i shall give you something to make you," said she. and so, when the warm water had done its work, i had to swallow a sleeping-draught and be laid easily upon the sofa. her last words as she "tucked me up" were, oddly enough-- "the tea's brought back a bit of colour to your cheeks, miss, and i will say you do look pretty in them beautiful sables!" a very different thought was working in my head as the sleeping-draught tingled through my veins. "will the birds sing at sunrise?" nelly, i slept twelve long hours without a dream. it was four o'clock in the afternoon of monday when i awoke, and only then, i believe, from the mesmeric influence of being gazed at. eleanor! there is only one such pair of eyes in all the world! george manners was kneeling by my side. abraham was still sacrificing his son upon the wall, but my isaac was restored to me. i sat up and flung myself into his arms. it was long, long before either of us could speak, and, oddly enough, one of the first things he said was (twitching my cloak with the quaint curiosity of a man very ignorant about feminine belongings), "my darling, you seem sadly ill, but yet, doralice, your sweet face does look so pretty in these great furs." * * * * * my story is ended, nelly, and my promise fulfilled. the rest you know. how the detective, who left london before four o'clock that morning, found the rusty knife that had been buried with the hand, and apprehended parker, who confessed his guilt. the wretched man said, that being out on the fatal night about some sick cattle, he had met poor edmund by the low gate; that edmund had begun, as usual, to taunt him; that the opportunity of revenge was too strong, and he had murdered him. his first idea had been flight, and being unable to drag the ring from edmund's hand, which was swollen, he had cut it off, and thrown the body into the ditch. on hearing of the finding of the body, and of poor george's position, he determined to brave it out, with what almost fatal success we have seen. he dared not then sell the ring, and so buried it in his barn. two things respecting his end were singular: first, at the last he sent for dr. penn, imploring him to stay with him till he died. that good man, as ever, obeyed the call of duty and kindness, but he was not fated to see the execution of my brother's murderer. the night before, thomas parker died in prison; not by his own hand, nelly. a fit of apoplexy, the result of intense mental excitement, forestalled the vengeance of the law. need i tell you, dear friend, who know it so well, that i am happy? not, my love, that such tragedies can be forgotten--these deep wounds leave a scar. this one brought my husband's first white hairs, and took away my girlhood for ever. but if the first blush of careless gaiety has gone from life, if we are a little "old before our time," it may be that this state of things has its advantages. perhaps, having known together such real affliction, we cannot now afford to be disturbed by the petty vexations and worthless misunderstandings that form the troubles of smoother lives. perhaps, having been all but so awfully parted, we can never afford, in this short life, to be otherwise than of one heart and one soul. perhaps, my dear, in short, the love that kept faith through shame, and was cemented by fellow-suffering, can hardly do otherwise than flourish to our heart's best content in the sunshine of prosperity with which god has now blessed us. the smut. the councillor's chimney smoked. it always did smoke when the wind was in the north. a smut came down and settled on a brass knob of the fender, which the councillor's housekeeper had polished that very morning. the shining surface reflected the smut, and he seemed to himself to be two. "how large i am!" said he, with complacency. "i am quite a double smut. i am bigger than any other. if i were a little harder, i should be a cinder, not to say a coal. decidedly my present position is too low for so important an individual. will no one recognize my merit and elevate me?" but no one did. so the smut determined to raise himself, and taking advantage of a draught under the door, he rose upwards and alighted on the nose of the councillor, who was reading the newspaper. "this is a throne, a crimson one," said the smut, "made on purpose for me. but somehow i do not seem so large as i was." the truth is that the councillor (though a great man) was, in respect of his nose, but mortal. it was not made of brass; it would not (as the cabinet-makers say) take a polish. it did not reflect the object seated on it. "it is unfortunate," said the smut. "but it is not fit that an individual of my position (almost, as i may say, a coal) should have a throne that does not shine. i must certainly go higher." but unhappily for the smut, at this moment the councillor became aware of something on his nose. he put up his hand and rubbed the place. in an instant the poor smut was destroyed. but it died on the throne, which was some consolation. moral. more chimneys smoke than the councillor's chimney, and there are many smuts in the world. let those who have found a brass knob be satisfied. the crick. it was a crick in the wall, a very small crick too. but it is not always the biggest people who have the strongest affections. when the wind was in the east, it blew the dust into the crick, and when it set the other way, the dust was blown out of it. the crick was of a warm and passionate temperament, and was devotedly attached to the dust. "i love you," he whispered. "i am your husband. i protect, surround, defend, cherish you, and house you, you poor fragile dust. you are my wife. you fill all the vacant space of my heart. i adore you. i am all heart!" and if vacant space is heart, this last assertion was quite true. "remain with me always," said the crick. "ever with thee," said the dust, who spoke like a valentine. but the most loving couples cannot control destiny. the wind went round to the west, and the crick was emptied in a moment. in the first thrill of agony he stretched himself and became much wider. "i am empty," he cried; "i shall never be filled again. this is the greatest misfortune that could possibly have happened." the crick was wrong. he was not to remain empty; and a still greater misfortune was in store. the owner of the wall was a careful man, and came round his premises with a trowel of mortar. "what a crack!" said he; "it must be the frost. a stitch in time saves nine, however." and so saying he slapped a lump of mortar into the crick with the dexterity of a mason. in due time the wind went back to the east, and with it came the dust. "cruel crick!" she wept. "you have taken another wife to your heart!" and the crick could not answer, for he had ceased to exist. this is a tragedy of real life, and cannot fail to excite sympathy. the brothers. they were brothers--twin brothers, and the most intense fraternal affection subsisted between them. they were peas--sweet-peas, born together in the largest end of the same pod. when they were little, flat, skinny, green things, they regarded the pod in which they were born with the same awful dread which the greatest of men have at one time felt for nursery authority. they believed that the pod ruled the world. it was impossible to conceive a limit to the power of a thing that could hold so tight. but in due time the peas became large and round and black, and the pod got yellow and shrunken, and was thoroughly despised. "it is time we left the nursery," said the brothers. "where shall we go to, when we enter the world?" they inquired of the mother plant. "you will fall on the ground," said she, "in the south border, where we now are. the soil is good, and the situation favourable. you will then lie quiet for the winter, and in the spring you will come up and flower, and bear pods as i have done. that will be your fate. not eventful perhaps, but prosperous; and it comforts me to think that you are so well provided for." but the best of parents cannot foresee everything in the future career of their children, and the mother plant was wrong. the peas burst from the pod, it is true; but they fell, not into the south border, but into the hand of the seedsman to whom the garden belonged. "this is an adventure," said the brothers. they were put with a lot of other sweet-peas, and a brown paper bag was ready to receive them. "any way we are together," said they. but at that moment one of the brothers rolled from the bag on the floor. the seedsman picked him up, and he found himself tossed into a bag of peas. "it is all right," said he; "i shall find my brother in time." but though he rolled about as much as he could, he could not find him; for the truth is, that he had been put by mistake into a paper of eating peas; but he did not know this. "patience!" cried he; "we shall be sown shortly, and when we come up we shall find each other, if not before." the other pea thought that his brother was in the bag with him, and when he could not find him he consoled himself in the same manner. "when we come up we shall find each other, if not before." they were both sold in company with others, and they were both sown. no. was sown in a cosy little garden near a cosy little cottage in the country. no. was sown in a field, being intended for the market. they both came up and made leaves, and budded and blossomed, and the first thing each did when he opened his petals was to look round for his brother. no. found himself among other sweet-peas, but his brother was not there; and soon a beautiful girl, who came into a garden to gather a nosegay, plucked him from his stalk. no. found himself also among peas--a field full--but they were all white ones, and had no scent whatever. he had been sown near the wall, and he leant against it and wept. just then a young sailor came whistling down the road. he was sunburnt but handsome, and he was picking flowers from the roadside. when he saw the sweet-pea he shouted. "that's the best of the bunch," said he, and put it with the others. then he went whistling down the road into the village, past the old grey church, and up to a cosy little cottage in a cosy little garden. he opened the door and went into a room where a beautiful girl was arranging some flowers that lay on the table. when she saw him they gave a cry and embraced each other. after a while he said, "i have brought you some wild flowers; but this is the best," and he held up the sweet-pea. "this is not a wild flower," said she; "it is a garden flower, and must have been sown by accident. it shall be put with the other garden flowers." and she laid the sweet-pea among the rest on the table, and so the brothers met at last. the young couple sat hand in hand in the sunshine, and talked of the past. "time seemed to go slowly while we were parted," said the young man; "and now, to look back upon, all our misery seems but a dream." "that is just what _we_ feel," said the sweet-peas. "i was very sad," said the young girl softly, "very sad indeed; for, i thought you might be dead, or have married some one else, and that we might never meet again. but in spite of everything i couldn't quite despair. it seemed impossible that those who really loved each other should be separated for ever." meanwhile the sweet-peas lay on the table. they were very happy, but just a little anxious, for the lovers had forgotten to put them in water, and they were fading fast. "we are very happy," they murmured, "very happy. this moment alone is worth all that we have endured. it is true we are fading before we have ever fully bloomed, and after this we do not know what will happen to us. but the young girl is right. one cannot quite despair. it seems impossible that those who really love each other should be separated for ever." cousin peregrine's wonder stories. the chinese jugglers, and the englishman's hands. (_founded on fact_.) cousin peregrine had never been away quite so long before. he had been in the east, and the latter part of his absence from home had been spent not only in a foreign country, but in parts of it where englishmen had seldom been before, and amid the miserable scenes of war. however, he was at home at last, very much to the satisfaction of his young cousins, and also to his own. they had been assured by him, in a highly illustrated letter, that his arms were safe and sound in his coat-sleeves, that he had no wooden legs, and that they might feel him all over for wounds as hard as they liked. only maggie, the eldest, could even fancy she remembered cousin peregrine, but they all seemed to know him by his letters, even before he arrived. at last he came. cousin peregrine was dressed like other people, much to the disappointment of his young relatives, who when they burst (with more or less attention to etiquette) into the dining-room with the dessert, were in full expectation of seeing him in his uniform, or at least with his latest medal pinned to his dress-coat. perhaps it was because cousin peregrine was so very seldom troubled by chubby english children with a claim on his good nature that he was particularly indulgent to his young cousins. however this may be, they soon stood in no awe of him, and a chorus cried around him-- "where's your new medal, cousin? what's it about? what's on it?" "taku forts," said cousin peregrine, smiling grimly. "what's tar--koo?" inquired the young people. "taku is the name of a place in china, and you know i've just come from china," said cousin peregrine. on which six voices cried-- "did you drink nothing but tea?" "did you buy lots of old china dragons?" "did you see any ladies with half their feet cut off?" "did you live in a house with bells hanging from the roof?" "are the chinese like the people on mamma's fan?" "did you wear a pigtail?" cousin peregrine's hair was so very short that the last question raised a roar of laughter, after which the chorus spoke with one voice-- "do tell us all about china!" at which he put on a serio-comic countenance, and answered with much gravity-- "oh, certainly, with all my heart. it will be rather a long story, but never mind. by the way, i am afraid i can hardly begin much before the birth of confucius, but as that happened in or about the year b.c., you will still have to hear about two thousand four hundred years of its history or so, which will keep us going for a few months". "confucius--whose real name was kwang-foo-tsz (and if you can pronounce that last word properly you can do more than many eminent chinese scholars can)--was born in the province of kan tang ----. "oh, not about confuse-us!" pleaded a little maid on cousin peregrine's knee. "tell us what you did." "but tell us _wonderful_ things," stipulated a young gentleman, fresh from _the boy hunters_ and kindred works. if young bachelors have a weak point when they are kind to children, it is that they are apt to puzzle them with paradoxes. even cousin peregrine did "sometimes tease," so his cousins said. on this occasion he began a long rambling speech, in which he pretended not to know what things are and what are not _wonderful_. the _boy hunters_ young gentleman fell headlong into the quagmire of definitions, but the oldest sister, who had her own ideas about things, said firmly-- "wonderful things are things which surprise you very much, and which you never saw before, and which you don't understand. like as if you saw a lot of giants coming out of a hole in the road. at least that's what _we_ mean by wonderful." "upon my word, maggie," said cousin peregrine, "your definition is most admirable. i cannot say that i have met with giants in china, even in the north, where the men are taller than in the south. but i can tell you of something i saw in china which surprised me very much, which i had never seen before, and which, i give you my word, i don't understand to this hour, but which i have no doubt was not in the least wonderful to the poor half-naked chinaman who did it in my courtyard. and then, if you like, i will tell you something else which surprised some chinese country-folk very much, which they never saw before, and which they certainly did not understand when they did see it. will that do?" "oh yes, yes! thank you, yes!" cried the chorus, and maggie said-- "first all about the thing _you_ thought wonderful, you know." "well, the thing i thought wonderful was a conjuring trick done by a chinese juggler." "did he only do one trick?" said the little maid on cousin peregrine's knee. "oh, he did lots of tricks," said cousin peregrine, "many of them common eastern ones, which are now familiar in england, but which he certainly performed in a wonderful way: because, you see, he had not the advantage of doing his tricks on a stage fitted up by himself, he did them in the street, or in my courtyard, with very little apparatus, and naked to the waist. for instance, the common trick of bringing a glass bowl full of water and fish out of a seemingly empty shawl is not so marvellous if the conjurer has a well-draped table near him from behind which he can get such things, or even good wide sleeves to hide them in. but my poor conjurer was almost naked, and the bit of carpet, about the size of this hearthrug, which he carried with him, did not seem capable of holding glass bowls of water, most certainly. besides which he shook it, and spread it on the ground close by me, after which he threw himself down and rolled on it. and yet from underneath this he drew out a glass bowl of water with gold-fish swimming in it. but that trick and many others one can see very well done in london now, though not so utterly without apparatus. the trick which he did so particularly well, and which puzzled me so much, i have never seen in europe. this is the one i am going to describe to you." "describe the conjurer a bit more first, cousin peregrine." "there is nothing more to describe. he was not at all a grand conjurer, he was only a poor common juggler, exhibiting his tricks in the public streets many times in the day for the few small coins which the bystanders chose to give him. he was a very merry fellow, and all the time he was about his performance he kept making fun and jokes; and these amused the audience so much that you may believe that i was sorry my ignorance of his language hindered me from understanding them. "all sorts of people used to stop and look at the juggler: brawny porters, with loads of merchandise, or boxes of tea, or bars of silver, which they carried in boxes or baskets slung on bamboo poles over their shoulders." "like the pictures on the tea-boxes," whispered little bessy. "there's a figure of it in the grocer's window," said her brother, who had seen more of the world than bessy; "not a picture, a figure dressed in silk; and they're square boxes, not baskets, that he's got--wooden panniers i call them." "who else used to stop, cousin peregrine?" asked maggie. "street confectioners, maggie, with small movable sweetmeat stalls, which they carry on their backs. men with portable stoves too, who always have a cup of tea ready for you for a small coin worth about the twentieth part of a penny. tiny-footed women toddling awkwardly along, with children--also cramp-footed--toddling awkwardly after them, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and with their poor little arms stuck out at right angles with their bodies, to help them to keep their balance. even the blind beggars, who go along striking on a bell to let people know that they are blind, as otherwise they might be knocked over, even they used to stop and listen to my juggler's jokes, though they could not see his tricks. "all this was in the street; but sometimes i got him to come into my own courtyard to do his tricks there, that i might watch him more carefully. but watch as i might, i could never see how he did this particular feat. he used to do it with no clothes on except a pair of short trousers, for in the hot season, you must know, the lower classes of chinese go about naked to the waist. indeed, hot as it is, they don't wear hats. the juggler possessed both a hat and a jacket, as it happened, but he took them off when he did his trick." "and what _was_ the trick?" asked several impatient voices. "what did he do?" "he used to swallow ten or twelve needles one after the other, and 'wash them down' with a ball of thread, which he swallowed next, and by and by he used to draw the thread slowly out of his mouth, yard after yard, and it had all the needles threaded on it." "oh, cousin peregrine!" "he used to come quite close to me, maggie, as close as i am to you now, and take each needle--one after the other--between the finger and thumb of his right hand--keeping all the other fingers away from it, stick the point of it for a moment into his other palm, to show that it was sharp, and then to all appearance swallow it bodily before your eyes. in this way he seemed to swallow successively all the twelve needles. then he opened his mouth, that you might ascertain that they were not there, and you certainly could not see them. he next swallowed a little ball of thread, not much bigger than a pea. this being done, he seemed to be very uneasy (as well he might be!), and he made fearful faces and violent gestures, and stamped on the ground, and muttered incantations, and threw up his hands and eyes to the sky; and presently the end of a thread was to be seen coming out between his teeth, upon which he took hold of this end, and carefully drew out the thread with all the needles threaded on it. then there was always much applause, and the small coins used to be put pretty liberally into the hat which he handed round to receive them." "was that all?" asked the young gentleman of the adventure books. "all what, fred?" "all that you thought wonderful." "yes," said cousin peregrine. "don't you think it curious?" "oh, very, cousin, and i like it very much indeed, only if that's all _you_ thought wonderful, now i want you to tell us what _you_ did that _the chinese_ thought wonderful." "it's not very easy to surprise a town-bred chinaman," said cousin peregrine. "what i am going to tell you about now happened in the country. it was up in the north, and in a part where europeans had very rarely been seen." "how came you to be there, cousin peregrine?" "i was not on duty. i had got leave for a few days to go up and see pekin. therefore i was not in uniform, remember, but in plain clothes. "on this particular occasion i was on the river peiho, in one of the clumsy chinese river-boats. if the wind were favourable, we sailed; if we went with the stream--well and good. if neither stream nor wind were in our favour, the boat was towed." "like a barge--with a horse--cousin peregrine?" "like a barge, maggie, but not with a horse. one or two of the chinamen put the rope round them and pulled us along. it was not a quick way of travelling, as you may believe, and when the peiho was slow and winding, i got out and walked by the paths among the fields." "paths and fields--like ours?" "yes. very like some bits of the agricultural parts of england. but no pretty meadows. every scrap of land seemed to be cultivated for crops. you know the population of china is enormous, and the chinese are very economical in using their land to produce food, and as they are not great meat-eaters--as we are--their fields are mostly ploughed and sown, so i walked along among rice-fields and cotton-fields, and with little villages here and there, where the cottages are built of mud or stone with tile roofs." "did you see any of the villagers?" "most certainly i did. you must know that the inhospitable way in which the chinese and japanese have for many long years received strangers has come from misunderstandings, and ignorance, and suspicion, and perhaps from some other reasons; but the chinese and japanese villagers who see strangers for the first time, and have lived quiet country lives out of the way of politics, are often very hospitable and friendly. i am bound, however, to except the women; not because they wished us ill, but they are afraid of strangers, and they kept well out of our way." "do the village chinese women have those funny smashed-up feet, cousin peregrine?" "in the north of china they have. in the south only ladies deform themselves in this fashion; and the tartar women always leave their own beautiful little feet uninjured. well, the men came out of their cottages and fields, and pressed eagerly but good-naturedly round me." "do the village men wear pigtails?" "every chinaman wears a pigtail. a chinaman without a pigtail would be as great a rarity as a manx cat, or rather, i ought to say, he would be like the tailless fox in the fable; only you would never catch a chinaman trying to persuade his friends that it was creditable to have no tail! for i must tell you that pigtails are sometimes cut off--as a degradation--when a man has committed some crime. but as soon as he can, he gets the barber to put him on a false pigtail, as a closely-cropped convict might wear a wig. they roll them up when they are at work if they are in the way, but if a servant came into your room with his tail tucked up you would be very angry with him, it would be like a housemaid coming in with her sleeves and skirt tucked up for house-cleaning--_most_ disrespectful!" "were these the men you showed something to that _they_ thought wonderful?" "yes, fred. and now i'll tell you what it was. you must know that i could speak no chinese, and my new friends could speak no english, so they chattered like magpies to each other, and laughed like children or chinamen--for the chinese are very fond of a joke. when they laughed i laughed, and we bowed and shook hands, and they turned me round and felt me all over, and _felt my hands_." "what about your hands, cousin?" "i had on dog-skin gloves, yellow ones. now when all the male population of the hamlet had stroked these very carefully, i perceived that they had never seen gloves before, and that they believed themselves to be testing the feel of a barbarian's skin." "barbarian?" "certainly, bessie. they give us the same polite name that we feel ourselves more justified in applying to them. well, when they had laughed, and i had laughed, and we had shaken hands afresh, laughing heartily as we did so, and i began to feel it was time to go on and catch up my boat, which was floating sluggishly down the winding stream of the peiho, i resolved on one final effect, like the last scene of a dramatic performance. making vigorous signs and noises, to intimate that something was coming, and they must look out sharp, and feeling very much like a conjurer who has requested his audience to keep their eyes on him and 'see how it's done'--i slyly unbuttoned my gloves, and then with much parade began to draw one off by the finger-tips. "'eyah! eyah!' cried the chinamen on all the notes of the gamut, as they fell back over each other. _they thought i was skinning my hands_. i 'smiled superior,' as i took the gloves off, and made an effect almost as great by putting them on again." "oh, cousin peregrine, weren't they astonished?" "they were, maggie, and unless they are more familiar with europeans now, the mystery is probably to this day as unsolved to them as the trick of the ball of thread and the twelve needles still is to me. by this time, however, my boat was 'far off, a blot upon the stream,' and i had to hasten away as fast as i could to catch it up. i parted on the most friendly terms from my narrow-eyed acquaintance, but when i had nearly regained my boat i could still see them in their blue-cotton dresses and long pigtails, gazing open-mouthed at my vanishing figure across the rice-fields." * * * * * after a few seconds' silence, during which maggie had sat with her eyes thoughtfully fixed on the fire, she said, "cousin peregrine, you said in your letters that it was very cold in the north of china. if chinamen know nothing about gloves, how can they keep their hands warm?" maggie had a little the air of regarding this question as a poser, but cousin peregrine was not disconcerted. "my dear maggie, your question reminds me of another occasion, when i astonished a most respectable old china gentleman by my gloves. i will tell you about it, as it will show you how the chinese keep their hands warm. "it was on this very same expedition. we were at tung-chow, about eight miles from pekin. at this place we had to leave the river, and take to our tartar ponies, which our chinese horse-boys had ridden up to this point to meet us. we had hired a little cart to convey our baggage, and i was sitting on my pony watching the lading up of the cart, when a dear old chinaman, dressed in blue wadded silk, handsomely lined with fur, came up to me, and with that air of gentlemanly courtesy which is by no means confined to europe, began to explain and expound in his own language for my benefit." "what was he talking about? could you tell?" "i soon guessed. the fact is i am not very apt to wear gloves when i can help it, especially if i am working at anything. at the moment the old chinese gentleman came up i was holding the reins of my pony with bare hands (my gloves being in my pocket), and as the morning was cold, my fingers looked rather blue. having ascertained by feeling that my coat-sleeves would not turn down any lower than my wrists, he touched my hands softly, and made courteous signs, indicating that he was about to do me a good turn. having signalled a polite disapprobation of the imperfect nature of my sleeves, he drew my attention to his own deep wide ones. turning them back so as to expose the hands, the fine fur lining lay like a rich trimming above his wrists. then with a glance of infinite triumph he bespoke my close attention as, shivering, to express cold, he turned the long sleeves, each a quarter of a yard, over his hands, and stuffing each hand into the opposite sleeve they were warm and comfortable, as it were in a muff, which was a part of his coat. more sensible than our muffs too, the fur was inside instead of out. "he was the very pink of politeness, but at this point his pride of superior intelligence could not be restrained, and he broke into fits of delighted laughter, in which the horse-boys, the spectators, my friends, and (as is customary in china) everybody within sight and hearing joined. "i took good care to laugh heartily too. after which i made signs the counterpart of his. he looked anxious. i put my hand in my pocket, and drew out my gloves. he stared. _i put them on_, and nodded, to show that that was the way we barbarians did it. "'eyah!' cried the silk-robed old gentleman. "'eyah!' echoed the horse-boys and the crowd. "then i laughed, and the horse-boys laughed loudly, and the crowd louder still, and finally the old gentleman doubled himself up in his blue silk fur-lined robe in fits of laughter. "an asiatic only relishes one thing better than being outwitted--that is to outwit. "'eyah! eyah! ha! ha! ha!' they cried as we rode away. "'ha! ha! ha!' replied i, waving a well-gloved hand, on my road to pekin." waves of the great south seas. (_founded on fact_.) "very likely the man who drew it had been nearly drowned by one himself." "very likely nothing of the sort!" "how could he draw it if he hadn't seen it?" "why, they always do. look at uncle alfred, he drew a splendid picture of a shipwreck. don't you remember his doing it at the dining-room table, and james coming in to lay the cloth, and he would have a bit of the table left clear for him, because he was in the middle of putting in the drowning men, and wanted to get them in before luncheon? and uncle herbert wrote a beautiful poem to it, and they were both put into a real magazine. and uncle alfred and uncle herbert never were in shipwrecks. so there!" "well, uncle alfred drew it very well, and he made very big waves. so there!" "ah, but he didn't make waves like a great wall. he did it very naturally, and he draws a great deal better than those rubbishy old pictures in father's _robinson crusoe_." "well, i don't care. the bible says that when the children of israel went through the red sea the waters were a wall to them on their right hand and on their left. and i believe they were great waves like the wave in _robinson crusoe_, only they weren't allowed to fall down till pharaoh and his host came, and then they washed them all away." "but that's a miracle. i don't believe there are waves like that now." "i believe there are in other countries. uncle alfred's shipwreck was only an english shipwreck, with waves like the waves at the seaside." "let's ask cousin peregrine. he's been in foreign countries, and he's been at sea." the point in dispute between maggie and her brother was this:--the nursery copy of _robinson crusoe_ was an old one which had belonged to their father, with very rough old wood-cuts, one of which represented robinson crusoe cowering under a huge wave, which towered far above his head, and threatened to overwhelm him. this wave maggie had declared to be unnatural and impossible, whilst the adventure-book young gentleman clung to and defended an illustration which had helped him so vividly to realize the sea-perils of his hero. it was the day following that of cousin peregrine's arrival, and when evening arrived the two children carried the book down with them to dessert, and attacked cousin peregrine simultaneously. "cousin peregrine, you've been at sea: isn't that an impossible wave?" "cousin peregrine, you've been at sea: aren't there sometimes waves like that in foreign places?" "it's not very cleverly drawn," said cousin peregrine, examining the wood-cut; "but making allowance for that, i have seen waves not at all unlike this one." "there!" cried the young gentleman triumphantly. "maggie laughed at it, and said it was like a wall." "some waves are very like walls, but those are surf-waves, as they are called, that is, waves which break upon a shore. the waves i am thinking of just now are more like mountains--translucent blackish-blue mountains--mountains that look as if they were made of bottle-green glass, like the glass mountain in the fairy tale, or shining mountains of phosphorescent light--meeting you as if, they would overwhelm you, passing under you, and tossing you like the old woman in the blanket, and then running away behind you as you go to meet another. every wave with a little running white crest on its ridge; though not quite such a curling frill as this one has which is engulfing poor robinson crusoe. but his is a surf-wave, of course. those i am speaking of are waves in mid-ocean." "not as tall as a man, cousin peregrine?" "as tall as many men piled one upon another, maggie." "it certainly is very funny that the children should choose this subject to tease you about tonight, peregrine," said mamma. we are all apt to speak inaccurately. mamma did not mean that the subject was a comical one, but that it was remarkable that the children should have started it at dessert, when the grown-up people had been discussing it at dinner. they had not been talking about robinson crusoe's wave, but about the loss of an australian vessel, in sad circumstances which were in every one's mouth. a few people only had been saved. they had spent many days in an open boat in great suffering, and the particular question discussed at dinner was, whether the captain of a certain vessel which had passed without rescuing them had been so inhuman as to see and yet to leave them. "how could he help seeing them?" mamma had indignantly asked. "it was daylight, and of course somebody was on the deck, even if the captain was still in bed. don't talk to me, peregrine! you would say black is white for the sake of argument, especially if it was to defend somebody. but little as i know about the sea, i know that it's flat." "and that's flat!" interposed papa. "it's all very well making fun of me," mamma had continued with good-humoured vehemence, "but there were no welsh hills and valleys to block the view of castaway fellow-creatures not a mile off, and it was daylight, and he _must_ have seen them." "i'm not quite sure about the hills and valleys," cousin peregrine had replied; "and hills of water are quite as troublesome to see through as hills of earth." at this moment the dining-room door had opened to admit the children, maggie coming first, and making her courtesy in the doorway, with the old fat, brown-calf-bound _robinson crusoe_ under her arm. it opened without the slightest difficulty at the picture of the big wave, and the children appealed to cousin peregrine as has been related. maggie was a little taken aback by a decision which was in favour of her brother's judgment. she was apt to think rather highly of her own, and even now she pondered, and then put another question-- "but if the waves were so very, very big, cousin, they would swallow up the ships!" "no, maggie, not if the sailors manage their ship properly, and turn her about so that she meets the wave in the right way. then she rides over it instead of being buried under it." "it would be dreadful if they didn't!" said maggie. "i remember being in a ship that didn't meet one of these waves in the right way," said cousin peregrine. "tell us all about it," said fred, settling himself with two or three severe fidgets into the seat of his chair. "i _was_ going to have protested against the children asking you for another story so soon, peregrine," said mamma, "but now i feel selfish, for your wave-story will be quite as much for me as for the little ones." "where was it, cousin peregrine?" "where was the wave, do you mean? it was in the great south seas. as to where i was, i was in a sailing-vessel bound for south australia. to begin at the beginning, i must explain to you that this vessel was one of those whose captains accepted the instruments offered by the board of trade to any ship that would keep a meteorological log. i was fond of such matters, and i took the trouble off the captain's hands, by keeping his meteorological log for him." "what is a meteorological log, cousin?" "a kind of diary, in which you put down the temperature of the sea and air, how cold or hot they are--the way the wind blows, how the barometer is, and anything special and interesting about the weather overhead or the currents in the sea. now i must tell you that there had been a good deal of talk about currents of warm water in the southern ocean, like the gulf stream of the atlantic, which keeps the west coasts of great britain so warm. but these south sea currents had not been very accurately observed, and information on the subject was desired. well, one day we got right into a warm current." "how did you know, cousin?" "by drawing up a bucket of water out of the sea, and putting the thermometer into it. but i ought to tell you what a thermometer is--" "we know quite well," said maggie. "nurse always put it into baby's bath when he had fits, to see if the water was the right warmth." "very good, maggie. then let me tell you that the water of the sea got nearly thirty degrees warmer on that day between noon and midnight." "how did you know about midnight?" maggie inquired doubtfully; "weren't you in bed?" "no, i was not, i was very busy all day 'taking observations' every hour or two, and it was at twelve o'clock this very night that the 'comber' broke on deck." "what _is_ a 'comber'?" "a 'comber' is the name for a large wave with a comb or crest of foam, a sort of wave over which our ship ought to have ridden; but i must tell you that it was no easy matter to meet them on this occasion, because (owing to the cross currents) the waves did not all go one way, but came at us from various points. the sea was very heavy, and the night was very dark. i tried the heat of the water for the last time that evening, and having bade good-night to the officer whose watch was just over, i stayed for a few minutes to talk to the officer whose watch was just beginning, before going below to go to bed. we were standing aft, and, fortunately for us, near one of the masts, when through the darkness we saw the sloping sides of a great south sea wave coming at the fore part of the ship, but sideways. 'the rigging!' shouted the officer of the watch, and as we both clung to the ropes the wave broke on our bows, smashed the jib-boom, and swept the decks from stem to stern." "and if you hadn't held on by the rigging you would have been washed away?" "i am afraid we should, fred, for every loose thing on deck was swept off in less than a minute. the bull kept his feet, by the bye; but then he had four, and i have only two." "the bull! what bull?" "we were taking some cattle out to australia. there was a bull who lived in a stable that had been made for him on deck. when this comber broke over us it tore up the bull's house, and carried it overboard, but i met the bull himself taking a walk at large as i went below to change my clothes and get some sleep." "were you wet?" "drenched, my dear maggie; but when i got to my cabin i found that there was no hope of rest for some hours. the wave had flooded the cabins, broken in doors, and washed everything and everybody about. so we all had to set to work to bale out water, and mop up our bed-rooms; and as the wave had also put out what lights there were, we had to work in the dark, and very uncomfortable work it was! what the women and children did, and the poor people who were sea-sick, i hardly know. of course we who could keep our feet did the work." "weren't you ever sea-sick?" "never, i am thankful to say." "not when it's very, very rough?" "not in a gale. i have once or twice on that voyage been the captain's only companion at dinner, tied to the mast to keep myself steady, and with the sherry in one pocket and my wine-glass in another to keep _them_ steady, and quite ashamed of my appetite, for if the sea doesn't make you feel very ill it makes you feel very well." "i had no idea there were such very big waves really," said maggie, thoughtfully. "i see that they are quite big enough to shelter the captain's character, peregrine," said mamma, smiling, "and i am much obliged to you for correcting my ignorance. i don't _wish_ to believe that any english sailor would pass a boat in distress without giving help, if he saw it." "i am quite sure no english sailor would, and very few real sailors of any nation, i think. a real seaman knows too well what sea-perils are, and that what is another man's case one day may be his the next; and cowardice and cold-heartedness are the last sins that can be laid at jack tar's door as a rule. but i will finish my story by telling the children what happened next morning, as it goes to illustrate both my statements, that it is not easy to see an open boat in a heavy sea, and that sailors are very ready to risk their lives for each other." "you're like captain marryat, cousin peregrine," said fred. "he's not a sailor captain, he's a soldier captain," said maggie. "go on, cousin." "as i told you, we had two or three hours of very disagreeable work before our cabins were even tolerably comfortable; but it made us more tired than ever, and when i did turn in i slept like a top, and the rolling of the ship only rocked me to sounder slumbers. i was awakened at seven o'clock next morning by a fellow-passenger, who popped in to cry, 'there's a man overboard!' 'who?' shouted i as i jumped up. 'giovanni,' he replied as he vanished, leaving me to follow him on deck as quickly as possible. now, fred, picture to yourself a grey morning, the damp deck of our vessel being rapidly crowded with everybody on board, and all eyes strained towards a heavy sea, with big blue-black mountains of water running at us, and under us, and away from us all along; every wave had a white crest: but there were some other patches of snowy white hovering over the dark sea, on which all the experienced eyes were soon fixed!" "what were they?" whispered fred. "albatross," said cousin peregrine. "they had been following us for days, hovering, swooping, and whirling those great white wings of theirs, which sometimes measure nine feet from tip to tip." "what did they follow you for?" "they came to pick up anything that may be thrown overboard, and they came now, as we knew, after poor giovanni, whose curly black head kept ducking out of their way as he swam with desperate courage in our wake." "oh, cousin peregrine! didn't the captain stop the ship?" "certainly, maggie, though, quickly as it was done, it left the poor fellow far away behind. and heavy as the sea was, they were lowering a boat when i got on deck, and the captain had called for volunteers among the sailors to man it." "oh, i hope he got them!" "i hope you won't insult a noble and gallant profession by having any doubt about it, maggie. he might have had the ship's crew bodily if he had wanted them, and if the waves had run twice as high." "spare me!" said mamma. "as it was the few men needed were soon ready. the boat was launched without being upset, and the men got in without mishap. then they laid themselves to their oars, we gave them a parting cheer, and they vanished from our sight." "_drowned_, cousin peregrine?" "no, no. though i can tell you we were as anxious for them as for giovanni now. but when they had crossed the first water-mountains, and gone down into the water-valleys beyond, they were quite out of sight of the crowd on the deck of the ship, daylight though it was." "i retract everything i ever said," cried mamma impetuously. "and not only could we not see them, but they could not see the man they were risking their lives to save. those crested mountains which hid them from us hid him from them." "what _did_ you do?" "men were sent up the masts to look out from such a height that they could look over the waves. _they_ could see both giovanni and the boat, and as they were so high up the men in the boat could see them. so the men on the masts kept their eyes on giovanni, and the men in the boat kept their eyes on the men on the masts, and steered their course according to the signals from the look-out." "and they saved him?" "yes, they brought him back; and if we cheered when they went away, you may believe we cheered when they got safe to the ship's side again." "and who was giovanni? and did he get all right?" "giovanni was one of the sailors, an italian. he was a fine young fellow, and appeared to think nothing whatever of his adventure. i remember he resolutely refused to go below and change his clothes till he had helped to haul up the boat. with his white teeth shining through a broad grin, he told us in his broken english that he had been overboard every voyage he had taken. he said he didn't mind anything except the swooping and pecking of the albatross. they obliged him to dive so constantly, to keep his eyes from their beaks." "was it a comber washed him overboard?" "no. he was mending the jib-boom, and lost his hold and fell into the sea. he really had a very narrow escape. a less active swimmer might easily have been drowned. i always think, too, that he had an advantage in the fact that the water was warm." "i am so glad the nasty albatross were disappointed." "the nasty albatross were probably disappointed when they found that giovanni was not a piece of spoilt pork. however, they set their beautiful wings, and went their way, and we set our sails, and went our way, which was to adelaide, south australia." cousin peregrine's traveller's tales. jack of pera. (_founded on fact_.) "cousin peregrine, oughtn't we to love our neighbour, whether he's a nice neighbour or a nasty neighbour?" "certainly, maggie." "but need we when he's a nasty _next-door_ neighbour?" asked fred, in such rueful tones that cousin peregrine burst out laughing and said, "who is your nasty next-door neighbour, fred, and what has he done?" "well, his name is mackinnon, cousin; and everybody says he's always quarrelling; and he complained of our screaming and the cockatoo playing--no, of the cockatoo's screaming and our playing prisoners' base, and he kept our ball once, and now he has complained of poor dear ponto's going into his garden, and the dear darling old thing has to be tied up, except when we take him out for stiff walks." "i didn't notice anything stiff about his walk yesterday, fred, he took the fence into your nasty neighbour's garden at one bound, and came back with another." "i don't know what can make him go there!" cried fred; "i wish he understood about keeping to his own grounds." "ponto never lived in constantinople, that is evident," said cousin peregrine. "did you ever live in constantinople, cousin?" asked maggie. "yes, maggie, i am happy to say i have." "why are you glad, cousin?" "because in some respects it is the loveliest city on earth, and i am glad to have seen it." "tell us what it is like." "and tell us why you say ponto never lived there." "i was a good deal younger than i am now," said cousin peregrine, "when i saw constantinople for the first time, and had seen much less of the world than i have seen since; but even now i remember nothing in my travels with greater delight than my first sight of that lovely city. it was from the sea. do you know anything about the sea of marmora, fred?" "i don't think i know much," said fred doubtfully. "but we've got an atlas," said maggie, "so you can show it us, you know." "well, give me the map. here is the sea of marmora, with turkey-in-europe on one side of it, and turkey-in-asia on the other side of it. this narrower part that you come into it by is called the dardanelles, that narrower part that you go out of it by is called the bosphorus. the bosphorus is about two miles broad; it is salt water, you know, and leads from the sea of marmora to the black sea, which is farther north. this narrow piece of water going westward out of the bosphorous is called the golden horn. constantinople--which is built, like rome, on hills--rises above the shores of the bosphorus and on both sides of the golden horn. the part of it which is south of the golden horn is called stamboul, and is the especially turkish quarter. across the golden horn from stamboul lies the quarter called galata--the commercial port--and beyond that pera--beautiful pera!--the quarter where english people live when they live at constantinople. north of these are more suburbs, and then detached turkish villages and gay gardens dotting the banks of the bosphorus." "but you lived at pera?" "yes, i lived at pera; in a house looking into the turkish cemetery." "was it nice, cousin, like our churchyard? or do the turks do horrid things with their dead people, like those chinese you told us about, who put them in boxes high up in the air?" "the turks bury their dead as we do, my dear maggie, and they plant their graveyards with cypresses, which, standing tall and dark among the headstones of the graves, have a very picturesque effect. the cemetery in all turkish towns is a favourite place of public resort, but i cannot say that it is kept in very nice order, as a rule. for the sake of a water-colour sketch i made in one, i was very glad that the upright headstones were tumbling about in all directions, it took away the look of stiffness and monotony; but i am bound to say that the graves looked neglected as well as picturesque. the cemetery at pera had too much refuse, and too many cocks, hens, and dogs in it. it looked very pretty, however, from my windows, sloping down towards the golden horn, beyond which i could catch a glimpse of stamboul on the heights across the water. but i have not yet told you what constantinople looked like when i first saw it." "you began about the sea of marmora, cousin, and here it is. i've had my middle finger on it ever since we found it, to keep the place." "very good, maggie. we were coming up the sea of marmora one evening, and drew near to constantinople about sunrise. i knew we were near, but i could not see anything, because a thick white mist hung in front of us like a veil resting on the sea. we were near the mouth of the bosphorus when the sun broke out, the white mist rose slowly, like the curtain of a theatre, and--more beautiful than any scene that human hands can ever paint--i saw the queen of cities glittering in the sunshine." "what made it glitter? are the houses built of shiny stuff?" "the houses are built of wood, but they are painted in many colours. the rounded domes of the mosques are white, and the minarets, tall, slender, and fretted, are white, with golden tops, or white and blue. i can give you no idea how beautifully the shapes of the mosques and minarets break the uniformity of the mass of houses, nor how the gay colours, the white and the gold, shone like gems against a cloudless blue sky when the mist rose. no princess in an eastern fairy-tale ever dazzled and delighted the beholder by lifting her veil and displaying her beauty and her jewels more than my eyes were charmed when the veil was lifted from constantinople, and i saw her lovely and sparkling in the sun." "are the streets very beautiful when you get into them?" "ah, fred, i am sorry to say--no. they are very dirty, and very narrow. but they are picturesque, and made doubly so by the fact that in them you meet people of all nations, in every kind of dress, gay with all colours of the rainbow." "are there shops in the streets?" "most of the shops are all together in certain streets by themselves, forming what is called a bazaar. but in the other streets there are a few, such as sweetmeat shops and coffee shops, where the old turks go to drink thick black coffee, and smoke, and hear the news; and (if they wish it) to be shaved." "i thought turks wore long beards?" "the lower-class turks, and the country ones, and those who like to follow the old fashions, wear beards, but they have their heads shaved, and wear the turban. most modern turks, government officials, and so forth, shave off their beards and whiskers, and wear short hair and a moustache, with the fez, or cloth cap. the old-fashioned dress is much the handsomest, i think, and i am sorry it is dying out." "the poor women-turks aren't allowed to go out, are they, cousin peregrine?" "oh yes, they are, but they have to be veiled, and so bundled up that you can not only not tell one woman from another, but they hardly look like women at all--more like unsteady balloons, or inflated sacks of different colours. they wear yellow leather boots, and no stockings. over the boots they wear large slippers, in which they shuffle along with a gait very little less awkward than the toddle of a cramp-footed lady in china. if they are ungraceful on foot, matters are not much better when they ride. sitting astride a donkey (for they do not use side-saddles), a turkish lady is about as comical an object as you could wish to behold, though i have no doubt she is quite unconscious of looking anything but dignified, as she presses on to her shopping in the bazaar, screaming to the half-naked arab donkey-boy to urge on her steed with his stick. as the great cloak dress, in which women envelop themselves from head to foot when they go out, is all of one colour, they have this advantage over englishwomen out shopping, that they do not look ugly from being bedizened with ill-assorted hues and frippery trimmings. in fact a mass of turkish women, each clothed in one shade of colour, looks very like a flower-bed--a flower-bed of sole-coloured tulips without stalks!" "the bazaars are bigger than charity bazaars, i suppose," said maggie thoughtfully; "are they as big as the baker street bazaar?" "the bazaar of stamboul, the turkish quarter of constantinople, is almost a quarter by itself. it takes up many, many streets, maggie. i am sure i wish with all my heart i could take you children through it. you would think yourselves in fairy-land, or rather in some of those underground caves full of dazzling treasures such as aladdin found himself in." "but why, cousin peregrine? do the turks have very wonderful things in their shops?" "i fancy, maggie, that in no place in the world can one see such a collection of valuable merchandise gathered from all quarters of the globe. but it is not only the gold, the jewels, the ivories, the gorgeous silks and brocades, morocco leathers, and priceless furs, which make these great eastern markets unlike ours. the common wares for everyday use are often of a much more picturesque kind than with us. there is no great beauty in an english boot-shop, but the shoe-bazaar in stamboul is gay with slippers of all colours, embroidered with gold and silver thread, to say nothing of the ladies' yellow leather boots. a tobacconist's shop with us is interesting to none but smokers, but turkish pipes have stems several feet long, made of various kinds of wood, and these and the amber mouth-pieces, which are often of very great value, and enriched with jewels, make the pipe-seller's wares ornamental as well as useful. nor can our gunsmiths' shops compete for picturesqueness with the bazaar devoted to arms, of all sorts and kinds, elaborately mounted, decorated, sheathed, and jewelled. turkey and persian carpets and rugs are common enough in england now, and you know how handsome they are. turbans, and even fezes, you will allow to look prettier than english hats. then some of the shops display things that one does not see at all at home, such as the glass lamps for hanging in the mosques and greek churches. nor is it the things for sale alone which make the bazaar so wonderful a sight. the buyers and sellers are at least as picturesque as what they sell and buy. the floor of each shop is raised two or three feet from the ground, and on a gay rug the turbaned turk who keeps it sits cross-legged and smokes his pipe and makes his bargains, whilst down the narrow street (which in many instances is arched overhead with stone) there struggle, and swarm, and scream, and fight, black slaves, obstinate camels, primitive-looking chariots full of turkish ladies, people of all colours in all costumes, and from every part of the world." "it must be a wonderful place," sighed maggie; "streets full of beautiful shoes, and streets full of beautiful carpets." "just so, maggie." "not at all like a london bazaar, then. i thought perhaps it was a place that shut up to itself, with a beadle sitting at the door?" "i never was in stamboul at night, but my belief is that the bazaar is secured at night by the locking up of gates. you know the people who own the shops do not live in them, and as most valuable merchandise remains in the bazaar, it must be protected in some way. i suppose the watchmen look after it." "have the turks watchmen like the old london watchmen, cousin? with nightcaps, and rattles, and lanterns, and big coats?" "the turkish watchmen wear turbans--not nightcaps; but they have lanterns and big coats, and in one respect they are remarkably like the old 'charlies,' as the london watchmen used to be called. their object is not (like policemen) to find robbers and misdoers, but to frighten them away. just as the old charlies used to spring their wooden rattles that the thieves might get out of their way, so the turkish watchman strikes the ground with an iron-shod staff, that makes a great noise, for the same purpose. in one respect, however, the turkish watchmen are most useful--they give warning of fires." "are there often fires in constantinople?" "very often, fred. and when a big straggling city is built of wood in a hot climate which keeps the wood so dry that a spark will set it ablaze, when the water-supply is small, and the water-carriers, who feed the fire-engines from their leathern water-pots, are chiefly bent upon securing their pay for the help they give; and when, to crown all, the sufferers themselves are generally of the belief that what is to happen will happen, and that there is very little use in trying to avert calamity--you may believe that a fire, once started, spreads not by houses, but by streets, leaving acres of black ruins dotted with the still standing chimneys. however, i fancy that of late years wider streets and stone buildings are becoming commoner. there were stone houses, built by europeans, in constantinople even when i was there." "did you see a fire whilst you were there?" "yes, indeed. one came so near the house where i lived that i had everything packed up ready for a start, but fortunately my house escaped. i must tell you that the turks have one very sensible custom in connection with these fires. they have what are called fire-towers, on which men are stationed to give warning when a fire breaks out in any part of the town. they have a system of signals, by which they show in what quarter of the city the fire is. at night the signalling is done by lamps. there is an old genoese tower between pera and galata which has been made into a fire-tower. the one at stamboul i think is modern. these buildings are tall--like light-houses--so that the signals can be seen from all parts of constantinople, and so that the men stationed on them have the whole city in view. besides these signals, it is part of the watchman's duty, as i told you, to give warning of a fire, and the quarter in which it has broken out. i assure you one listens with some anxiety when the ring of his iron-tipped staff on the rough pavement is followed by the cry, '_yan ghun vah! stamboul-dah_' ('there is a fire! in stamboul'); or '_yan ghun vah! pera-dah_' ('there is a fire! in pera')." "but there are fire-engines?" "there may be very good ones now. in my time nothing could be more futile than the trumpery one which was carried on men's shoulders. indeed, until the streets are much less rough, narrow, and steep, i do not see how one could be _driven_ at any speed." "did the men who carried the engine run?" "yes, and at a good swinging pace too, their half-naked bodies streaming with perspiration, and (i should have thought) their labours quite doubled by yelling as they ran. their cries are echoed by the formidable-looking band which follows, waving long poles armed with hooks, &c., for pulling down houses to stop the progress of the flames. on the heels of these figures follow mounted officials, whose dignity is in a fixed proportion to the extent of the calamity. if the fire is a very very extensive one, the sultan himself has to be upon the spot." "it must be very exciting," said fred, in a tone of relish. "you've told us lots about constantinople now, cousin peregrine," said maggie, who had the air of having heard quite enough on the subject; "now tell us about why you said ponto never was in constantinople. don't the turks keep dogs?" "not as we do, for pets and friends; and yet the dog population of constantinople is more numerous and powerful, and infinitely more noisy, than i can easily describe to you." "whom do they belong to then?" "they have no special masters or mistresses. they are more like troops of wolves than a collection of pontos." "but who gives them their dinners?" "they live on offal and the offscourings of the city, and though the turks freely throw all their refuse into their streets, there are so many dogs that they are all half-starved. they are very fierce, and have as a rule a great dislike to strangers. at night they roam about the streets, and are said to fall upon any one who does not carry a lantern." "but does anybody carry a lantern--except the watchmen?" "everybody does. coloured paper lanterns, like the chinese ones, with a bit of candle inside. with one of these in one hand and a heavy stone or stick in the other, you may get safely through a night-walk among the howling dogs of stamboul." "what horrible beasts!" "i think you would pity them if you were there. they are half starved, and have no friends." "there isn't a home for lost and starving dogs in constantinople then?" "the whole city may be considered as the headquarters of starving dogs, but not of lost ones. that reminds me why i said ponto had not lived there. if he had he would know his own grounds, and keep to them." "but, cousin peregrine, i thought you said the turkish dogs had no particular homes?" "every dog in constantinople belongs to a particular quarter of the town, which he knows, and to which he confines himself with marvellous sagacity. in the quarter in which he was born, there he must live, and there (if he wishes to die peaceably) he must die. if he strays on any pretext into another quarter, the dogs of the quarter he has invaded will tear him to pieces, and dine upon his bones." "how does he know where his own part of the town begins and ends?" "i cannot tell you, maggie. but i can tell you of my own knowledge that he does. jack did, though we tried to deceive him over and over again." "who was jack?" "the handsomest dog i ever saw in constantinople. the turkish dogs are by no means beautiful as a rule, they are too much like jackals, and as they are apt to be maimed and covered with scars from fights with each other, they do not make much of what good looks they have. however, jack was rather less wild and wolfish-looking than most of his friends. he was of a fine tawny yellow, and had an intelligent face, poor fellow. he belonged to our quarter--in fact the cemetery was his home till he took to lying at our door." "then he was a pera dog?" [illustration] "yes, and i and the brother-officers who were living with me made friends with him. we gave him food and spoke kindly to him, and he laid aside his prejudices against foreigners, and laid his tawny limbs on our threshold. we became really attached to each other. he received the very british name of jack, and seemed quite contented with it. he took walks with us. it was then that again and again we tried to deceive him about the limits of his quarter, and get him into another one unawares. he never was misled. but later on, as he grew tame, less fearful of things in general, and more unwilling to quit us when we were out together, he sometimes strayed beyond his bounds, not because he was deceived as to his limits, but he ventured on the risk for our sakes. even then, however, he would not walk in the public thoroughfares, he 'dodged' through gardens, empty courtyards and quiet by-places where he was not likely to meet the outraged dogs of the quarter he was invading. the moment we were safe back 'in bounds' he came freely and happily to our side once more. i have often wondered, since i left constantinople, how long jack lived, and how he died." "oh, didn't you take him away?" "i couldn't, my dear. and you must not think, maggie, that if turks do not pet dogs they are cruel to them. it is not the case. a turk would never dream of petting a dog, but if he saw one looking hot and thirsty in the street he would be more likely to take trouble to get it a dish of water than many english people who feed their own particular pets on mutton-chops. jack was not likely to be ill-treated after our departure, but i sometimes have a heart-sore suspicion that we may have raised dreams in his doggish heart never again to be realized. if he were at all like other dogs (and the more we knew of him the more companionable he became), he must have waited many a long hour in patient faithfulness at our deserted threshold. he must have felt his own importance as a dog with a name, in that wild and nameless tribe to which he belonged. he must have dreamed of his foreign friends on many a blazing summer's afternoon. perhaps he stole cautiously into other quarters to look for us. i hope he did not venture too far--maggie--my dear maggie! you are not fretting about poor jack? i assure you that really the most probable thing is that our successors made friends with him." "do you really and truly think so, cousin peregrine?" "on my word of honour i do, maggie. you must remember that jack was not a stamboul dog. he belonged to pera, where europeans live, so there is a strong probability that his unusual tameness and beauty won other friends for him when we had gone." "i hope somebody very nice lived in your house when you went away." "i hope so, maggie." "cousin peregrine, do you think we could teach ponto to know his own quarter?" "i think you could, fred. i once lived next door to a man who was very fond of his garden. it was a mere strip in front of his hut--for we were quartered in camp at this time--and not even a paling separated it from a similar strip in front of my quarters. my bit, i regret to say, was not like his in any respect but shape. i had a rather ragged bit of turf, and he had a glowing mass of flowers. the monotony of my grass-plat was only broken by the marrow-bones and beef-ribs which my dog first picked and then played with under my windows. i was as fond of him as my brother-officer was of his flowers. i am sorry to say that dash had a fancy for the gayer garden, and for some time my good-tempered neighbour bore patiently with his inroads, and with a sigh buried the beef-bone that dash had picked among the mignonette at the roots of a magnificent rose which he often alluded to as 'john hopper,' and seemed to treat as a friend. mr. hopper certainly throve on dash's bones, but unfortunately dash took to applying them himself to the roots of plants for which i believe that bone manure is not recommended. when he made a hole two foot deep in the nemophila bed, and laid a sheep's head by in it against a rainy day, i felt that something must be done. after the humblest apologies to my neighbour, i begged for a few days' grace. he could not have spoken more feelingly of the form, scent, and colour of his friend john hopper than i ventured to do in favour of the intelligence of my friend dash. in short i begged for a week's patience on his part, that i might teach dash to know his own garden. if i failed to do so, i promised to put him on the chain, much as i dislike tying up dogs." "how did you manage, cousin?" "whenever dash strayed into the next garden, i began to scold him in the plainest english, and covered him with reproaches, till he slunk gradually back to his own untidy grass-plat. when he touched his own grounds, i changed my tone at once, to approbation. at first this change simply brought him flying to my feet again, if i was standing with my friend in his garden. but after a plentiful application of, 'how dare you, sir? go back' (pointing), 'go back to your garden. if this gentleman catches you here again, he'll grind your bones to make john hopper's bread. that's a good dog. no! down! stay where you are!'--dash began to understand. it took many a wistful gaze of his brown eyes before he fully comprehended what i meant, but he learned it at last. he never put paw into major e----'s garden without looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. he would lie on his own ragged lawn and wistfully watch me sitting and smoking among the roses; but when i returned to our own quarters he welcomed me with an extravagant delight which seemed to congratulate me on my escape from the enemy's country." "oh, cousin peregrine! we must try and teach ponto to know his own garden." "i strongly advise you to do so. ponto is a gentleman of honour and intelligence, i feel convinced. i think he will learn his neighbourly duties, and if he does do so as well as dash did--whatever you may think of mr. mackinnon--i think mr. mackinnon will soon cease to regard ponto as--a nasty next-door neighbour." the princes of vegetation. this fanciful and high-sounding title was given by the great swedish botanist, linnæus, to a race of plants which are in reality by no means distantly allied to a very humble family--the family of rushes. the great race of palms puzzled the learned swede. he did not know where to put them in his system; so he gave them an appendix all to themselves, and called them the princes of vegetation. the appendix cannot have been a small one, for the order of palms is very large. about five hundred different species are known and named, but there are probably many more. they are a very beautiful order of plants; indeed, the striking elegance of their forms has secured them a prominence in pictures, poetry, and proverbs, which makes them little less familiar to those who live in countries too cold for them to grow in, than to those whose home, like theirs, is in the tropics. the name palm (latin, _palma_) is supposed to have been applied to them from a likeness in the growth of their branches to the outspread palm of the hand; and the fronds of some of the fan-palms are certainly not unlike the human hand, as commonly drawn by street-boys upon doors and walls. so beautiful a tree, when it flourished in the symbol-loving east, was sure to be invested with poetical and emblematical significance. conquerors were crowned with wreaths of palm, which is said to have been chosen as a symbol of victory, because of the elasticity with which it rises after the pressure of the heaviest weight--an explanation, perhaps, more appropriate to it as the emblem of spiritual triumphs--the palm of martyrdom and the palms of the blessed. but as a religious symbol it is not confined to the church triumphant. not only is the "great multitude which no man can number" represented to us as "clothed in white robes, and palms in their hands"--the word "palmer" records the fact that he who returned from a pilgrimage to the holy land was known, not only by the cockle-shell on his gown, but by the staff of palm on which he leant. st. gregory also alludes to the palm-tree as an accepted emblem of the life of the righteous, and adds that it may well be so, since it is rough and bare below, and expands above into greenness and beauty. the palm here alluded to is evidently the date palm (_phoenix dactylifera_). this is pre-eminently the palm-tree of the bible, and was in ancient times abundant in the holy land, though, curiously enough, it is now comparatively rare. jericho was known as "the city of palm-trees" in the time of moses (deut. xxxiv. ). it is alluded to again in the times of the judges (judges i. ; iii. ), and it bore the same title in the days of ahaz ( chron. xxviii. ). josephus speaks of it as still famous for its palm-groves in his day, but it is said that a few years ago only one tree remained, which is now gone. it was under a palm that deborah the prophetess sat when all israel came up to her for judgment; and to an audience under the shadow of this tree, which bore her name, that she summoned barak out of kedesh-naphtali. bethany means "the house of dates," and the branches of palm which the crowd cut down to strew before our lord as he rode into jerusalem were no doubt of this particular species. women--as well as places--were often named after the princes of vegetation, whose graceful and stately forms approved them to lovers and poets as fit types of feminine beauty. usefulness, however, even more than ornament, is the marked characteristic of the tribe. "from this order (_palmæ_)," says one writer, "are obtained wine, oil, wax, flour, sugar, salt, thread, utensils, weapons, habitations, and food"--a goodly list of the necessaries of life, to which one may add many smaller uses, such as that of "vegetable ivory" for a variety of purposes, and the materials for walking-sticks, canework, marine soap, &c., &c. the princes of vegetation are to be found in all parts of the world where the climate is adapted to the tropical tastes of their royal highnesses. they have come into our art, our literature, and our familiar knowledge from the east; but they abound in the tropics of the west, and some species are now common in south america whose original home was in india. the cocoa-nut palm (_cocos nucifera_) is an indian and south sea islands prince; but his sway extends now over all tropical countries. the cocoa-nut palm begins to bear fruit in from seven to eight years after planting, and it bears on for no less than seventy to eighty years. length of days, you see, as well as beauty and beneficence, mark this royal race which linnæus placed alone! cocoa-nuts are useful in many ways. the milk is pleasant, and in hot and thirsty countries is no doubt often a great boon. the white flesh--a familiar school-boy dainty--is eaten raw and cooked. it produces oil, and is used in the manufacture of stearine candles. it is also used to make _marine soap_, which will lather in salt water. the wood of the palm is used for ornamental joinery, the leaves for thatch and basket-work, the fibre for cordage and cocoa-nut matting, and the husk for fuel and brushes. cocoa and chocolate come from another palm (_theobroma cacao_), which is cultivated largely in south america and the west indies. sago and tapioca are made from the starch yielded by several species of palm. the little round balls of sago are formed from a white powder (sago flour, as it is called), just as homoeopathic pillules are formed from sugar. it is possible to see chemists make pills from boluses to globules, but the malay indians are said jealously to keep the process of "pearling" sago a trade secret. tapioca is only another form of sago starch. sago flour is now imported into england in considerable quantities. it is used for "dressing" calicoes. among those products of the palm which we import most liberally is "vegetable ivory." vegetable ivory is the kernel of the fruit of one of the most beautiful of palms (_phytelephas macrocarpa_). this prince of vegetation is a native of south america. "it is short-stemmed and procumbent, but has a magnificent crown of light green ostrich-feather-like leaves, which rise from thirty to forty feet high." the fruit is as big as a man's head. two or three millions of the nuts are imported by us every year, and applied to all the purposes of use and ornament for which real ivory is available. the coquilla-nut palm (_attalea funifera_), whose fruit is about the size of an ostrich-egg, also supplies a kind of vegetable ivory. our ideas of palm-trees are so much derived from the date palm of judæa, that an erect and stately growth is probably inseparably connected in our minds with the princes of vegetation. but some of the most beautiful are short-stemmed and creeping; whilst others fling giant arms from tree to tree of the tropical forests, now drooping to the ground, and then climbing up again in very luxuriance of growth. many of the rattan palms (_calamus_) are of this character. they wind in and out, hanging in festoons from the branches, on which they lean in princely condescension, with stems upwards of a thousand feet in length. there is something comical in having to add that these clinging rattan stems, which cannot support their own weight, have a proverbial fame, and are in great request for the manufacture of walking-sticks. they are also largely imported into great britain for canework. another very striking genus (_astrocaryum_) is remarkable for being clothed in every part--stem, leaves, and spathe--with sharp spines, which are sometimes twelve inches long. _astrocaryum murumura_ is edible. the pulp of the fruit is said to be like that of a melon, and it has a musky odour. it is a native of tropical america, and abundant on the amazon. cattle wander about the forests in search of it, and pigs fatten on the nut, which they crunch with their teeth, though it is exceedingly hard. the date palm yields a wine called toddy, or palm wine, and from the princes of vegetation is also distilled a strong spirit called arrack. and speaking again of the judæan palms, i must here say a word of those which we associate with palm sunday--the willow palms--for which we used to hunt when we were children. it is hardly necessary to state that these willow branches, with their soft silvery catkins, the crown of the earliest spring nosegays which the hedges afford, are not even distantly related to the princes of vegetation, though we call them palms. they are called palms simply from having taken the place of real palm-branches in the ceremonies of the sunday of our lord's entry into jerusalem, where these do not grow. a very old writer, speaking of the jews strewing palm-branches before christ, says: "and thus we take palm and flowers in procession as they did ... in the worship and mind of him that was done on the cross, worshipping and welcoming him with song into the church, as the people did our lord into the city of jerusalem. it is called palm sunday for because the palm betokeneth victory; wherefore all christian people should bear palm in procession, in token that he hath foughten with the fiend our enemy, and hath the victory of hym." a curious old scotch custom is recorded in lanark, as "kept by the boys of the grammar-school, beyond all memory in regard to date, on the saturday before palm sunday. they then parade the streets with a palm, or its substitute, a large tree of the willow kind (_salix caprea_), in blossom, ornamented with daffodils, mezereon, and box-tree. this day is called palm saturday, and the custom is certainly a popish relic of very ancient standing." but to return to palms proper. before taking leave of them, there is one more word to be said in their praise which may endear this noble race to eyes which will never be permitted to see the wonders of tropical forests. as pot-plants they are not less remarkable for the picturesqueness of their forms, than for the patience with which they endure those vicissitudes of stuffiness and chill, dryness, dust, and gas, which prove fatal to so many inmates of the flower-stand or the window-sill. pot-palms may be bought of any good nurseryman at prices varying from two or three shillings to two or three pounds. _latania borbonica_ and _phoenix reclinata_ are good and cheap. sandy-peaty soil, with a little leaf-mould, is what they like, and this should be renewed (with a larger pot) every second year. thus, with the most moderate care, and an occasional sponging, or a stand-out in a soft shower, the exiled princes of vegetation, whose shoots in their native forests would have been of giant luxuriance, will live for years, patiently adapting themselves by slow growth to the rooms which they adorn, easier of management than the next fern you dig up on your rambles, and, in the incomparable beauty of their forms, the perpetual delight of an artistic eye. little woods. by little woods are here meant--not woods of small extent, but--woods in which the trees never grow big, woods that are to grown-up woods as children to grown-up people, woods that seem made on purpose for children, and dwarfs, and dolls, and fairies. these little woods have many names, varying with the trees of which they are composed, or the districts in which they are found. one of the best-known names is that of copse or coppice, and it brings with it remembrances of the fresh beauty of spring days, on which--sheltered by the light copse-wood from winds that are still keen--we have revelled in sunshine warm enough to persuade us that summer was come "for good," as we picked violets and primroses to the tolling of the cuckoo. things "in miniature" have a natural charm for little people, and most of my young readers have probably been familiar with favourite copses, or miniature pine-forests. perhaps some of them would like to know why these little woods never grow into big ones, and something also of the history and uses of those trees of which little woods are composed. they are not made of dwarf trees. there are little woods, as well as big woods, of oak, elm, ash, pine, willow, birch, beech, and larch. in some cases the little woods are composed of the growth which shoots up when the principal trunk of the tree has been cut down, but they are generally little merely because they are young, and are cut down for use before they have time to grow into forest-trees. the object of this little paper is to give some account of their growth and uses. it will be convenient to take them alphabetically, by their english names. the ash (_fraxinus excelsior_ and other varieties) is a particularly graceful and fine tree at its full growth. it is a native of great britain, and of many other parts of the world. it is long lived. the most profitable age for felling it as a forest-tree is from eighty to a hundred years. the flower comes out before the leaves, which are late, like those of the oak. the bunches of seed-vessels, or "ash-keys," as they are fancifully called, were pickled in salt and water and eaten in old times. the greeks and romans made their spears of ash-wood. the wood is not so durable as that of some other trees, but it is tough, and is thus employed for work subject to sudden strains. it is good for kitchen-tables, as it scours well and does not easily splinter. in little woods, or ash-holts, or ash-coppices, the ash is very valuable. they are either cut over entirely at certain intervals, or divided into portions which are cut yearly in succession. at four or five years old the ash makes good walking-sticks, crates to pack glass and china in, hoops, basket handles, fences, and hurdles. croquet-mallets are also made of ash. at twelve or fourteen it is strong enough for hop-poles. there are many old superstitions in connection with the ash, and there is a midland counties saying that if there are no keys on the ash, within a twelvemonth there will be no king. there are several fine american varieties, and both in the states and in canada the wood is used for purposes similar to ours. the alder (_alnus glutinosa_, &c.) is never a very large tree. it is supposed to be in maturity when it is sixty years old. it will grow in wetter places than any other tree in europe--even than the willow. though the wood is soft, it is very durable in water. virgil speaks of it as being used for boats. it is highly valued in holland for piles, and it is said that the famous bridge of the rialto at venice is built on piles of alder-wood. though invaluable for water-pipes, pump-barrels, foundations for bridges, &c., alder-wood is of little use on dry land unless it can be kept _perfectly_ dry. wooden vessels and sabots, however, are made of it. alders are chiefly grown in little woods. planted by the side of rivers, too, their tough and creeping roots bind and support the banks. alder-coppices are very valuable to the makers of--gunpowder! every five or six years the little alders are cut down and burned to charcoal, and the charcoal of alder-wood is reckoned particularly good by gunpowder manufacturers. the aspen, or trembling poplar (_populus tremula_), like the alder, is fond of damp situations. it has also a white soft wood, used by the turner and engraver, and for such small articles as clogs, butchers' trays, &c, &c. the quivering of its leaves is a favourite topic with poets, and there is a curious old highland superstition that the cross of christ was made of aspen-wood, and that thenceforward the tree could never rest. in "little woods" it may be cut every seven or eight years for faggots, and at fifteen or twenty years old for poles. the beech (_fagus sylvatica_). with this beautiful tree all our young readers must be familiar. there may be those whose minds are not quite clear about wych-elms and sycamores, but the appearance of the beech-tree is too strongly marked to allow of any confusion on the subject. the beech is spoken of by greek and roman writers, and old writers on british agriculture count it among the four timber trees indigenous to england: the beech, the oak, the ash, and the elm. it is said, however, not to be a native of scotland or ireland. it attains its full growth in from sixty to eighty years, but is believed to live to be as old as two hundred. the timber is not so valuable as that of the other three british trees, but it is used for a great variety of purposes. like the alder, it will bear the action of water well, and has thus been used for piles, flood-gates, mill-wheels, &c. it is largely used by cabinet-makers for house furniture. it is employed also by carriage-makers and turners, and for various small articles, from rolling-pins to croquet-balls. the dried leaves are used in switzerland to fill beds with, and very nice such beds must be! long ago they were used for this purpose in england. evelyn says that they remain sweet and elastic for seven or eight years, by which time a straw mattress would have become hard and musty. they have a pleasant restorative scent, something like that of green tea. when we think how many poor people lie on musty mattresses, or have none at all, whilst the beech-leaves lie in the woods and go very slowly to decay, we see one more of the many instances of people remaining uncomfortable when they need not be so, because of their ignorance. the fact that beech-leaves are very slow to rot makes them useful in the garden for mulching and protecting plants from frost. in scotland the beech-chips and branches are burned to smoke herrings, and pyroligneous acid (a form of which is probably known to any of our young readers who suffer from toothache as _creosote_!) is distilled from them. mr. loudon tells us that the word "book" comes from the german word _buch_, which, in the first instance, means a beech, and was applied to books because the old german bookbinders used beech-wood instead of paste-board for the sides of thick volumes. beech-wood is especially good for fuel. only the sycamore, the scotch pine, and the ash give out more heat and light when they burn. beech-nuts--or beech-mast, as it is called--are eaten by many animals. pigs, deer, poultry, &c., are turned into beech-woods to fatten on the mast. squirrels and dormice delight in it. in france it is used to make beech-oil. this oil is used both for cooking and burning, and for the latter purpose has the valuable property of having no nasty smell. of the beauty of the beech as a forest-tree--let artists rave! its smooth and shapely bole does not tempt the sketcher's eye alone. to the lover and the school-boy (and, alas! to that inartistic animal the british holiday-maker) it offers an irresistible surface for cutting names and dates. upon its branches and beneath its shadow grow many _fungi_, several of which are eatable. truffles are found there; those underground dainties which dogs (and sometimes pigs!) are trained to grub up for our benefit. they discover the whereabouts of the truffle by scent, for there is no sign of it above ground. nothing else will grow under beech-trees, except holly. scarcely less charming than the beech-forests are beech-hedges. they cut and thrive with cutting like yew-hedges. "little woods" of beech are common in buckinghamshire. they are chiefly grown for the charcoal, which is valuable for gunpowder. "copper-beeches"--red-leaved beech-trees, very beautiful for ornamental purposes--all come from one red-leaved beech, a sort of freak of nature, which was found about a century ago in a wood in germany. the birch (_betula alba_, &c.) is also a tree of very distinctive appearance. the silver-white bark, which peels so delightfully under childish fingers, is not less charming to the sketcher's eye, whether as a near study or as gleaming points of high light against the grey greens and misty purples of a highland hillside. it is emphatically the tree of the highlands of the north. it bends and breaks not under the wildest winds, it thrives on poor soil, and defies mist and cold. so varied are its uses that it has been said that the scotch highlander makes everything of birch, from houses to candles, and beds to ropes! the north american indians and the laplanders apply it almost as universally as the chinese use paper. the wigwams or huts of the north american indians are made of birch-bark laid over a framework of birch-poles or trunks, and their canoes or boats are cased in it. the laplander makes his great-coat of it,--a circular _poncho_ with a hole for his head,--as well as his houses and his boots and shoes. it will be easily believed that birch-bark was used in ancient times for writing on before the invention of paper. birch-wood makes good fuel. it is also used by cabinet-makers. its uses in "little woods" are many. the charcoal is good for gunpowder, and it is that of which _crayons_ are made. birch-coppices are cut for brooms, hoops, &c., at five to six years old, and at ten to twelve for faggot-wood, poles, fencing, and bark for the tanners. birch-spray (that is, the twigs and leaves) is used for smoking hams and herrings, and for brooms to sweep grass. it is also used to make birch-rods; but as we think very ill of the discipline of any household in which the children and the pets cannot be kept in order without being beaten, we hope our own young readers are only familiar with birch-rods in picture-books. the (sweet or spanish) chestnut (_castanca vesca_) is grown in "little woods" for hop-poles, fence-wood, and hoops. the wood of the full-grown tree is also valuable. evelyn says, "a decoction of the rind of the tree tinctures hair of a golden colour, esteemed a beauty in some countries." it would be entertaining to know if this is the foundation of the "auricomous fluids" advertised by hair-dressers! amongst "little woods" the dearest of all to the school-boy must surely be the hazel-copse! the hazel (_corylus avellana_) is never a large tree. it is, however, long lived, and of luxuriant growth. when cut it "stoles" or throws up shoots very freely, and when treated so will live a hundred years. with a single stem, mr. loudon assures us, it would live much longer. filbert-hazels are a variety with longer nuts. hazels are cultivated not only for the nuts, but for corf-rods,[ ] hoops, fencing, &c., and hazel-charcoal, like beech-charcoal, is used for crayons. like many other plants, the hazel has two kinds of flowers, which come out before the leaves. the long pale catkins appear first, and a little later tiny crimson flowers come where the nuts are afterwards to be. many old superstitions are connected with the hazel. hazel-rods were used to "divine" for water and minerals by professors of an art which received the crack-jaw title of rhabdomancy. having tried our own hand at rhabdomancy, we are able to say that the freaks of the divining-rod in sensitive fingers are sometimes as curious as those of a table among table-turners; and are probably susceptible of similar explanations. the larch (_larix europæa_, &c.). though traceable in england for two hundred years, it is within this century that the larch has been extensively cultivated for profit. the exact date of its introduction from the mountain ranges of some other part of europe is not known, but there is a popular tradition that it was first brought to scotland with some orange-trees from italy, and having begun to wither under hot-house treatment, was thrown outside, where it took root and throve thereafter. the wood of full-grown larch-trees is very valuable. to john, duke of athol, scotland is indebted for the introduction of larch plantations on an enormous scale. he is said to have planted acres of mountain-ground with these valuable trees, which not only bring in heavy returns as timber, but so enrich the ground on which they grow, by the decayed _spicula_ or spines which fall from them, as to increase its value in the course of some years eight or tenfold. the duke was buried in a coffin made of larch-wood! this sounds as if the merits of the larch-tree had been indeed a hobby with him, but when one comes to enumerate them one does not wonder that a man should feel his life very usefully devoted to establishing so valuable a tree in his native country, and that the pains and pride it brought him should have awakened sentiment enough to make him desire to make his last cradle from his favourite tree. larch-wood is light, strong, and durable. it is used for beams and for ship-building, for railroad-sleepers and mill-axles, for water-pipes, and for panels for pictures. evelyn says that raphael, the great painter, painted many of his pictures on larch-wood. it will stand in heat and wet, under water and above ground. it yields good turpentine, but trees that have been tapped to procure this are of no use afterwards for building purposes. the larch is said not to make good masts for ships, but its durability in all varieties of temperature and changes of weather make it valuable for vine-props. when made of larch-poles these are never taken up as hop-poles are. year after year the vines climb them and fade at their feet, and they are said to have outlasted at least one generation of vine-growers. in "little woods" the larches are planted very close, so that they may "spindle up" and become tall before they grow thick. they are then used for hop-poles and props of various kinds. the oak (_quercus robur_, &c.) is pre-eminently a british tree. of its beauty, size, the venerable age it will attain, and its historical associations, we have no space to speak here, and our young readers are probably not ignorant on the subject. the durability of its wood is proverbial. the bark is also of great value, and though the slow growth of the oak in its earlier years postpones profit to the planter, it does so little harm to other wood grown with it (being in this respect very different from the beech), that profitable coppice-wood and other trees may be grown in the same plantation. the age at which the oak should be felled for ship-timber, &c., depends on many circumstances, and is fixed by different authorities at from eighty to a hundred and fifty years. oaks are said to be more liable than other trees to be struck by lightning. oak-coppices or "little woods" are cut over at from twelve to thirty years old. the bark is valuable as well as the wood. the pine (_pinus sylvestris_, &c.), like the larch, will flourish on poor soils. it is valuable as a protection for other trees. the varieties and variations of this tree are very numerous. it is a very valuable timber-tree, the wood being loosely known as "deal"; but "deals" are, properly speaking, planks of pine-wood of a certain thickness, "boards" being the technical name for a thicker kind. pine trunks are used for the masts of ships. "in the north of russia and in lapland the outer bark is used, like that of the birch, for covering huts, for lining them inside, and as a substitute for cork for floating the nets of fishermen; and the inner bark is woven into mats like those made from the lime-tree. ropes are also made from the bark, which are said to be very strong and elastic, and are generally used by the fishermen." in the north of europe great quantities of tar are procured from the scotch pine. torches are made from the roots and trunk. varieties of the pine are grown in "little woods" for hop-poles. _pinus sylvestris_ (the "scotch pine"), though a native of scotland, has only been planted and cultivated in great britain for about a century. on the subject of "thinning and pruning" in plantations planters--like doctors--differ. an amusing story was sent to mr. loudon by the duke of bedford, in reference to his grandfather, who was an advocate for vigorous thinning in the pine plantations. "the duke perceived that the plantation required thinning, in order to admit a free circulation of air, and give health and vigour to the young trees. he accordingly gave instructions to his gardener, and directed him as to the mode and extent of the thinning required. the gardener paused and hesitated, and at length said: 'your grace must pardon me if i humbly remonstrate against your orders, but i cannot possibly do what you desire; it would at once destroy the young plantation; and, moreover, it would be seriously injurious to my reputation as a planter.' my grandfather, who was of an impetuous and decided character, but always just, instantly replied, 'do as i desire you, and i will take care of your reputation.' the plantation was accordingly thinned according to the instructions of the duke, who caused a board to be fixed in the plantation, facing the wood, on which was inscribed, '_this plantation has been thinned by john, duke of bedford, contrary to the advice and opinion of his gardener._'" the willow (_salix caprea_, &c.). the species of willow are so numerous that we shall not attempt to give a list of them. willow-wood wears well in water, and has been used in shipbuilding and carpentery, and especially for small ware, cricket-bats and toys. full-grown willows of all kinds are picturesque and very graceful trees. the growth of the tree kinds when young is very rapid. willows are largely cultivated in "little woods" for basket-making, hoops, &c. shoots of the _salix caprea_ of only a year's growth are large enough to be valuable for wicker-work. it appears to be held by cultivators that the poorer the soil in which they are grown the oftener these willows should be cut over. "in a good soil a coppice of this species will produce the greatest return in poles, hoops, and rods every five, six, seven, or eight years; and in middling soil, where it is grown chiefly for faggot-wood, it will produce the greatest return every three, four, or five years." horses and cattle are fed on the leaves of the willow in some parts of france. willows are often "pollarded." that is, their tops are cut off, which makes a large crop of young shoots spring out, giving a shock-headed effect which in gnarled old pollards by river-banks is picturesque enough. the "little woods" of willow on the river thames and the cam are well known. they are small islands planted entirely with willows, and are called osier-holts. osier-beds of all kinds are very attractive "little woods." one always fancies one ought to be able to make something of the long pliable "sally-withys"--as the wiltshire folk call willow switches. indeed, as a matter of fact, the making of rough garden-baskets is a very simple art, especially on the scotch and german system. let any ingenious little prowler in an osier-bed get two thickish willow-rods and fasten them at the ends with a bit of wire, so as to make two hoops. these hoops are then to intersect each other half-way up, one being perpendicular, to form the handle and the bottom of the basket, the other being placed horizontally, to form the rim. more wire will be needed to fix them in their positions. much finer willow-wands are used to wattle, or weave, the basket-work; ribs of split osiers are added, and the wattling goes in and out among them, and at once secures them and rests upon them. this account is not likely to be enough to teach the most intelligent of our readers! but one fancies that a rough sort of basket-making might almost be devised out of one's own head, especially if he had been taught (as we were, by a favourite nursemaid) to plait rushes. footnotes: [footnote : a corf is a large basket used for carrying coals or other minerals in a mine.] may-day, old style and new style. "now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, comes dancing from the east, and leads with her the flow'ry may, who from her green lap throws the yellow cowslip and the pale primrose."--milton. on the whole, perhaps, may is the most beautiful of the english months, especially the latter half of it; and yet i suppose very few may-days come round on which we are not disposed to wonder why our ancestors did not choose a warmer, and indeed a more flowery season for maypoles and garlands and out-door festivities. children who live in the north of england especially must have a painfully large proportion of disappointments out of the few may-days of childhood. books and pictures, old stories told by papa or mamma of clattering chimney-sweeps and dancing may queens, such as they saw in their young days, or heard of from their elders, have perhaps roused in us two of the strongest passions of childhood--the love of imitation and the love of flowers. we are determined to have a may-bush round the nursery-window, duly gathered before sunrise. "pretty bessy," our nursemaid, can do anything with flowers, from a cowslip ball to a growing forget-me-not garland. the girls are apt pupils, and pride themselves on their birthday wreaths. the boys are admirably adapted for may sweeps. clatter is melodious in their ears. they would rather be black than white. burnt cork will disguise them effectually; but they would prefer soot. a pole is forthcoming; ribbons are not wanting; the poodle will dance with the best of us. we have a whole holiday on saints' days, and the st of may is ss. philip and james'. what then hinders our enjoyment, and makes it impossible to keep may-day according to our hopes? too often this. it is "too cold to dawdle about." flowers are by no means plentiful; they are pinched by the east wind. the may queen would have to dance in her winter clothes, and would probably catch cold even then. it is not improbable that it will rain, and it is possible that it may snow. worse than all, the hawthorn-trees are behind time, and are as obstinate as the head-nurse in not thinking the weather fit for coming out. the may is not in blossom on may-day. and yet may-day used to be kept in the north of england as well as in warmer nooks and corners. the truth is that one reason why we find the weather less pleasant, and the flowers fewer than our forefathers did, is that we keep may-day eleven days earlier in the year than they used to do. to explain how this is, i must try and explain what old style and new style--in reckoning the days of the year--mean. first let me ask you how you can count the days. supposing you wish to remain just one day and night in a certain place, how will you know when you have stayed the proper time? in one of two ways. either you will count twenty-four hours on the clock, or you will stay through all the light of one day, and all the darkness of one night. that is, you will count time either by the clock or by the sun. now we say that there are days in the year. but there are really a few odd hours and minutes and seconds into the bargain. the reason of this is that the sun does not go by the clock in making the days and nights. sometimes he spends rather more than twenty-four hours by the clock over a day and night; sometimes he takes less. on the whole, during the year, he uses up more time than the clock does. the clock makes exactly days of hours each. the sun makes days, hours, minutes, seconds, and a tiny bit besides. now in time these odd hours added together would come to days, and the days to years. about fifteen hundred years of this little difference between the sun and the clock would bring it up to a year. so that if you went by the clock you would say, "it is fifteen hundred years since such a thing happened." and if you went by the sun you would say, "it is fifteen hundred and one years since it happened." men who could think and calculate saw how inconvenient this would be, and what mistakes it would lead to. if the difference did not come to much in their lifetime, they could see that it would come to a serious error for other people some day. so julius cæsar thought he would pull the clock and the sun together by adding one day every four years to the clock's year to make up for the odd hours the sun had been spinning out during the three years before. the odd day was added to the month of february, and that year (in which there are three hundred and sixty-six days) is called leap year. you remember the old saw-- "thirty days hath september, april, june, and november; february hath twenty-eight alone, all the rest have thirty-one; _except in leap year, at which time february's days are twenty-nine_." this is called the old style of reckoning. now i dare say you think the matter was quite settled; but it was not, unfortunately--the odd day every four years was just a tiny little bit too much, and now the clock was spending more time over her years than the sun. after more than sixteen hundred years the small mistake was becoming serious, and pope gregory xiii decided that we must not have so many leap years. for the future, in every four hundred years, three of the clock's extra days must be given up, and ten days were to be left out of count at once to make up for the mistakes of years past. this change is what is called the new style of reckoning. pope gregory began it in the year , but we did not adopt it in england till , and as we had then nearly two hundred years more of the little mistake to correct, _we_ had to leave _eleven_ days out of count. in russia, where our new princess comes from, they have not got it yet. the new style was begun in england on september the nd. the next day, instead of being called september the rd, was called september the th. since then we have gone on quite steadily, and played no more tricks with either the sun's year or the clock's year. i wonder what happened in the year to all the children whose birthdays came between september the nd and september the th! i hope their birthday presents did not drop through because his majesty george the second had let eleven birthdays slip out of that year's calendar, to get the clock and the sun to work comfortably together. now i think you will be able to see that in the next year after this change, may-day was kept eleven days earlier in the sun's year than the year before; and it has been at an earlier season ever since, and therefore in colder weather. may-day in the old style would have come this year about the middle of the month; and as years rolled on it would have been kept later and later in the summer, and thus in warmer and warmer weather, because of that little mistake of julius cæsar. at last, instead of complaining that the may is not out by may-day, people would have had to complain that it was over. now in the new style we keep may-day almost in spring, and, thanks to pope gregory's clever arrangement, we shall always keep it at the same season. it is not always cold on a may-day even in the north of england. i have a vivid remembrance of at least one which was most balmy; and, when they are warm enough for out-door enjoyment, the early days of the year seem, like the early hours of the day, to have an exquisite freshness peculiarly their own. then the month of may, as a whole, is certainly the month of flowers in the woods and fields. autumn is the gayest season of the garden, but spring and early summer give us the prettiest of the wild-flowers. "among the changing months may stands confest the sweetest, and in fairest colours drest." that fine weather is not quite to be relied upon for may-day, even in the old style, some of the old may-day customs seem to suggest. in the isle of man it was the custom not only to have a "queen of may," but also a "queen of winter." the may queen was, as elsewhere, some pretty and popular damsel, gaily dressed, and with a retinue of maids of honour. the winter queen was a man or boy dressed in woman's clothes of the warmest kind--"woollen hood, fur tippet," &c. fiddles and flutes were played before the may queen and her followers, whilst the queen of winter and her troop marched to the sound of the tongs and cleaver. the rival companies met on a common and had a mock battle, symbolizing the struggle of winter and summer for supremacy. if the queen of winter's forces contrived to capture the queen of may, her floral majesty had to be ransomed by payment of the expenses of the day's festivity. whether the queen of winter conquered in bad weather, and her fairer rival when the season was warm and the flowers abundant, we are not told. this ceremony was probably learnt from the danes and norwegians, who were long masters of the isle of man. _olaus magnus_, speaking of the may-day customs of the goths and southern swedes, says, "the captain of one band hath the name and appearance of winter, is clothed in skins of beasts, and he and his band armed with fire-forks. they fling about ashes, by way of prolonging the reign of winter; while another band, whose captain is called florro, represents spring, with green boughs such as the season affords. these parties skirmish in sport, and the mimic contest concludes with a general feast." a few years ago in the isle of man the hillsides blazed with bonfires and resounded to horns on the th of may (may-eve, old style). "may flowers" were put at the doors of houses and cattle-sheds, and these were not hawthorn blossoms, but the flowers of the kingcup, or marsh marigold. crosses made of sprays of mountain ash were worn the same night, and they, the bonfires and may flowers, were reckoned charms against "wizards, witches, enchanters, and mountain hags." at helston, in cornwall, may-day seems to have been known by the name of furry day. perhaps a corruption of "flora's day." people wore hawthorn in their hats, and danced hand-in-hand through the town to the sound of a fiddle. this particular performance was known as a "faddy." it is probable that some of our may-day customs came from the romans, who kept the festival of flora, the goddess of flowers, at this season. others, perhaps, have a different, if not an older source. one custom was certainly common to both nations. when the feast of flora was celebrated, the young romans went into the woods and brought back green boughs with which they decked the houses. to "go a-maying" is in fact the principal ceremony of the day wherever kept, and for whatever reason. in the north of england children and young folk "were wont to rise a little after midnight on the morning of may-day, and walk to some neighbouring wood accompanied with music and the blowing of horns, where they broke down branches from the trees, and adorned them with nosegays and crowns of flowers. this done, they returned homewards with their booty about the time of sunrise, and made their doors and windows triumph in the flowery spoil." stubbs, in the _anatomie of abuses_ (a.d. ), speaks of this custom as common to "every parish, town, and village." the churches, as well as the houses, seem in some places to have been dressed with flowers and greenery. in an old ms. of the sixteenth century it is said that on the feast of ss. philip and james, the eton boys were allowed to go out at four o'clock in the morning to gather may to dress their rooms, and sweet herbs to perfume them, "if they can do it without wetting their feet!" thirty or forty years ago may-day decorations, in some country places, consisted of strewing the cottage doorsteps with daisies, or other flowers. in hertfordshire a curious custom obtained of decking the neighbours' doors with may if they were popular, and with nettles if they were the reverse. in lancashire rustic wags put boughs of various trees at the doors of the girls of the neighbourhood. each tree had a meaning (well known in the district), sometimes complimentary, and sometimes the reverse. in france it was customary for lovers to deck over-night the houses of the ladies they wished to please, and school-boys paid a like compliment to their masters. they do not seem, however, to have been satisfied with nosegays or even with green branches; they transplanted young trees from the woods to the side of the door they wished to honour, and then decked them with ribbons, &c. there is a curious record that "henry ii., wishing to recompense the clerks of bazoche for their good services in quelling an insurrection in guienne, offered them money; but they would only accept the permission granted them by the king, of cutting in the royal woods such trees as they might choose for the planting of the may--a privilege which existed at the commencement of the french revolution." in cornwall, too, it seems to have been the custom to plant "stumps of trees" before the houses, as well as to decorate them with boughs and blossoms. and mr. aubrey ( ) says, "at woodstock in oxon they every may-eve goe into the parke, and fetch away a number of haw-thorne-trees, which they set before their dores; 'tis a pity that they make such a destruction of so fine a tree." one certainly agrees with mr. aubrey. thorns are slow to grow, hard to transplant, and very lovely when they are old. it is not to be regretted that such ruthless destruction of them has gone out of fashion. in ireland "tall slender trees" seem to have been set up before the doors, as well as "a green bush, strewed over with yellow flowers, which the meadows yield plentifully." a writer, speaking of this in , adds, "a stranger would go nigh to imagine that they were all signs of ale-sellers, and that all houses were ale-houses," referring to the old custom of a bunch of green as the sign of an inn, which is illustrated by the proverb, "good wine needs no bush." i have an old etching of a river-side inn, in which the sign is a garland hanging on a pole. i fancy the yellow flowers must have been cowslips, which the green fields of erin do indeed "yield plentifully." besides these private may-trees, every village had its common maypole, gaily adorned with wreaths and flags and ribbons, and sometimes painted in spiral lines of colour. the welsh maypoles seem to have been made from birch-trees, elms were used in cornwall, and young oaks in other parts of england. round these maypoles the young villagers danced, and green booths were often set up on the grass near them. in many villages the maypole was as much a fixture as the parish stocks, but when a new one was required, it was brought home on may-eve in grand procession with songs and instrumental music. i am afraid there is a good deal of evidence to show that the maypoles were not always honestly come by! however, the puritan writers (from whose bitter and detailed complaints we learn most of what we know about the early english may-day customs) are certainly prejudiced, and perhaps not quite trustworthy witnesses. one good man groans lamentably: "what adoe make our young men at the time of may? do they not use night watchings to rob and steale young trees out of other men's grounde, and bring them into their parishe, with minstrels playing before?" but as the theft must have been committed with all the publicity that a fixed day, a large crowd, and a full band could ensure, and as we seem to have no record of interference at the time, or prosecutions afterwards, i hope we may infer that the owners of the woods did not grudge one tree for the village maypole. a quainter vengeance seems to have sometimes followed the trespass. honesty was at a discount. what had been once stolen was liable to be re-stolen. there seems to have been great rivalry among the villages as to which had the best maypole. the happy parish which could boast the finest was not left at ease in its supremacy, for the lads of the other villages were always on the watch to steal it. a record of this custom amongst the welsh reminds one that wales was at once the land of bards and the home of taffy the thief. "if successful," says owen, speaking of these maypole robbers, they "had their feats recorded in songs." in old times oxen were commonly used for farmwork, and it seems that they had their share in the may fun. another puritan writer says, "they have twentie or fortie yoke of oxen, every oxe having a sweete nosegaie of flowers tyed on the tippe of his hornes, and these oxen draw home this maie poole." how well one can imagine their slow swinging pace, unmoved by the shouts and music which would stir a horse's more delicate nerves! their broad moist noses; their large, liquid eyes, and, doubtless, a certain sense of pride in their "sweet nosegaies," like the pride of the beast of a regiment in his badge. horses, too, came in for their share of may decorations. it was an old custom to give the waggoner a ribbon for his team at every inn he passed on may-day. in the last century there was a fixed maypole near horncastle, in lincolnshire, to which the boys made a pilgrimage in procession every may-day with may-gads in their hands. may-gads are white willow wands, peeled, and dressed with cowslips. there was a fixed maypole in the strand for many years--or rather a succession of maypoles. one, when only four years old, was given to sir isaac newton to make a stand for his telescope, and another seems to have had a narrow escape from being handed over to a less celebrated astronomer, some years later. the wandering maypole, with its queen of the may and her chimney-sweeps, is a modern compound of the village maypole and may queen with the may games in which (as in the christmas festivities) morris-dancers played a part. the may-day morris-dancers, like the christmas mummers, performed sword-dances and sang appropriate doggerels in costume. the characters represented at one time or another were maid marian or the may queen, robin hood or lord of the may, friar tuck, will scarlet, little john stokesley, tom the piper, mad moll and her husband, mutch, the fool and the hobby horse. archery was amongst the may-day sports, especially in the company of robin hood. the summer king and queen were perhaps the oldest characters. they seem to be identical with the lord and lady, and sometimes to have been merged in robin hood and maid marian. "maid marian fair as ivory bone, scarlet, and mutch, and little john." the king and queen of may are spoken of in the thirteenth century, but morris-dancing at may-time does not seem to date earlier than henry vii., and is not so old a custom as the immemorial one of going a-maying "to bring the summer home the summer and the may-o!" this was not confined to young people or to country-folk. chaucer says that on may-day early "fourth goth al the court, both most and lest, to fetche the flowrès fresh, and braunch, and blome," and henry viii. kept may-day very orthodoxly in the early years of his reign. milkmaids have been connected with may-day customs from an early period. perhaps because syllabub and cream were the recognized dainties of the festival. in northumberland a ring used to be dropped into the syllabub and fished for with a ladle. whoever got it was to be the first married of the party. an odd old custom in suffolk suggests that the hawthorn was not always ready even for the old style may-day. any farm-servant who could find a branch in full blossom might claim a dish of cream for breakfast. the milkmaids who supplied london and other places used to dress themselves gaily on may-day and go round from house to house performing a dance, and receiving gratuities from their customers. on their heads--instead of a milk-pail--they carried a curious trophy, called the "milkmaids' garland," made of silver or pewter jugs, cups, and other pieces of plate, which they borrowed for the occasion, and which shone out of a mass of greenery and flowers. possibly these were at first the pewter measures with which they served out the milk. the music to which the milkmaids' dance was performed, was the jangling of bells of different tones depending from a round plate of brass mounted upon a maydecked pole; but a bag-pipe or fiddle was sometimes substituted. cream, syllabub, and dainties compounded with milk, belong in england to the may festival. in germany there is a "may drink" (said to be very nice) made by putting woodruff into white rhine wine, in the proportion of a handful to a quart. black currant, balm, or peppermint leaves are sometimes added, and water and sugar. the milkmaids' place has been completely usurped by the sweeps, who clatter a shovel and broom instead of the old plate and bells, and who seem to have added the popular jack-in-the-green to the entertainment. jack-in-the-green's costume is very simple. a wicker-work frame of an extinguisher shape, thickly covered with green, is supported by the man who carries it, and who peeps through a hole left for the purpose. may-day has become the sweeps' carnival. mrs. montague (whose son is said to have been stolen for a sweep in his childhood, and afterwards found) used to give the sweeps of london a good dinner every may-day, on the lawn before her house in portman square. another may-day custom is that of the choristers assembling at five o'clock in the morning on the top of the beautiful tower of magdalen college, oxford, and ushering in the day with singing. at the same time boys of the city armed with tin trumpets, called "may-horns," assemble beneath the tower, and contribute more sound than harmony to the celebration. let us hope that it is not strictly a part of the old ceremony, but rather a minor manifestation of "town and gown" feeling, that the town boys jeer the choristers, and in return are pelted with rotten eggs. the origin of this special oxford custom is said to be a requiem which was sung on the tower for the soul of henry vii., founder of the college. in the villages girls used to carry round may-garlands. the party consisted of four children. two girls in white dresses and gay ribbons carried the garland, and were followed by a boy and girl called "lord and lady," linked together by a white handkerchief, of which each held an end. the lady carried the purse, and when she received a donation the lord doffed his cap and kissed her. they sang a doggerel rhyme, and the form in which money was asked was, "please to handsel the lord and lady's purse." one cannot help thinking that some of our flowers, such as milkmaids, lords and ladies, and jack-in-the-green primrose, bear traces of having got their common names at the great flower festival of the year. in cornwall boys carried the may-garland, which was adorned with painted birds' eggs. old custom gave these young rogues the privilege of drenching with water from a bucket any one whom they caught abroad on may-morning without a sprig of may. mr. aubrey says ( ): "at oxford, the boyes do blow cows' horns all night; and on may-day the young maids of every parish carry about their parish garlands of flowers, which afterwards they hang up in their churches." a generation or more ago the little boys of oxford used to blow horns early on may-day--as they said--"to call up the old maids." there was once a custom in lynn for the workhouse children to be allowed to go out with horns and garlands every may-day, after which a certain worthy gentleman gave them a good dinner. in cambridgeshire, within the present century, the children had a doll dressed as the "may lady," before which they set a table with wine and food on it; they also begged money and garlands for "the poor may lady." there are some quaint superstitions connected with may-day and may-blossom. to bathe the face in the dew of a may morning was reckoned an infallible recipe for a good complexion. a bath of may dew was also supposed to strengthen weakly children. girls divined for dreams of their future husbands with a sprig of hawthorn gathered before dusk on may-eve, and carried home in the mouth without speaking. hawthorn rods were used at all seasons of the year to divine for water and minerals. bunches of may fastened against houses were supposed to keep away witches and venomous reptiles, and to bring prosperity in various shapes. the irish of the neighbourhood of killarney have a pretty superstition that on may-day the o'donoghue, a popular prince of by-gone days, returns from the land of immortal youth beneath the water to bless the country over which he once ruled. some curious customs among the scotch highlanders (who call may st _beltan_ day) have nothing in common with our green festival except as celebrating the spring. they seem to be the remains of very ancient heathen sacrifices to baal. they were performed by the herdsmen of the district, and included an open-air feast of cakes and custard, to which every one contributed, and which was cooked upon a fire on a turf left in the centre of a square trench which had been dug for the purpose. some custard was poured out by way of libation. every one then took a cake of oatmeal, on which nine knobs had been pinched up before baking, and turning his face to the fire threw the knobs over his shoulder, some as offerings to the supposed guardians of the flock, and the rest in propitiation of beasts and birds of prey, with the form "this to thee, o fox! spare my lambs! this to thee, o hooded crow!" &c. in some places the boys of the hamlet met on the moors for a similar feast, but the turf table was round, and the oatcake divided into bits, one of which was blackened with charcoal. these being drawn from a bonnet, the holder of the black bit was held _devoted_ to baal, and had to leap three times over the bonfire. i do not know of any children's games that were peculiar to may-day. in france they had a may-day game called _sans-vert_. those who played had to wear leaves of the hornbeam-tree, and these were to be kept fresh, under penalty of a fine. the chief object of the players was to surprise each other without the proper leaves, or with faded specimens. a stupid old english custom of making fools of your friends on the st of may as well as on the st of april hardly deserves the title of a game. the victims were called "may goslings." one certainly would not expect to meet with anything like "aunt sally" among may-day games, especially with the "may lady" for butt! but not the least curious part of a very curious account of may-day in huntingdonshire, which was sent to _notes and queries_ some years ago, is the pelting of the may lady as a final ceremony of the festival. the may-garlands carried round in huntingdonshire villages appear to have been more like the "milkmaids' garland" than genuine wreaths. they were four to five feet high, extinguisher-shaped, with every kind of spring flower in the apex, and with ribbons and gay kerchiefs hanging down from the base, by the round rim of which the garland was carried; the flower-peak towering above, and the gay streamers depending below. against this erection (not unlike the "mistletoe boughs" of the north of england) was fastened a gaily-dressed doll. the bearers were two little girls, who acted as maids of honour to the may queen. mr. cuthbert bede describes her majesty as he saw her twenty years ago. she wore a white frock, and a bonnet with a white veil. a wreath of real flowers lay on the bonnet. she carried a pocket-handkerchief bag and a parasol (the latter being regarded as a special mark of dignity). an "odd fellows'" ribbon and badge completed her costume. the maids of honour bore the garland after her, whose peak was crowned with "tulips, anemones, cowslips, kingcups, meadow-orchis, wall-flower, primrose, crown-imperial, lilac, laburnum," and "other bright flowers." votive offerings were dropped into the pocket-handkerchief bag, and with these a feast was provided for the children. if the gifts had been liberal, "goodies" were proportionately plentiful. finally, the may-garland was suspended from a rope hung across the village street, and the children pelted the may-doll with balls provided for the occasion. their chief aim was to hit her nose. another correspondent of _notes and queries_ speaks of ropes with dolls suspended from them as being stretched across every village street in huntingdonshire on may-day, and adds, that not only ribbons and flowers were attached to these swinging may ladies, but articles of every description, including "candlesticks, snuffers, spoons, and forks." there are no may carols rivalling those of christmas, and the verses which children sing with their garlands are very bald as a rule. a maypole song of the gloucestershire children would do very well to dance to-- "round the maypole, trit-trit-trot! see what a maypole we have got; fine and gay, trip away, happy is our new may-day." i have read of a pretty old italian custom for the friends of prisoners to assemble outside the prison walls on may-day and join with them in songs. they are also said to have permission to have a may-day feast with them. under all its various shapes, and however adapted to the service of particular heathen deities, or to very rude social festivity, the root of the may-day festival lies in the expression of feelings both natural and right. thankfulness for the return of spring, anxiety for the coming harvests of the fruits of the earth, and that sense of exhilaration and hopefulness which the most exquisite of seasons naturally brings--brings more strongly perhaps in the youth of a nation, in those earlier stages of civilization when men are very dependent upon the weather, and upon the produce of their own particular neighbourhood--brings most strongly of all to one's own youth, to the light heart, the industrious fancy, the uncorrupted taste of childhood. may-day seems to me so essentially a children's festival, that i think it is a great pity that english children should allow it to fall into disuse. one certainly does not love flowers less as one grows up, but they are more like persons, and their ways are more mysterious to one in childhood. the cares of grown-up life, too, are not of the kind from which we can easily get a whole holiday. we should do well to try oftener than we do. wreaths do not become us, and we have allowed our joints to grow too stiff for maypole dancing. but we who used to sigh for whole holidays can give them! we can prepare the cakes and cream, and provide ribbons for the maypole, and show how garlands were made in our young days. we are very grateful for wild-flowers for the drawing-room. to say the truth, they last longer with us than with the children, and perhaps we combine the delicate hues of spring, and lighten our nosegays by grass and sword-flags and rushes with more cunning fingers than those of the little ones who gathered them. for these is reserved the real bloom of may-day! and the orthodox customs are so various, that families of any size or age may pick and choose. one brother and sister can be lord and lady of the may. one sister among many brothers must be may queen without opposition. those of the party most apt to catch cold in the treacherous sunshine and damp winds of spring should certainly represent the winter queen and her attendants, in the warmest possible clothing and the thickest of boots. the morning air will then probably only do them a great deal of good. it is not desirable to dig up the hawthorn-trees, or to try to do so, even with wooden spades. the votive offering of flowers for her drawing-room should undoubtedly await mamma when she comes down to breakfast, and i heartily wish her as abundant a variety as mr. cuthbert bede saw on the huntingdonshire garland. that nurse should have a bunch of may is only her due; and of course the nursery must be decorated. long strips of coloured calico form good ribbons for the maypole. bows and arrows are easily made. it is also easy to cut one's fingers in notching the arrows. when you are tired of dancing, you can be robin hood's merry men, and shoot. when all the arrows are lost, and you have begun to quarrel about the target, it will be well to hang up an old doll and throw balls at her nose. dressing-up is, at any time, a delightful amusement, and there is a large choice among may-day characters. no wardrobe can fail to provide the perfectly optional costumes of mad moll and her husband. there are generally some children who never will learn their parts, and who go astray from every pre-arranged plan. by any two such the last-named characters should be represented. in these, as in all children's games, "the more the merrier"; and as there is no limit to the number of sweeps, the largest of families may revel in burnt cork, even if dust-pans in proportion fail. if a bonfire is more appropriate to the weather than a maypole, we have the comfort of feeling that it is equally correct. it is hardly needful to impress upon the boys what vigour the blowing of horns and penny trumpets will impart to the ceremonies; but they may require to be reminded that eton men in old days were only allowed to go a-maying on condition that they did not wet their feet! above all, out-door may fun is no fun unless the weather is fine; and i hope this little paper will show that if the st of may is chilly, and the flowers are backward, nothing can be more proper than to keep our feast on the th of may--_may-day, old style_. if the clerk of the weather office is unkind on both these days, give up out-door fun at once, and prepare for a fancy-ball in the nursery; all the guests to be dressed as may-day characters. garland-making and country expeditions can then be deferred till midsummer-day. it is not _very_ long to wait, and penny trumpets do not spoil with keeping. but do not be defrauded of at least one early ramble in the woods and fields. it is well, in the impressionable season of life, to realize, if only occasionally, how much of the sweetest air, the brightest and best hours of the day, people spend in bed. any one who goes out every day before breakfast knows how very seldom he is kept in by bad weather. for one day when it rains very early there are three or four when it rains later. but we wait till the world has got dirty, and the air full of the smoke of thousands of breakfasts, and clouds are beginning to gather, and then we say england has a horrible climate. i do not believe in many quack medical prescriptions, but i have the firmest faith in may dew as a wash for the complexion. any morning dew is nearly as efficacious if it is gathered in warm clothes, thick boots, and at a sufficient distance from home. there are some households in which there are no children, and there are some in which the good things of this life are very abundant. to these it may not be very impertinent to suggest a remembrance of the old alderman of lynn's kindly benefaction. to beg leave for the children of the workhouse to gather may-day nosegays for you, and to give them a may feast afterwards, would be to give pleasure of a kind in which such unhomely lives are most deficient. a country ramble "with an object," and the grace-in-memory of a traditionary holiday and feast, shared in common with many homes and with other children. to go a-maying "to fetche the flowrès fresh" is indeed the best part of the whole affair. but, when the sunny bank under the hedge is pale with primroses, when dog-violets spread a mauve carpet over clearings in the little wood, if cowslips be plentiful though oxslips are few, and rare orchids bless the bogs of our locality, pushing strange insect heads, through beds of _drosera_ bathed in perpetual dew--then, dear children, restrain the natural impulse to grub everything up and take the whole flora of the neighbourhood home in your pinafores. in the first place, you can't. in the second place, it would be very hard on other people if you could. cull skilfully, tenderly, unselfishly, and remember what my mother used to say to me and my brothers and sisters when we were "collecting" anything, from fresh-water algæ to violet roots for our very own gardens, "_leave some for the naiads and dryads_." in memorium, margaret gatty in memoriam. margaret, [daughter of the rev. alexander john scott, d.d.] (lord nelson's chaplain, and the friend in whose arms he died at trafalgar), was born june rd, . in she was married to the rev. alfred gatty, of ecclesfield, yorkshire, where she died on october the th, , aged . my mother became editor of _aunt judy's magazine_ in may . it was named after one of her most popular books--_aunt judy's tales_; and aunt judy became a name for herself with her numerous child-correspondents. the ordinary work of editorship was heavily increased by her kindness to tyro authors, and to children in want of everything, from advice on a life-vocation to old foreign postage stamps. no consideration of the value of her own time could induce her to deal summarily with what one may call her magazine children, and her correspondents were of all ages and acquirements, from nursery aspirants barely beyond pothooks to such writers as the author of _a family man for six days_, and other charming australian reminiscences, who still calls her his "literary godmother." the peculiar relation in which she stood to so many of the readers of _aunt judy_ has been urged upon me as a reason for telling them something more about her than that she is dead and gone, especially as by her peremptory wish no larger record of her life will ever be made public. i need hardly disclaim any thought of expressing an opinion on her natural powers, or the value of those labours from which she rests; but whatever of good there was in them she devoted with real affectionate interest to the service of a much larger circle of children than of those who now stand desolate before her empty chair. and those whom she has so long taught have, perhaps, some claim upon the lessons of her good example. most well-loved pursuits, perhaps most good habits of our lives, owe their origin to our being stirred at one time or another to the imitation of some one better, or better gifted than ourselves. we can remember dates at which we began to copy what our present friends may fancy to be innate peculiarities of our own character. the conviction of this truth, and of the strong influence which little details of lives we admire have in forming our characters in childhood, persuade me to the hard task of writing at all of my dear mother, and guide me in choosing those of the things that we remember about her which may help her magazine children on matters about which they have oftenest asked her counsel. many of her own innumerable hobbies had such origins, i know. the influence of german literature on some of her writings is very obvious, and this most favourite study sprang chiefly from a very early fit of hero-worship for elizabeth smith, whose precocious and unusual acquirements she was stirred to emulate, and whose enthusiasm for klopstock she caught. the fly-leaf of her copy of the smith _remains_ bears (in her handwriting) the date , with her name as meta scott; a form of her own christian name which she probably adopted in honour of margaretta--or meta--klopstock, and by which she was well known to friends of her youth. she often told us, too, of the origin of another of her accomplishments. she was an exquisite caligraphist. not only did she write the most beautiful and legible of handwritings, but, long before illuminating was "fashionable," she illuminated on vellum; not by filling up printed texts or copying ornamental letters from handbooks of the art, but in valiant emulation of ancient mss.; designing her own initial letters, with all varieties of characters, with "strawberry" borders, and gold raised and burnished as in the old models. i do not know when she first saw specimens of the old illuminations, for which she had always the deepest admiration, but it was in a dante fever that she had resolved to write beautifully, because fine penmanship had been among the accomplishments of the great italian poet. how well she succeeded her friends and her printers knew to their comfort! to dante she dedicated some of her best efforts in this art. in , when she was seventeen, she began to translate the _inferno_ into english verse. she made fair copies of each canto in exquisite writing, and dedicated them to various friends on covers which she illuminated. the most highly-finished was that dedicated to an old friend, lord tyrconnel, and the only plain one was the one dedicated to another friend, sir thomas lawrence. the dedication was written in fine long characters, but there was no painting on the cover of the canto dedicated to the painter. i do not know at what date my mother began to etch on copper. it was a very favourite pursuit through many years of her life, both before and after her marriage. she never sketched much in colour, but her pencil-drawings are amongst the most valuable legacies she has left us. trees were her favourite subjects. one of her most beautiful drawings in my possession is of a tree, marked to fall, beneath which she wrote: "das ist das loos des schönen auf der erde."[ ] of another talent nothing now remains to us but her old music-books and memories of long evenings when she played weber and mozart. but to a large circle of friends, most of whom have gone before her, she was best known as a naturalist in the special department of phycology. she has left a fine collection of british and foreign sea-weeds and zoophytes. never permitted the privilege of foreign travel--for which she so often longed--her sea-spoils have been gathered from all shores by those who loved her; and there are sea-weeds yet in press sent by _aunt judy_ friends from tasmania, which gave pleasure to the last days of her life. she did so keenly enjoy everything at which she worked that it is difficult to say in which of her hobbies she found most happiness; but i am disposed to give her natural history pursuits the palm. natural history brought her some of her dearest friends. dr. johnston, of berwick-on-tweed, to whom she dedicated the first volume of the _parables from nature_, was one of these; and with dr. harvey (author of the _phycologia britannica_, &c.) she corresponded for ten years before they met. like herself, he combined a playful and poetical fancy with the scientific faculty, and they had sympathy together in the distinctive character of their religious belief, and in the worship of god in his works. but these, and many others, have "gone before." one of her "collections" was an unusual one. through nearly forty years she collected the mottoes on old sun-dials, and made sketches of the dials themselves. in this also she had many helpers, and the collection, which had swelled to about four hundred, was published last year. amateur bookbinding and mowing were among the more eccentric of her hobbies. with the latter she infected mr. tennyson, and sent him a light scotch scythe like her own. the secret of her success and of her happiness in her labours was her thoroughness. it was a family joke that in the garden she was never satisfied to dabble in her flower-beds like other people, but would always clear out what she called "the irish corners," and attack bits of waste or neglected ground from which everybody else shrank. and amongst our neighbours in the village, those with whom, day after day, time after time, she would plead "the lord's controversy," were those with whom every one else had failed. some old village would-be sceptic, half shame-faced, half conceited, who had not prayed for half a lifetime, or been inside a church except at funerals; careworn mothers fossilized in the long neglect, of religious duties; sinners whom every one else thought hopeless, and who most-of all counted themselves so--if god indeed permits us hereafter to bless those who led us to him here, how many of these will rise up and call her blessed! her strong powers of sympathy were not confined to human beings alone. a more devoted lover of "beasts" can hardly exist. the household pets were about her to the end; and she only laughed when the dogs stole the bread and butter from her helpless hands. her long illness, perhaps, did less to teach us to do without her, than long illnesses commonly do; because her sick-room was so little like a sick-room, and her interests never narrowed to the fretful circle of mere invalid fears and fancies. the strong sense of humour, which never left her, helped her through many a petty annoyance; and to the last she kept one of her most striking qualities, so well described by trench-- ---- "a child's pure delight in little things." whatever interest this little record of some of my mother's tastes and acquirements may have for her young readers, its value must be in her example. whatever genius she may have had, her industry was far more remarkable. the pen of a ready writer is not grasped by all fingers, and gifts are gifts, not earnings. but to cultivate the faculties god has given us to his glory, to lose petty cares, ignoble pleasures, and small grievances, in the joy of studying his great works, to be good to his creatures, to be truthful beyond fear or flattery, to be pure of heart and tongue far beyond the common, to keep up an honest, zealous war with wickedness, and never to lose heart or hope for wicked men--these things are within the power as well as the ambition of us all. i must point out to some of the young aspirants after her literary fame, that though the date in elizabeth smith's _remains_ shows my mother to have been only eleven years old when she got it, and though she worked and studied indefatigably all her girlhood, her first original work was not published till she was forty-two years old. of the lessons of her long years of suffering i cannot speak. a form of paralysis which left her brain as vigorous as ever, stole the cunning from her hand, and the use of her limbs and voice, through ten years of pain and privation, in which she made a willing sacrifice of her powers to the will of god. if some of her magazine children who enjoy "advantages" she never had, who visit places and see sights for which she longed in vain, and who are spared the cross she bore so patiently, are helped by this short record of their old friend, it may somewhat repay the pain it has cost in writing. trench's fine sonnet was a great favourite of my mother's-- "to leave unseen so many a glorious sight, to leave so many lands unvisited, to leave so many books unread, unrealized so many visions bright;-- oh! wretched yet inevitable spite of our short span, and we must yield our breath, and wrap us in the unfeeling coil of death, so much remaining of unproved delight, but hush, my soul, and vain regrets be still'd; find rest in him who is the complement of whatsoe'er transcends our mortal doom, of broken hope and frustrated intent; in the clear vision and aspect of whom all wishes and all longings are fulfill'd." footnotes: [footnote : "such is the lost of the beautiful upon earth."--_wallenstein's tod_.] tales of the khoja.[ ] (_adapted from the turkish._) introduction. "o my children!" said the story-teller, "do you indeed desire amusement by the words of my lips? then shut your mouths, that the noise you make may be abated, and i may hear myself speak; and open your ears, that you may be entertained by the tales that i shall tell you. shut your mouths and open your ears, i say, and you will, without doubt, receive pleasure from what i shall have to relate of khoja nasr-ed-deen-effendi. "this khoja was not altogether a wise man, nor precisely a fool, nor entirely a knave. "it is true, o children, that his wisdom was flecked with folly, but what saith the proverb? 'no one so wise but he has some folly to spare.' moreover, in his foolishness there was often a hidden meaning, as a letter is hid in a basket of dates--not for every eye. "as to his knaveries, they were few, and more humorous than injurious. though be it far from me, o children, as a man of years and probity, to defend the conduct of the khoja to the jew money-lender. "what about the jew money-lender, do you ask? "this is the tale." _tale_ .--the khoja and the nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold. this khoja was very poor. one day, wishing for a piece of gold, he corrected himself, saying: "it costs no more to wish for a thousand pieces than for one. i wish for a thousand gold pieces." and he repeated aloud--"i wish for a thousand pieces of gold. _i would not accept one less._" now it so happened that he was overheard by a certain covetous jew money-lender. this man was of a malicious disposition; and the poverty of the khoja was a satisfaction to him. when he heard what the khoja said he chuckled to himself, saying, "truly this khoja is a funny fellow, and it would be a droll thing to see him refuse nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold. for without doubt he would keep his word." and as he spoke, the jew put nine hundred and ninety-nine gold pieces into a purse, and dropped the purse down the khoja's chimney, with the intention of giving him annoyance. the khoja picked up the purse and opened it. "allah be praised!" he cried, "for the fulfilment of my desires. here are the thousand pieces." meanwhile the jew was listening at the chimney-top, and he heard the khoja begin to count the coins. when he got to the nine hundred and ninety-ninth, and had satisfied himself that there was not another, he paused, and the jew merchant held his breath. at last the khoja spoke. "o my soul!" said he, "is it decent to spit in the face of good fortune for the sake of one gold piece in a thousand? without doubt it is an oversight, and he who sent these will send the missing one also." saying which, the khoja put the money into his sash and sat down to smoke. the jew now became fidgety, and he hastened down to the khoja's door, at which he knocked, and entering, said, "good-day, khoja effendi. may i ask you to be good enough to restore to me my nine hundred and ninety-nine gold pieces?" "are you mad, o jew money-lender?" replied the khoja. "is it likely that you would throw gold down my chimney? these pieces fell from heaven in fulfilment of my lawful desires." "o my soul, khoja!" cried the jew, "i did it, indeed! it was a jest, o khoja! you said, 'i will not take one less than a thousand,' wherefore i put nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces in the purse, and it was for a joke." "i do not see the joke," said the khoja, "but i have accepted the gold pieces." and he went on smoking. the jew money-lender now became desperate. "let us go to the magistrate," he cried. "the cadi effendi shall decide between us." "it is well said," replied the khoja. "but it would not beseem a khoja like myself to go through the public streets to the court on foot; and i am poor, and have no mule." "o my soul!" said the jew, "let not that trouble you. i will send and fetch one of my mules." but when the mule was at the door, the khoja said: "is it fitting, o money-lender, that a khoja like myself should appear in these rags before a cadi effendi? but i am poor, and have no suitable dress." "let not that be a hindrance, o khoja!" said the jew. "for i have a pelisse made of the most beautiful fur, which i will send for without delay." in due time this arrived, and, richly clothed, the khoja rode through the streets with a serene countenance, the jew money-lender running after him in the greatest anxiety. when they came before the cadi, the jew prostrated himself, and cried in piteous tones, "help, o most noble dispenser of justice! this khoja has stolen from me nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold--and now he denies it." then the cadi turned to the khoja, who said: "o cadi effendi, i did indeed earnestly desire a thousand pieces of gold, and this purse came to me in fulfilment of my wishes. but when i counted the pieces i found one short. then i said, 'the bountiful giver of these will certainly send the other also.' so i accepted what was given to me. but in this jew money-lender is the spirit of covetousness. for half a farthing, o cadi, he would, without doubt, lay claim to the beast i ride, or to the coat on my back." "o my soul!" screamed the jew. "it is indeed true that they are mine. the mule and the fur pelisse belong to me, o cadi!" "o you covetous rascal!" said the cadi, "you will lay claim to my turban next, or to the sultan's horses." and he commanded the jew to be driven from his presence. but the khoja rode home again, and--he accepted the mule and the fur pelisse, as well as the nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold. _tale_ .--the khoja at the marriage feast. on the following day khoja effendi went to a marriage feast, dressed in his old clothes. his appearance was indeed very shabby, and the attendants were almost disposed to refuse him admission, but he slipped in whilst honours and compliments were being paid on the arrival of some grander guests. even those who knew him well were so much ashamed of his dress as to be glad to look another way to avoid saluting him. all this was quickly observed by the khoja, and after a few moments (during which no one asked him to be seated) he slipped out and ran home, where he put on the splendid fur pelisse which he had accepted from the jew money-lender, and so returned to the door of the house of feasting. seeing a guest so richly apparelled draw near, the servants ran out to meet him with all signs of respect, and the master of the feast came out also to meet him with other guests, saluting him and saying, "welcome, o most learned khoja!" and all who knew him saluted him in like manner, and secretly blessed themselves that his acquaintance did them credit. but the khoja looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, and he made no reply. then they led him to the upper end of the table, crying, "please to be seated, khoja effendi!" whereupon the khoja seated himself, but he did not speak, and the guests stood round him, waiting to hear what should fall from his lips. and when the khoja had been served with food, he took hold of the sleeve of his pelisse and pulled it towards the dish, saying, in a tone of respect, "o most worthy and honourable pelisse! be good enough to partake of this dish. in the name of the prophet i beseech you do not refuse to taste what has been hospitably provided." "what is this, khoja?" cried the people, "and what do you mean by offering food to a fur pelisse that can neither hear nor eat?" "o most courteous entertainers!" replied the khoja, "since the pelisse has commanded such respect at your hands, is it not proper that it should also partake of the food?" _tale_ .--the khoja's slippers. one day, when the idle boys of the neighbourhood were gathered together and ready for mischief, they perceived the khoja approaching. "here comes this mad khoja!" they said. "let us now persuade him to climb the largest of these mulberry-trees, and whilst he is climbing we will steal his slippers." and when the khoja drew near, they cried, "o khoja, here is indeed a tree which it is not possible to climb." the khoja looked at the mulberry-tree and said, "you are in error, my children, any one of you could climb that tree." but they said, "we cannot." then said the khoja, "i, who am an old man, could climb that mulberry-tree." then the boys cried, "o most illustrious khoja! we beseech of you to climb the tree before our eyes, that we may believe what you say, and also be encouraged to try ourselves." "i will climb it," said the khoja. thereupon he kicked off his slippers as the children had anticipated; and tucking his skirts into his girdle, he prepared to climb. [illustration: the khoja's slippers.] but whilst they were waiting to steal his slippers, the khoja put them into his pocket. "effendi khoja," said the children, "wherefore do you not leave your slippers on the ground? what will you do with slippers up in the mulberry-tree?" "o my children!" said the khoja dryly, "it is good to be provided against everything. i may come upon a road further up." _tale_ .--the khoja and the three wise men. in the days of effendi nasr-ed-deen khoja there appeared in the world three sages, who excelled in every science and in all wisdom. now it came to pass that in their journeys these wise men passed through the country of the sultan ala-ed-deen, who desired to see them, and to make them partake of his hospitality. and when the sultan had seen and heard them, he said: "o sages, there is indeed nothing wanting to you but that you should embrace the faith and become turks, and remain in my kingdom. wherefore i beseech of you to do this without further delay." then the wise men replied to the padisha: "we will, if it please you, ask three questions of your learned men. one question shall be asked by each of us, and if they are able to answer these questions, we will embrace your faith, and remain with you as you desire. and if not, we will depart in peace, and prolong our journeys as heretofore." then the padisha replied: "so be it." and he assembled the learned men and counsellors of his kingdom, and the sages put questions to them, which they could not answer. then the sultan ala-ed-deen was full of wrath, and he said, "is this my kingdom, and am i the ruler of it; and is there not indeed one man of my subjects wise enough to answer the questions of these unbelieving sages?" and his servants replied: "there is indeed no one who could answer these questions, except it be khoja nasr-ed-deen effendi." then the sultan commanded, and they despatched a tatar in all haste to summon nasr-ed-deen effendi to the presence of the padisha. when the messenger arrived, he told his errand to the khoja, who at once rose up, saddled his donkey, took a stick in his hand, and mounted, saying to the tatar, "go before me!" thus they came to the palace, and the khoja entered the presence of the sultan, and gave the salaam and received it in return. then he was shown where to sit, and being seated, and having made a prayer for the padisha, "o most noble sultan," said he, "wherefore have you brought me hither, and what is your will with me?" then the sultan explained the circumstances of the case, and the khoja cried, "what are the questions? let me hear them." then the first wise man came forward and said: "_my_ question, most worshipful effendi, is this: where is the middle of the world?" the khoja, without an instant's hesitation, pointed with his stick to a fore-hoof of his donkey. "there," said he, "exactly where my donkey's foot is placed--there is the centre of the earth." "how do you know that?" asked the sage. "if you do not believe me," replied the khoja, "measure for yourself. if you find it wrong one way or the other, i will acknowledge my error." the second sage now came forward and said: "o khoja effendi, how many stars are there on the face of this sky?" "the same number," replied the khoja, "as there are hairs on my donkey." "how do you know that?" asked the wise man. "if you do not believe me," replied the khoja, "count for yourself. if there is a hair too few or too many, i will acknowledge my error." "o most learned khoja!" said the wise man, "have you indeed counted the hairs on your donkey?" "o most venerable sage!" replied the khoja, "have you indeed numbered the stars of the sky?" but as the khoja spoke the third wise man came forward and said: "most worshipful effendi! be pleased now to hear my question, and if you can answer it, we will conform to the wishes of the sultan. how many hairs are there in my beard?" "as many," replied the khoja, "as there are hairs in my donkey's tail." "how do you know that?" asked the wise man. "if you do not believe me, count for yourself," said the khoja. but the wise man replied: "it is for you to count, and to prove to me the truth of what you say." "with all my heart," replied the khoja. "and i will do it in a way that cannot possibly fail. i shall first pull out a hair from your beard, and then one from my donkey's tail, and then another from your beard, and so on. thus at the end it will be seen whether the number of the hairs of each kind exactly correspond." but the wise man did not wait for this method of proof to be enforced by the sultan. he hastily announced himself as a convert to the padisha's wishes. the other two sages followed his example, and their wisdom was for many years the light of the court of the sultan ala-ed-deen. moreover, they became disciples of the khoja. _tale_ .--the khoja's donkey. one day there came a man to the house of the khoja to ask him for the loan of his donkey. "the donkey is not at home," replied the khoja, who was unwilling to lend his beast. at this moment the donkey brayed loudly from within. "o khoja effendi!" cried the man, "what you say cannot be true, for i can hear your donkey quite distinctly as i stand here." "what a strange man you must be," said the effendi. "is it possible that you believe a donkey rather than me, who am grey-haired and a khoja?" _tale_ .--the khoja's gown. one day the khoja's wife, having washed her husband's gown, hung it out in the garden to dry. now in the dusk of the evening the khoja repaired to his garden, where he saw, as he believed, a thief standing with outstretched arms. "o you rascal!" he cried, "is it you who steal my fruit? but you shall do so no more." and having called to his wife for his bow and arrows, the khoja took aim and pierced his gown through the middle. then without waiting to see the result he hastened into his house, secured the door with much care, and retired to rest. when morning dawned, the khoja went out into the garden, where perceiving that what he had hit was his own gown, he seated himself and returned thanks to the all-merciful disposer of events. "truly," said he, "i have had a narrow escape. if i had been inside it, i should have been dead long before this!" _tale_ .--the khoja and the fast of ramadan. in a certain year, when the holy month of the fast of ramadan was approaching, khoja nasr-ed-deen took counsel with himself and resolved not to observe it. "truly," said he, "there is no necessity that i should fast like the common people. i will rather provide myself with a vase into which i will drop a stone every day. when there are thirty pebbles in the vase, i shall know that ramadan is over, and i shall then be able to keep the feast of bairam at the proper season." accordingly, on the first day of the month the khoja dropped a stone into the vase, and so he continued to do day by day. now the khoja had a little daughter, and it came to pass that one day the child, having observed the pebbles in the vase, went out and gathered a handful and added them to the rest. but her father was not aware of it. [illustration: the khoja counts.] on the twenty-fifth day of ramadan the khoja met at the bazaar with certain of his neighbours, who said to him, "be good enough, most learned khoja, to tell us what day of the month it is." "wait a bit, and i will see," replied the khoja. saying this, he ran to his house, emptied the vase, and began to count the stones. to his amazement he found that there were a hundred and twenty! "if i say as much as this," thought the khoja, "they will call me a fool. even half would be more than could be believed." so he went back to the bazaar and said, "it is the full forty-fifth of the month, quite that." "o khoja!" the neighbours replied, "there are only thirty days in a complete month, and do you tell us to-day is the forty-fifth?" "o neighbours!" answered the khoja, "believe me, i speak with moderation. if you look into the vase, you will find that according to its account to-day is the one hundred and twentieth." _tale_ .--the khoja and the thief. one day a thief got into the khoja's house, and the khoja watched him. the thief poked here, there, and everywhere, and after collecting all that he could carry, he put the load on his back and went off. the khoja then came out, and hastily gathering up the few things which were left of his property, he put them on his own back, and hurried after the thief. at last he arrived before the door of the thief's house, at which he knocked. "what do you want?" said the thief. "why, we are moving into this house, aren't we?" said the khoja. "i've brought the rest of the things." _tale_ .--the bird of prey and the piece of soap. one day the khoja went with his wife to wash clothes at the head of a spring. they had placed the soap beside them on the ground, and were just about to begin, when a black bird of prey swooped suddenly down, and snatching up the soap, flew away with it, believing it to be some kind of food. "run, khoja, run!" cried the distracted wife. "make haste, i beseech you, and catch that thief of a bird. he has carried off my soap." "o wife!" replied the khoja, "let him alone. he wants it more than we do, poor fellow! our clothes are not half so black as what he has got on." _tale_ .--the khoja and the wolves. "wife!" said the khoja one day, "how do you know when a man is dead?" "when his hands and feet have become cold, khoja," replied the good woman, "i know that it is all over then. the man is dead." some time afterwards the khoja went to the mountain to cut wood. it was in the winter, and after he had worked for an hour or two his hands and feet became very cold. "it is really a melancholy thing," said he; "but i fear that there can be no doubt that i am dead. if this is the case, however, i have no business to be on my feet, much less to be chopping firewood which i have not lived to require." so he went and lay down under a tree. by and by came the wolves, and they fell upon the khoja's donkey, and devoured it. the khoja watched them from the place where he was lying. "ah, you brutes!" said he, "it is lucky for you that you have found a donkey whose master is dead, and cannot interfere." _tale_ .--a penny a head. the turks shave their heads and allow their beards to grow. thus the khoja went every week to the barber to have his head shaved, and when it was done, the barber held out the mirror to him, that, having looked at himself, he might place a penny fee on the mirror as the custom is. now as he grew old the khoja became very bald. one day when he was about to be shaved, passing his hand over his head, he perceived that the crown was completely bald. but he said nothing, and having paid his penny, took his departure as usual. [illustration: the khoja is shaved.] next week khoja effendi went again to the barber's. when his head had been shaved he looked in the mirror as before; but he put nothing on it. as he rose to depart, the barber stopped him, saying, "most worshipful effendi, you have forgotten to pay." "my head is now half bald," said the khoja; "will not one penny do for two shavings?" _tale_ .--the khoja a cadi. the late khoja effendi when he filled the office of cadi had some puzzling cases to decide. one day two men came before him, and one of them said, "this fellow has bitten my ear, o cadi!" "no, no, most learned cadi!" said the other; "that is not true. he bit his own ear, and now tries to lay the blame upon me." "one cannot bite his own ear," said the first man; "wherefore the lies of this scoundrel are obvious." "begone, both of you," said the khoja; "but come back to-morrow, when i will give judgment." when the men had gone, the khoja withdrew to a quiet place, where he would be undisturbed, that he might try if he could bite his own ear. taking the ear in his fingers, he made many efforts to seize it with his teeth, crying, "can i bite it?" but in the vehemence of his efforts the khoja lost his balance and fell backwards, wounding his head. the following day he took his seat with his head bound up in a linen cloth, and the men coming before him related their dispute as before, and cried, "now, is it possible, o cadi?" "o, you fellows!" said the khoja, "biting is easy enough, and you can fall and break your own head into the bargain." _tale_ .--the khoja's quilt. one night after khoja nasr-ed-deen had retired to rest he was disturbed by a man making a great noise before his door in the street outside. "o wife!" said he, "get up, i pray you, and light a candle, that i may discover what this noise in the street is about." "lie still, man," said his wife. "what have we to do with street brawlers? keep quiet and go to sleep." but the khoja would not listen to her advice, and taking the bed-quilt, he threw it round his shoulders, and went out to see what was the matter. then the rascal who was making the disturbance, seeing a fine quilt floating from the khoja's shoulders, came behind him and snatched it away, and ran off with it. after a while the khoja felt thoroughly chilled, and he went back to bed. "well, effendi," said his wife: "what have you discovered?" "we were more concerned in the noise than you thought," said the khoja. "what was it about, o khoja?" asked his wife. "it must have been about our quilt," he replied; "for when the man got that he went off quietly enough." _tale_ .--the khoja and the beggar. one day whilst nasr-ed-deen effendi was in his house, a man knocked at the door. the khoja looked out from an upper window. "what dost thou want?" said he. but the man was a beggar by trade, and fearing that the khoja might refuse to give alms when he was so well beyond reach of the mendicant's importunities, he would not state his business, but continued to cry, "come down, come down!" as if he had something of importance to relate. so the khoja went down, and on his again saying "what dost thou want?" the beggar began to beg, crying, "the inciter of compassion move thee to enable me to purchase food for my supper! i am the guest of the prophet!" with other exclamations of a like nature. "come up-stairs," replied the khoja, turning back into his house. well pleased, the beggar followed him, but when they reached the upper room the khoja turned round and dismissed him, saying, "heaven supply your necessities. i have nothing for you." "o effendi!" said the beggar, "why did you not tell me this whilst i was below?" "o beggar!" replied the khoja, "why did you call me down when i was up-stairs?" _tale_ .--the khoja turned nightingale. one day the khoja went into a garden which did not belong to him, and seeing an apricot-tree laden with delicious fruit, he climbed up among the branches and began to help himself. whilst he was eating the apricots the owner of the garden came in and discovered him. "what are you doing up there, khoja?" said he. "o my soul!" said the khoja, "i am not the person you imagine me to be. do you not see that i am a nightingale? i am singing in the apricot-tree." "let me hear you sing," said the gardener. the khoja began to trill like a bird; but the noise he made was so uncouth that the man burst out laughing. "what kind of a song is this?" said he. "i never heard a nightingale's note like that before." [illustration: the khoja sings.] "it is not the voice of a native songster," said the khoja demurely, "but the foreign nightingale sings so." _tale_ .--the khoja's donkey and the woollen pelisse. one day the khoja mounted his donkey to ride to the garden, but on the way there he had business which obliged him to dismount and leave the donkey for a short time. when he got down he took off his woollen pelisse, and throwing it over the saddle, went about his affairs. but he had hardly turned his back when a thief came by who stole the woollen pelisse, and made off with it. when the khoja returned and found that the pelisse was gone, he became greatly enraged, and beat the donkey with his stick. then, dragging the saddle from the poor beast's back, he put it on his own shoulders, crying, "find my pelisse, you careless rascal, and then you shall have your saddle again!" _tale_ .--a ladder to sell. there was a certain garden into which the khoja was desirous to enter, but the gate was fastened, and he could not. one day, therefore, he took a ladder upon his shoulder, and repaired to the place, where he put the ladder against the garden-wall, and having climbed to the top, drew the ladder over, and by this means descended into the garden. as he was prying about in came the gardener. "who are you?" said he to the khoja. "and what do you want?" "i sell ladders," replied the khoja, running hastily back to the wall, and throwing the ladder once more upon his shoulders. [illustration: the khoja trespasses.] "come, come!" said the gardener, "that answer will not do. this is not a place for selling ladders." "you must be very ignorant," replied the khoja gravely, "if you do not know that ladders are salable anywhere." _tale_ .--the cat and the khoja's supper. the khoja, like many another man, was fond of something nice for his supper. but no matter how often he bought a piece of liver to make a tasty dish, his wife always gave it away to a certain friend of hers, and when the khoja came home in the evening he got nothing to eat but cakes. "wife," said he at last, "i bring home some liver every day that we may have a good supper, and you put nothing but pastry before me. what becomes of the meat?" "the cat steals it, o khoja!" replied his wife. on this the khoja rose from his seat, and taking the axe proceeded to lock it up in a box. "what are you doing with the axe, khoja?" said his wife. "i am hiding it from the cat," replied the khoja. "the sort of cat who steals two pennyworth of liver is not likely to spare an axe worth forty pence." _tale_ .--the cadi's ferejeh. one day a certain cadi of sur-hissar, being very drunk, lay down in a garden and fell asleep. the khoja, having gone out for a walk, passed by the spot and saw the cadi lying dead drunk and senseless, with his ferejeh--or overcoat--half off his back. it was a very valuable ferejeh, of rich material, and the khoja took it and went home remarkably well dressed. when the cadi recovered his senses he found that his ferejeh was gone. thereupon he called his officers and commanded them, saying: "on whomsoever ye shall see my ferejeh, bring the fellow before me." meanwhile the khoja wore it openly, and at last the officers took him and brought him before the cadi. "o khoja!" said the cadi, "how came you by what belongs to me? where did you find that ferejeh?" "most exemplary cadi," replied the khoja, "i went out yesterday for a short time before sunset, and as i walked i perceived a disreputable-looking fellow lying shamefully drunk, and exposed to the derision of passers-by in the public gardens. his ferejeh was half off his back, and i said within myself, 'this valuable ferejeh will certainly be stolen, whilst he to whom it belongs is sleeping the sleep of drunkenness. i will therefore take it and wear it, and when the owner has his senses restored to him, he will be able to see and reclaim it.' so i took the ferejeh, and if it be thine, o cadi, take it!" "it cannot be my ferejeh, of course," said the cadi hastily; "though there is a similarity which at first deceived me." "then i will keep it till the man claims it," said the khoja. and he did so. _tale_ .--the two pans. one day the khoja borrowed a big pan of his next-door neighbour. [illustration: the khoja is artful.] when he had done with it he put a smaller pan inside it, and carried it back. "what is this?" said the neighbour. "it is a young pan," replied the khoja. "it is the child of your big pan, and therefore belongs to you." the neighbour laughed in his sleeve. "if this khoja is mad," said he, "a sensible man like myself need not refuse to profit by his whims." so he replied, "it is well, o khoja! the pan is a very good pan. may its posterity be increased!" and he took the khoja's pan as well as his own, and the khoja departed. after a few days the khoja came again to borrow the big pan, which his neighbour lent him willingly, saying to himself, "doubtless something else will come back in it." but after he had waited two--three--four--and five days, and the khoja did not return it, the neighbour betook himself to the khoja's house and asked for his pan. the khoja came to the door with a sad countenance. "allah preserve you, neighbour!" said he. "may your health be better than that of our departed friend, who will return to you no more. the big pan is dead." "nonsense, khoja effendi!" said the neighbour, "you know well enough that a pan cannot die." "you were quite willing to believe that it had had a child," said the khoja; "it seems odd you cannot believe that it is dead." _tale_ .--the day of the month. one day khoja effendi walked into the bazaar. as he went about among the buyers and sellers, a man came up to him and said, "is it the third or fourth day of the month to-day?" "how should i know?" replied the khoja. "i don't deal in the moon." _tale_ .--the khoja's dream. one night when he was asleep the khoja dreamed that he found nine pieces of money. "bountiful heaven!" said he, "let me have been mistaken. i will count them afresh. let there be ten!" and when he counted them there were ten. then he said, "let there be nineteen!" and vehemently contending for nineteen he awoke. but when he was awake and found that there was nothing in his hands, he shut his eyes again, and stretching his hands out said, "make it nine pieces, i'll not say another word." _tale_ .--the old moon. one day some of the neighbours said, "let us ask this khoja something that will puzzle him, and see what he will say." so they came to the khoja and said, "the moon is on the wane, khoja effendi, and we shall soon have a new one; what will be done with the old moon?" "they will break it up and make stars of it," said the khoja. _tale_ .--the short piece of muslin. one day nasr-ed-deen effendi was tying a new piece of muslin for his turban, when to his annoyance he discovered that it was too short. he tried a second time, but still it was not long enough, and he spoiled his turban, and lost his temper. much vexed with the muslin, the khoja took it to the bazaar, and gave it in to be sold by auction. by and by the sale began, and after a time the muslin was put up, and a man came forward and began to bid. another man bid against him, and the first man continued to raise his price. the khoja was standing near, and at last he could bear it no longer. "that rascal of a muslin has cheated me and put me to infinite inconvenience," said he; "it played me false; and am i bound to conceal its deficiencies?" then he came softly up to the highest bidder, and whispered, "take care what you are about, brother, in buying that muslin. it's a short length." _tale_ .--the khoja peeps into futurity. having need of a stout piece of wood, the khoja one day decided to cut off a certain branch from a tree that belonged to him, as he perceived that it would serve his purpose. taking, therefore, his axe in his hand, and tucking his skirts into his girdle, he climbed the tree, and the branch he desired being firm and convenient, he seated himself upon it, and then began to hack and hew. as he sat and chopped a man passed by below him, who called out and said, "o stupid man! what are you doing? when the branch is cut through you will certainly fall to the ground." "are the decrees of the future less veiled from this man than from me, who am a khoja?" said nasr-ed-deen effendi to himself, and he made the man no reply, but chopped on. in a few moments the branch gave way, and the khoja fell to the ground. when he recovered himself he jumped up, and ran after the man who had warned him. [illustration: the khoja falls.] "o you fellow!" cried he. "it has happened to me even as you foretold. at the moment when the branch was cut through i fell to the ground. now, therefore, since the future is open to thee, i beseech thee to tell me the day of my death." "this madness is greater than the other," replied the man. "the day of death is among the hidden counsels of the most high." but the khoja held him by the gown and continued to urge him, saying, "you told me when i should fall from the tree, and it came to pass to the moment. tell me now how long i have to live." and as he would not release him, but kept crying, "how much time have i left?" the man lost patience, and said, "o fool! there is no more time left to thee. the days of the years of thy life are numbered." "then i am dead, lo i am dead!" said the khoja, and he lay down, and stiffened himself, and did not move. by and by his neighbours came and stood at his head, and having observed him, they brought a bier and laid him on it, saying, "let us take him to his own house." now in the way thither there was in the road a boggy place, which it was difficult to pass, and the bearers of the bier stood still and consulted, saying, "which way shall we go?" and they hesitated so long that the khoja, becoming impatient, raised his head from the bier, and said, "_that's_ the way i used to go myself, when i was alive." _tale_ .--the two moons. on a certain day when the khoja went to sur-hissar he saw a group of persons looking at the new moon. "what extraordinary people the men of this place must be!" said he, "in our country the moon may be seen as large as a plate, and no one troubles his head about it, and here people stare at it when it is only a quarter the size." _tale_ .--the khoja preaching. one of the khoja's duties--as a religious teacher--was to preach to the people. but once upon a time he became very lazy about this, and was always seeking an excuse to shorten or omit his sermons. on a certain day about this time he mounted into the pulpit, and looking down on the congregation assembled to listen to him, he stretched forth his hands and cried, "ah, believers! what shall i say to you?" and the men beat upon their breasts, and replied with one voice, "we do not know, most holy khoja! we do not know." "oh, if you don't know--" said the khoja indignantly, and gathering his robe about him, he quitted the pulpit without another word. the men looked at each other in dismay, for the khoja was a very popular preacher. [illustration: the khoja preaches.] "we have done wrong," said they, "though we know not how; without doubt our ignorance is an offence to his learning. wherefore, if he comes again, whatever he says to us we will seem as if we knew all about it." the following week the khoja got again into the pulpit, from which he could see a larger assembly than before. "o ye muslims!" he began, "what am i to say--" but before the words were fairly out of his mouth the congregation cried out with one voice, "_we_ know, good khoja! we know!" "oh, if you _know_--" said the khoja sarcastically, and shrugging his shoulders, and lifting his eyebrows, he left the place as one who feels that he can be of no further use. "this is worse than before," said the muslims in despair. but after a while they took counsel, and said, "let him come once more, and we will not lose our sermon this time. if he asks the same question we will reply that some of us know, but that some of us do not know." so when the khoja next appeared before the congregation, and after he had cried as before, "o brethren! do ye know what i am about to say?" they answered, "some of us know, but some of us do not know." "how nice!" said the khoja, smiling benevolently upon the crowd beneath him, as he prepared to take his departure. "then those of you who know can explain it all to those who do not know." _tale_ .--the khoja and the horsemen. one day when khoja effendi was crossing a certain desert plain a troop of horsemen suddenly appeared riding towards him. "no doubt these are bedawee robbers," thought the khoja, "who will kill me without remorse for the sake of the cadi's ferejeh which i wear." and in much alarm he hastened towards a cemetery which he had perceived to be near. here he quickly stripped off his clothes, and, having hidden them, crept naked into an empty tomb and lay down. but the horsemen pursued after him, and by and by they came into the cemetery, and one of them peeped into the tomb and saw the khoja. "here is the man we saw!" cried the horseman; and he said to the khoja, "what are you lying there for, and where are your clothes?" "the dead have no possessions, o bedawee!" replied the khoja. "i am buried here. if you saw me on the plain as i used to appear in life, without doubt you are one of those who can see ghosts and apparitions." _tale_ .--the ox trespassing. one day khoja effendi, repairing to a piece of ground which belonged to him, found that a strange ox had got into the enclosure. the khoja took a thick stick to beat it with, but the beast, seeing him coming, ran away and escaped. next week the khoja met a turk driving the ox, which was harnessed to a waggon. thereupon the khoja took a stick in his hand, and, running after the ox, belaboured it soundly. "o man!" cried the turk, "what are you beating my beast for?" "hold your tongue, you fool," said the khoja, "and don't meddle with what doesn't concern you. _the ox knows well enough._" _tale_ .--the khoja's camel. the next time khoja effendi was obliged to take a journey he resolved to accompany a caravan for protection. now the khoja had lately become possessed of a valuable camel, and he said to himself, "i will ride my camel instead of going on foot; the journey will then be a pleasure, and i shall not be fatigued." so he mounted the camel and set forth. but as he was riding with the caravan the camel stumbled, and the khoja was thrown off and severely hurt. the people of the caravan coming to his assistance found that he was stunned, but after a while they succeeded in restoring him. when the khoja came to his senses he tore his clothes, and cried in great rage and indignation, "o muslims! you do not know what care i have taken of this camel, and this is how i am rewarded! will no one kill it for me? it has done its best to kill me." but his friends said, "be appeased, most worthy effendi, we could not kill your valuable camel." "o benefactors!" replied the khoja, "since you desire the brute's life it must be spared. but it shall have no home with me. i am about to drive it into the desert, where it may stumble to its heart's content." so the khoja drove the camel away; but before he did so he tore the furniture and trappings furiously from its back, crying, "i won't leave you a rag, you ungrateful beast!" and he pursued his journey on foot, carrying the camel's furniture as best as he might. _tale_ .--an open question. the khoja wanted vegetables for cooking, so he took a sack and slipped into a neighbouring garden, which was abundantly supplied. he picked some herbs, and pulled up some turnips, and got a little of everything he could find to fill his bag. both hands were full, when the gardener suddenly appeared and seized him. "what are you doing here?" said the gardener. the khoja was confounded, and not being able to find a good excuse, he said, "a very strong wind blew during the night. having driven me a long way, it blew me here." "oh," said the gardener; "but who plucked these herbs which i see in your hands?" "the wind was so very strong," answered the khoja, "that when it blew me into this place i clutched with both hands at the first things i could lay hold of, lest it should drive me further. and so they remain in my grasp." "oh," said the gardener; "but who put these into the sack, i wonder?" "that is just what puzzles me," the khoja replied; "i was thinking about it when you came in." _tale_ .--the spurting fountain. one summer's day the khoja had come a long way, and was very hot and thirsty. by and by he perceived a fountain, of which the pipe was stopped up with a piece of wood. "now i shall quench my thirst," said the khoja, and he pulled out the stopper, on which the water rushed out with vehement force over the khoja's head, and drenched him in a moment. "ah!" cried the khoja angrily, "it's because of your running so madly that they have stuck that stick into you, i suppose." _tale_ .--well-meant soup. one day as the khoja was returning home he met a party of students walking together. "good-evening, effendis!" said he. "pray come home with me, and we will have some soup." the students did not think twice about accepting the invitation, and they followed the khoja home to his house. "pray be seated," said the khoja, and when they had seated themselves he went to the upper room. "wife," said he, "i have brought home some guests. let us give them a good bowl of soup." "o effendi!" cried the wife, "is there any butter in the house? is there any rice? have you brought anything home for me to make it of, that you ask for soup?" "give me the soup-bowl," said the khoja. then taking the empty bowl in his hand he returned to the students. "o effendis!" said he, "be good enough, i beseech you, to take the will for the deed. you are indeed most welcome, and if there had been butter or rice, or anything else in our house, you would have had excellent soup out of this very bowl." _tale_ .--the khoja and the ten blind men. once upon a time khoja nasr-ed-deen, wandering by the banks of a river, came to a certain ford near which he seated himself to rest. by and by came ten blind men, who were desirous of crossing the river, and they agreed with the khoja that he should help them across for the payment of one penny each. the khoja accordingly exerted himself to the utmost of his power, and he got nine of the blind men safely across; but as he was helping the tenth, the man lost his footing, and in spite of the khoja's efforts the river overpowered him, and bore him away. thereupon the nine blind men on the opposite shore set up a lamentable wail, crying, "what has happened, o khoja?" "one penny less to pay than you expected," said the khoja. _tale_ .--the end of the world. now khoja nasr-ed-deen effendi had a lamb which he brought up and fattened with much care. [illustration: the khoja recompenses his friends.] some of his friends were very desirous to get hold of this lamb and make a feast of it. so they came to the khoja and begged him earnestly to give up the lamb for a feast, but the khoja would not consent. at last one day came one of them and said, "o khoja! to-morrow is the end of the world. what will you do with this lamb on the last day? we may as well eat it this evening." "if it be so, let us do as you say," replied the khoja, for he thought that the man was in earnest. so they lighted the fire and roasted the lamb, and had an excellent feast. but the khoja perceived that they had played a trick upon him. by and by his friends went to some little distance to play games together, but the khoja would not accompany them, so they left their upper garments in his charge and departed to their amusements. when they were gone the khoja took the clothes and put them on to the fire where the lamb had been roasted, and burnt them all. after a while the friends returned and found their robes burnt to ashes. "o khoja!" they cried, "who has burnt our clothes? alas, alas! what shall we do?" "never mind," said the khoja, "to-morrow the world comes to an end, you know. you would not have wanted them for long." _tale_ .--the dog on the tomb. one day the khoja was wandering among the tombs. as he strolled along he perceived a dog lying upon a grave-stone. indignant at this profanation of a tomb, the khoja took a stout stick and made up his mind to chastise the intruder. but the dog, who saw what was coming, got up and prepared to fly at him. the khoja never ran any unnecessary risk. when he perceived that the dog was about to attack him, and that he would have the worst of it, he lowered his stick. "pray don't disturb yourself," said he; "i give in." _tale_ .--the khoja and the mullas. once upon a time the khoja, riding on his donkey, was proceeding to a certain place to give public instruction, when he was followed by several law-students, who walked behind him. perceiving this, the khoja dismounted, and got up again with his face to the donkey's tail. "o khoja!" cried the mullas, "why do you ride backwards?" "it is the only way in which we can show each other proper civility," replied the khoja; "for when i ride in the usual fashion, if you walk behind me i turn my back on you, and if you walk before me you turn your backs on me." _tale_ .--the students and the khoja's wife. khoja nasr-ed-deen effendi met a party of students who were walking together. "allow me to join you, worthy effendis," said he, "and if it is agreeable to you we will proceed to my house." "with the greatest possible pleasure," replied all the students, and the khoja, beguiling the way with smart sayings and agreeable compliments, led them to the door of his dwelling. "be good enough to wait an instant," said the khoja, and the students waited whilst the khoja entered his house, where--being in a mischievous mood--he said to his wife, "o wife, go down and send those men away who are hanging about the door. if they want me, say that i have not come home." so the woman went down and said, "the khoja has not come home, gentlemen." "what are you talking about?" cried the students; "he came home with us." "he's not at home, i tell you," said the khoja's wife. "we know that he is," said the students. "he's not," repeated the woman. "he is," reiterated the students. [illustration: the khoja is not at home.] and so they contradicted each other and bandied words, till the khoja, who was listening from above, put his head out of the window and cried, "neither you nor my wife have any sense in your heads. don't you see there are two doors to the place? if he did come in by one he may have gone out again through the other." _tale_ .--the khoja and his guest. one day a man came to the khoja and became his guest for the night. when they had had supper they lay down to sleep. after a while the light went out; but the khoja was lazy, and pretended not to observe it, for he did not want to get up. "khoja! khoja!" cried the guest. "what's the matter?" said the khoja. "don't you see that the light's gone out?" said the guest. "i see nothing," said the khoja. "it's pitch dark," complained the guest: "do get up and see if you have a candle in the house." "you must be mad," replied the khoja; "am i a cat? if it is really as dark as you say how can i possibly see whether i have got any or not?" _tale_ .--the wise donkey. once upon a time the khoja was smoking in his garden, when a certain man came to borrow his donkey. now this man was cruel to animals, therefore the khoja did not like to lend him his beast; but as he was also a man of some consideration, the khoja hesitated to refuse point blank. "o effendi!" said he, "i will gladly lend you my donkey, but he is a very wise animal, and knows what is about to befall him. if he foresees good luck for this journey all will be well, and you could not have a better beast. but if he foresees evil he will be of no use, and i should be ashamed to offer him to you." "be good enough to inquire of him," said the borrower. thereupon the khoja departed on pretence of taking counsel with his donkey. but he only smoked another pipe in his garden, and then returned to the man, who was anxiously awaiting him, and whom he saluted with all possible politeness, saying-- "may it be far from you, most worthy effendi, ever to experience such misfortune as my wise donkey foresees on this occasion!" "what does he foresee?" inquired the borrower. [illustration: the khoja and his donkey.] "broken knees, sore ribs, aching bones, long marches, and short meals," said the khoja. then the man looked foolish, and sneaked away without reply. but the khoja went back to his pipe. _tale_ .--the khoja's horse. once upon a time the khoja was travelling in company with a caravan, when they halted for the night at a certain place, and all the horses were tied up together. next morning the khoja could not for the life of him remember which was his own horse, and he was much afraid of being cheated if he confessed this to the rest. so, as they were all coming out, he seized his bow and arrow, and aimed among the horses at random. "don't shoot!" cried the men; "what is the matter?" "i am desperate," replied the khoja; "i am determined to kill somebody's horse, so let every one look to his own." laughing at the khoja's folly, each man untied his own horse as quickly as possible, and took it away. then the khoja knew that the one left was his own. he at once proceeded to mount, but putting his right foot into the stirrup, he came round with his face to the tail. "what makes you get up backwards, khoja?" said his friends. "it is not i who am in the wrong," said the khoja, "but the horse that is left-handed." _tale_ .--the khoja on the bey's horse. on a certain occasion khoja nasr-ed-deen went to see the bey, and the bey invited him to go out hunting. the khoja agreed, but when they were about to start he found that he had been mounted on a horse which would not move out of a snail's pace. he said nothing, however, for it is not well to be too quick in seeing affronts. by and by it began to rain heavily. the bey and the rest of the party galloped off with all speed towards shelter, and the khoja was left in the lurch. when they were all out of sight the khoja got down and took off all his clothes and folded them neatly together, and put them on the saddle. then he got up again and sat on his clothes, to keep them dry. by and by the rain ceased, and the khoja dressed himself and went leisurely home. when he reached the bey's palace all the guests were assembled, and presently the bey perceived him and cried out, "why, here is the worthy khoja! and--how extraordinary!--his clothes are not as wet as ours." "why do you not praise the horse on which you mounted me?" answered the khoja; "it carried me through the storm without a single thread of my clothes being wet." "they must have made a mistake about the horses," thought the bey to himself, and he invited the khoja to go hunting on the following day. the khoja accepted, and when the time came he was mounted on the horse which the bey had ridden the day before, and the bey seated himself on that which had carried the khoja with dry clothes through the shower. by and by it began to rain; every one rode off as usual, and this time the khoja among them. the bey, however, could not induce his horse to stir out of a foot's pace, and when he arrived at his palace he was drenched to the skin. "wretched man!" he cried to the khoja, "is it not through you that i was induced to ride this useless horse?" "most eminent bey," replied the khoja, "the beast has treated you no worse than he served me. but perhaps your eminence did not think of taking off your clothes and sitting on them?" _tale_ .--the khoja's donkey brays to good purpose. one day the khoja dismounted at the door of a shop, and threw his woollen pelisse on the donkey's back till he should return. he then went in to buy sweetmeats. in a few minutes there passed a man, who snatched the woollen pelisse from the donkey's back, and went off with it. at this moment the donkey began to bray. "o bawl away!" cried the khoja, who had come out just in time to see his pelisse disappear; "much good that will do." but as it happened, when the man heard the noise he was afraid of being caught, and, throwing the pelisse back on to the donkey, he ran away as hard as he could. [illustration: the khoja prays.] _tale_ .--the khoja's left leg. during one very hot season there was a scarcity of water in the city. one day, the khoja was performing his religious ablutions: he washed himself all over with the exception of his left leg, but before that could be washed the water was all used up. when the khoja began to recite the customary prayers he stood on one leg like a goose. "o khoja effendi!" cried the people, "why do you pray standing on your right leg?" "i could not pray on my left leg," said the khoja; "it has not performed the appointed ablutions." _tale_ .--"figs would be more acceptable." nasr-ed-deen effendi had some plums, of which he resolved to make a present to the bey. he therefore took three of them, and putting them on a fine tray, he carried them into the royal presence, and duly offered them for the bey's acceptance. being in a good humour, the bey took the present in good part, and gave the khoja several pence in return. after some days the khoja thought he would take something else to the bey, and having some fine large beetroots, he set off as before. on his way to the palace he met a man, who saluted him. "what are you doing with all those beetroots?" said he. "i am about to present them to the bey," replied the khoja. "figs would be more acceptable, i should think," said the man. the khoja pursued his journey, but as he went the man's words troubled him--"figs would be more acceptable." at last he perceived a fig-tree by the roadside, so, throwing away all the beetroots, he put two or three figs in their place, and having arrived at the palace, he presented them to the bey. but this time the bey was not in a good humour. "what madman is this," he cried, "who mocks me by the gift of a few worthless figs? throw them at his head and drive him away!" so they pelted the khoja with his figs, and drove him out. but as he ran, instead of cursing his ill luck, the khoja gave thanks for his good fortune. "this is indeed madness," cried the servants of the bey; "for what, o khoja, do you return thanks, after this ignominious treatment?" "o ignorant time-servers," replied the khoja, "i have good reason to give thanks. for i was bringing beetroots to the bey--large beetroots, and many of them--and i met a man who persuaded me, saying, "figs would be more acceptable," so i brought figs; and you have cast them at my head. but there were few of them, and they are soft, and i am none the worse. if, however, i had not by good luck thrown away the beetroots, which are hard, my skull would certainly have been cracked." _tale_ .--timur and the one-legged geese. one day the khoja caused a goose to be cooked. he was about to present it to the king. when it was nicely done he set off with it, but on the road he became very hungry. if the smell of it were to be trusted it was a most delicious bird! at last the khoja could resist no longer, and he tore off a leg and ate it with much relish. on arriving in the royal presence he placed the goose before timur the king, who, when he had examined the khoja's gift, was exceedingly annoyed. "this khoja is deriding me!" said he. and then in a voice of thunder he demanded, "_where is the other leg?_" "the geese of our country are one-legged," replied nasr-ed-deen, with much gravity. "if your majesty does not believe me, be good enough to let your eyes be informed of the truth of what i say by looking at the geese at yonder spring." as it happened there were a number of geese at the fountain, and they were all standing on one leg. the king could not help laughing, but he called to his drummers and said, "march towards yonder fountain, and lay your drumsticks well about your drums." the drummers forthwith began to drum, and they rattled away so heartily that all the geese put down their legs and ran off in alarm. "o khoja!" cried timur, "how is this? all your geese have become two-legged!" "it is the effect of your majesty's wonderful drumsticks," replied the khoja. "if you were to eat one of them, you yourself would undoubtedly become four-legged." _tale_ .--the khoja rewards the frogs. khoja nasr-ed-deen effendi had been riding his donkey for some miles. it was very hot, and the khoja dismounted to ease his beast. at this moment they came within sight of a pond, and the donkey smelling the water set off towards it as hard as he could canter. the side of the pond was very steep, and in its haste the donkey would probably have fallen in, but that the frogs set up such a terrific croaking at its approach that the beast, in alarm, turned sharply round, and was caught by its master. the khoja was not wanting in grateful and liberal feelings. "well done, my little pond-birds!" said he, throwing a handful of coins into the water. "divide that among you to buy sweetmeats with." _tale_ .--the khoja reproaches his cock. once upon a time the khoja was carrying his fowls in a cage to the city for sale. as he went along he began to feel sorry for them. "o my soul!" said he, "these poor fowls are sadly imprisoned. i will let them go a little." so he opened the cage, and the birds scrambled out. one ran one way, and another another; but the khoja contrived to keep up with the cock, which he drove before him with his stick, the poor bird waddling hither and thither, and fluttering from side to side with distress and indecision pitiable to behold. on seeing this the khoja began to reproach him. "you never thought it would come to this, my fine bird, did you?" said he. "and yet what a wiseacre you are! you know when it's day better than the sun himself, and can crow loud enough for all the world to hear your wisdom." the poor cock made no reply, but waddled on with hoarse cries and flapping wings. "you're a poor prophet!" said the khoja. "you know that it is morning in the middle of the night: how is it you could not foresee that you were to be driven to market? thus--and thus!" and turning him at every corner by which he would escape, the khoja drove the distracted cock into the city. _tale_ .--hare-soup. one day there came a man from the village who made the khoja a present of a hare. the khoja brought him in, treating him with all honour and hospitality, and gave him some rich and excellent soup. in a week's time the man called again; but the khoja had forgotten him, and said, "who are you?" "i am the man who brought the hare," he replied. the khoja entertained him as before, though the soup was not quite so rich. after a few days came some men who desired to be guests to the khoja. "who are you?" said he. "we are neighbours of the man who brought the hare," said they. this time the soup was certainly thin, but that did not hinder the arrival of some fresh guests in a very few days. "who are you?" said the khoja. "we are neighbours of the neighbours of the man who brought the hare," was the reply. "you are welcome," said their host; and he set a bowl of clear water before them. "what is this, o khoja?" cried the men. "it is soup of soup of soup of the hare-soup," answered the khoja. _tale_ .--the khoja out fishing. one day the khoja accompanied some men who were going a-fishing, and he became much excited in watching the sport. suddenly, as they cast the net into the sea, the khoja threw himself into it. "what can you be thinking of, effendi?" cried the fishermen. "i forgot," said the khoja; "i was thinking i was a fish." _tale_ .--a desire satisfied. nasr-ed-deen effendi had an old cow with horns so exceedingly broad that one could certainly sit between them if he had a mind to do so. "i should very much like to try," the khoja kept thinking; "i should exceedingly like to sit for once between those horns." the notion haunted him, and he kept saying to himself, "i certainly should like it, just for once." one day the cow came before the house, and after a while lay down. "the opportunity has arrived," cried the khoja, and running out, he seated himself between the cow's horns. "it is just as i thought," said he; but as he spoke the cow got up, and tossed the khoja violently to the ground. the khoja was stunned, and when his wife hastened to the spot she found him lying senseless. after some time he opened his eyes, and perceived his wife weeping near him. "o wife!" said the khoja, "weep not; i am not less fortunate than other men. i have suffered for it, but i have had my desire." _tale_ .--the khoja and the incompetent barber. on one occasion the khoja was shaved by a most incompetent barber. at every stroke the man cut his head with the razor, and kept sticking on bits of cotton to stop the bleeding. at last the khoja lost patience. "that will do," said he, jumping up: "you've sown cotton on half my head, i'll keep the other half for flax;" and he ran out of the shop with his head half shaved. footnotes: [footnote : a _khoja_ is a religious teacher, and sometimes a school-master also.] the snarling princess. (_freely adapted from the german._) [illustration] ever so long ago there lived a certain king, at whose court great rejoicings were held for the birth of a child. but this joy was soon turned to sorrow, when the young queen died, and left her infant daughter motherless. as the body of the young queen lay in state, wrapped in a shroud of gold all embroidered with flowers, and with so sweet a smile upon her face that she looked like one who dreams happy dreams in sleep, the sorrowing king took the child in his arms, and kneeling by the bier vowed never to marry again, but to make his wife's only child the heir of his crown and kingdom. this promise he faithfully fulfilled, and remaining a widower, he devoted his life to the upbringing of his daughter. it is true that the young princess had a fairy godmother--a distant cousin of the deceased queen--but the king could not endure that any one but himself should have a voice in the management of his child, and the fairy godmother, who was accustomed to the utmost deference to her opinions, very soon quitted the court in a huff, and left the king as supreme in the nursery as he was in the council-chamber. [illustration] when the precious baby was washed, this was done with no common care. the bath itself was made of gold, and the two chief physicians of the kingdom assisted the king by their counsels. when hot water of crystal clearness had been poured into the bath, the more celebrated of the two physicians dipped the tip of his little finger in, and looking inquiringly at his colleague, said "_hum_." on which the physician of lesser degree dipped in his little finger and said "_hem_." and after this the water always proved to be of the right temperature, and did the young princess no harm whatever. the king himself on these occasions always dropped--with much state--a few drops of exquisite scent into the bath, from a golden flask studded with diamonds. the chief lady-in-waiting brought the baby, wrapped in gorgeous robes, and put it into the bath. the court doctors laid their fingers on their noses, and looked very important, whilst the king--who was short-sighted--put on his spectacles to enjoy the sight of the little princess, who gambolled in the water like a fish. the rest of her toilette was carried out with no less formality, and as the same scrupulous care watched over every incident of her daily life, the child grew every day more healthy and beautiful. time passed on without lessening the king's devotion to his daughter. her beauty was the standing theme of conversation in every corner of the palace where the king was likely to overhear it, and the courtiers rivalled each other in trying to read the wishes of the little princess in her blue eyes, and in endeavouring to forestall them. no wonder the little lady grew up exceedingly self-willed, and with no thought of any one's pleasure but her own. the king hired governesses, it is true, but he strictly forbade them ever to say a harsh word to his darling; and one who had so far transgressed this order as to reprove the princess for some fault, was dismissed in disgrace. thus it came about that the child grew daily more and more wilful and capricious. do what every one would, it was impossible to please her, and as she was allowed to fly into a rage about the most trifling matters, and as she sulked and scolded, and growled and grumbled for the smallest annoyances, her voice gradually acquired a peculiar snarling tone, which was as painful to listen to as it was unbecoming in a young and pretty princess. the whole court suffered from the depressing effects of the young lady's ill-temper. behind the king's back, the courtiers complained pretty freely, but before his face no one dared show his annoyance, and two old court ladies, whose nerves were not so strong as they had been, and who feared to betray themselves, were obliged to employ a celebrated professor of cosmetics to paint smiles on their faces that could not be disturbed by the snarling and grumbling of the princess; but the lord chamberlain concealed his feelings by a free use of his gold snuff-box, and snuffed away his annoyance pretty successfully. as his daughter grew up, the king was not without his share of suffering from her ill-temper. but he bore it all very patiently,--"she will be a queen," said he to himself, "and it is fit that she should have a will of her own." the king himself was of an imperious temper, but such was his love for his only child, that he bent it completely to her caprices. in private, the courtiers were by no means so indulgent in their views, and the future queen was known amongst them, behind her back, as the snarling princess. in spite of her ill-temper and unpleasing voice, however, she was so beautiful, that--being also heir to the throne of a large kingdom--many princes sought her hand in marriage. but the snarling princess was resolved to reign alone, and she refused every suitor who appeared. the princess's rooms were, of course, the most beautiful in the palace. one of these, which looked out on to the forest, was her favourite chamber, but it was also the source of her greatest vexation. never did she look out of the window towards the wood without snarling in her harshest tone, "hateful! intolerable!" the source of her annoyance was this: on the edge of the forest, clearly to be seen from her window, there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived an aged woman who was known amongst the poor folks of the neighbourhood as the "three-legged wood-wife." this was because of a wooden staff on which she leaned to eke out the failing strength of her own limbs. the wood-wife was both feared and hated by the people, amongst whom she bore the character of a very malicious witch. the king's daughter hated not only her, but her tumble-down house, and had sent again and again, with large offers of gold, to try and purchase the cottage. but the wood-wife laughed spitefully at the messengers, and only replied that the cottage suited her, and that for no money would she quit it whilst she lived. the poor have their rights, however, as well as the rich, and even the snarling princess was obliged to submit to the disappointment at which she could only grumble. at one time she resolved never to go into her favourite room again. but she could not keep her resolution. back she went, and some irresistible power always seemed to draw her to the window to irritate herself by the sight of the wretched hovel which belonged to the three-legged witch. at last, however, by constantly snarling and complaining to the king, she induced him to turn the old woman by force out of her cottage. the king, who was just and upright, did so very unwillingly, and he built her a new and much better cottage elsewhere. the wood-wife could not resist, but she never put her foot across the threshold of the new house. meanwhile the old hovel was swept away as fast as possible, and by the princess's wish a pretty summer-house was built on the spot where it had stood, and there she and her court ladies were wont to amuse themselves on warm summer evenings to their hearts' content. one evening the princess strolled out by herself into the forest. she had been in several distinct rages; first with her court ladies, secondly with her dressmaker, thirdly with the sky, which, in spite of her wishes for fine weather, had become overcast with clouds. [illustration] in this ill-humour nothing in all the beautiful green forest gave her any satisfaction. she snarled at the birds because they sang so merrily. the rustling of the green fir-tops in the evening breeze annoyed her: "why should pine-trees have needles instead of leaves?" she asked angrily; and then she grumbled because there were no roses on the juniper bushes. still snarling, she wandered on, till she came to a spot where she stood still and silent in sheer amazement. in an open space there was a circle of grotesque-looking stones, strangely linked together by creeping plants and ferns of curious growth. and as the snarling princess looked at them, it seemed to her that the stones took dwarf-like shapes, and glared about them with weird elfin faces. the princess seemed rooted to the spot. an invisible power appeared to draw her towards the group, and to attract her by a beautiful flower, whose calyx opened at her approach. unable to resist the impulse, she stepped into the circle and plucked the flower. no sooner had she done so than her feet took deep root in the earth, her hair stiffened into fir-needles, and her arms became branches. she was now firmly fixed in the centre of the group of stones, a slender, swaying pine-tree, which creaked and croaked, and snapped and snarled with every gust of wind, as the princess had hardly ever done in her most ill-tempered moments. and as her limbs stiffened under their magical transformation, the hideous figure of the wood-wife might have been seen hovering round the charmed circle, her arms half changed into bird's wings, and her hands into claws. and as the king's daughter fairly turned into a pine-tree, the wood-wife took the form of an owl, and for a moment rested triumphantly on her branches. then with a shrill "tu-whit! tu-whoo!" it vanished into the forest. when the princess did not return to the palace, and all search after her proved utterly vain, the poor old king fell into a state of the deepest melancholy, and spent most of his time in the summer-house, bewailing the mysterious loss of his only child. one day, many months afterwards, he wandered into the forest. a storm was raging, of which he took no heed. but suddenly he stopped beneath a pine-tree, and looked up--"how like my poor dear daughter's voice!" said he; "especially when she was the least bit in the world--" he did not like to finish the sentence, but sat down under the tree and wept bitterly. and for every tear he shed, the pine-tree dropped a shower of needles. for the snarling princess recognized her father, and heartily lamented the pain he suffered now, and had so often suffered before on her account. "tu-whit! tu-whoo!" said a voice, from a hole beneath the pine-tree. "who speaks?" said the king. "it is i, cousin," said the owl, hopping into the daylight, and gradually assuming the form and features of the fairy godmother. "you did not know me as the three-legged wood-wife, whom you so unjustly sacrificed to your daughter's caprices. but i have had a hand in her education after all! for twelve months has she croaked and creaked, snapped and snarled, beneath the summer heat, the winter snow, and the storms of spring and autumn. her punishment--and yours--is over." as the fairy godmother spoke, the pine-tree became a princess once more, and fell into her father's arms. but the wood-wife took again the shape of an owl, and the enchanted stones became bats, and they all disappeared into the shadows of the forest. and as the princess shortly afterwards married a very charming prince, she no doubt changed her name. certainly she was never more known as the snarling princess. the little parsnip-man. (_freely adapted from the german._) what peter found in the pan--an ugly smile--the widow's reckonings--rest by rushlight. [illustration] on a cold winter's evening it is very cosy to sit by a warm hearth, where the fire crackles pleasantly, and the old saucepan, which mother has set on the fire, sings monotonously to itself between-whiles. on such a night the wind howled in the street without, beat upon the window-panes, and rustled through the trees, which stood, tall and leafless, in the big garden over the way. little peter did not trouble his head on the subject. he sat indoors on a little footstool, near the fire, and close also to his mother, who was busy cutting up parsnips for next day's dinner. peter paid great attention as his mother took a well-boiled parsnip out of the saucepan, scraped it, cut it, and laid the pieces on a clean white dish. his mother's thoughts were elsewhere. she looked sad and pensive. only from time to time she nodded across the dish towards her little peter, and when he got up and came and laid his head in her lap, she gently smoothed his fair hair from his brow, and then she smiled too. [illustration] peter had no idea that his mother was sad. he had got another parsnip out of the pan, and wanted to scrape it all by himself; but he was not very skilful, and he worked so slowly that in the end his mother had to finish it for him. the next thing he did was to upset the saucepan; the parsnips fell out, and peter began to count them. all at once he gave a cry that made his mother jump. he had found a parsnip-root that looked exactly like a little man. it had a regular head of its own, with a long nose, its body was short, and it had two shrivelled stringy little legs; arms it had none. "that's a little parsnip-man," said his mother, when peter showed it to her. "a parsnip-man?" muttered peter below his breath, and he gazed doubtfully at the odd-looking root in his hand. it seemed to him that the little man was smiling at him; but with a very ugly kind of smile. suddenly the stove gave such a loud crack, that peter let the parsnip fall out of his hands with a start. "what's the matter?" asked his mother, as peter buried his face in her arms; for he began to feel frightened. "the little parsnip-man grinned so nastily at me, and such a loud noise came out of the stove--and i let him fall!" his mother laughed at him. "you've been dreaming," said she. "the little man could not smile if he tried. the parsnip-mannikins are only roots in the day-time, you know. it is at midnight, when you have long, long been asleep, and the church clock strikes twelve, that they come to life. then away they all go to the great cave where the queen dwells in state, and here they hold high festival. there they dance, sing, play, and eat out of golden dishes. but as soon as the clock strikes one, all is over, and the parsnip-men are only roots once more. "but you've fallen asleep," she added. "come, my child, and i'll put you to bed. you are tired, are you not?" "yes, i'll go to bed," said little peter, rubbing his drowsy eyes. so his mother took him into the bedroom and lighted the rushlight. then she undressed him and put him to bed. and peter had hardly touched the pillow before he was fast asleep. but the mother went back to the kitchen-table, and seated herself once more by the light of the dimly-burning lamp. the parsnips were all cut up long ago. she put the dish aside and began to sew. now and then she paused in her work to lean back in her chair, and tears welled up in her eyes. perhaps she remembered that the rent was due, or she may have been reflecting that peter's jacket was past further patching. in either case she began to count over in her mind a certain small stock of savings which she had laid by in a money-box, and to puzzle her poor head what she should turn her hand to next to earn the wherewithal to buy the boy some decent clothes. nothing likely suggested itself, however, and with a heavy sigh she bent once more over her work and stitched away faster than ever. for the work she was doing had to be taken home next morning; and there was a great deal yet to do if she hoped to get it finished in time, and to pay her rent with the price of it. after sitting like this for a while, she got up. her eyes ached, and it was getting late. the big kitchen clock was on the stroke of twelve. she put her sewing away in her work-basket, and carried the saucepan and the dish of parsnips into the scullery. then she swept up the spare roots into a corner of the hearth, and put the little stool tidily away under the table. but she could not see anything of the parsnip which peter had let fall. possibly it had rolled behind the stove. "i shall be sure to find it in the morning, when i light the fire," she thought. she put out the lamp, and stepped softly into the chamber where the rushlight burned dimly. then with one passing glance at the sleeping boy, she undressed herself and prepared for bed. in a few moments more all her cares and troubles had vanished in slumber. the little man in the yellow coat--a mouse-ride at midnight--the hole in the wall--among the parsnip-men--queen mary--the blue dress--a cake-feast--one! little peter had been asleep for a long time, when all at once he found himself suddenly twitched by the arm. he rolled over, rubbed his eyes, and then, to his amazement, saw the little parsnip-man sitting by him on the quilt. he did not look a bit like a parsnip now. he had on a long yellow coat, and a little green hat on his head; and he nodded in quite a friendly way to peter. "come along! be quick!" he said. "we must be off. but wrap up well, for it's cold outside." "where are we going to?" asked little peter. "into the cave? and is mamma going too?" "no," said the little man. "she's stopping at home. but do be quick, for the feast has begun." and with that he gave such a jump on to the floor that the boards fairly creaked again, and little peter, slipped out of bed after him. the little parsnip-man helped him on with his shoes and stockings, and peter put on the rest of his clothes himself. then the mannikin pulled out a little whistle and blew on it. immediately there was a rustling under the bed, and then two mice peeped out. in a moment the parsnip-man caught one, and vaulted on to its back. "you get on the other," he said to peter. "but it isn't big enough to carry me," said peter doubtfully. "get up, i tell you!" said the little man, laughing. peter did as he was told. doubtless he had been growing smaller, for when he was fairly astride he sat the mouse as if it had been made for him. as to the mouse, it kept perfectly still for peter to mount. "now, sit fast!" cried the mannikin; and peter had hardly seized the ears of the mouse (for want of reins), when his new steed ran away with him under the bed. then all of a sudden it became quite dark. "where are we?" cried peter, for the mouse galloped on, and peter was getting frightened. "we are in the cellar," the voice of the parsnip-man replied at his side. "don't be frightened; it will be light again in a minute or two." accordingly, in a few moments, peter could see all around him. they had emerged from the cellar, and were now in the street. the wind had fallen, and there was a dead calm. the street-lamps were burning with a somewhat dim light, however. peter could now plainly see the form of the little parsnip-man riding beside him. the mice scampered on and on. [illustration] a watchman was standing in the doorway of a house. his halberd reposed against the wall beside him. probably the watchman himself was reposing, for he never moved when the mice and their riders went by. they rode to the end of the street, and there, before an old deserted house which peter had often shuddered to look at in the daytime, the mice stopped. "here we are!" said the parsnip-man, jumping down from his mouse. peter dismounted more leisurely, and the two mice ran off. it was almost pitch dark by the old house. only one distant lamp gave a feeble glimmer. the parsnip-man whistled as before. by and by peter heard a sound like "bst! bst!" he looked all round, but could see nothing. at this moment the mannikin caught him by the arm and pointed upwards to a hole in the wall of the old house. peter then perceived that something was moving higher up, and very shortly he heard a rustling noise as if a ladder of ropes were being let down from above. "come quickly!" said a shrill, slender voice. "the chimes have sounded once since the hour. the queen is waiting." "climb on to my shoulders, peter," said the parsnip-man, stooping as he spoke. peter did so, and held fast by the little man's neck, who climbed nimbly up the rope-ladder to the opening in the wall above; and there peter got down. here there stood another parsnip-man with a little lantern in his hand, which he turned on peter's face, and then nodded to him in a friendly way. after which he unhooked the rope-ladder and drew it up. the two parsnip-men now took peter between them, each holding a hand. they went through long dark passages, and then they began to go down-stairs. peter counted a hundred steps, but still they went down, down, and he could count no more. all at once he heard music, which sounded as if it came from a distance. they were now at the bottom of the steps, and walking on level ground. the further they went the louder grew the music, and at last the parsnip-men came to a standstill. the one who held the lantern threw its light upon the wall till it disclosed a knob, on which he pressed. then he put out his lantern, and all was dark. but the music sounded louder than before. suddenly the wall parted and moved aside, and peter could hardly restrain his cries of astonishment, for what he now saw was like nothing he had ever seen before. he was looking into a great big hall. it was as light as day. dazzling lustres of crystal, with thousands and thousands of wax tapers, whose flames were reflected from the mirrors suspended round the room, hung from the roof. strange music shook the walls, and to the time of this music hundreds and hundreds of little parsnip-men twirled and danced. all of them were dressed in yellow coats and green hats, and many of them wore long white beards. and oh, how they chirped and smirked, and laughed and jumped about, as if they were mad! for a long time peter stood bewildered. at last the little parsnip-men who had brought him so far led him right into the room, and the wall closed behind them. "now for the queen!" whispered one of them. "come along." they went down the side of the room, against the wall of which were ranged chairs with grand purple coverings and gilded arms. once or twice peter nearly slipped, so polished was the floor. from time to time some little parsnip-man in the company nodded to him; otherwise no one paid much attention to him. in this way they reached the farther end of the hall, where there was a throne, raised on a dais and covered by a canopy hung with purple. it was something like the throne peter once saw when his aunt took him with her to the palace. a few steps led up to the throne, with a wonderfully elaborate balustrade made of gold. the little mannikins seized his hands and led him up the steps between them. then they drew back the purple curtains, and displayed a grand throne on which was seated a little girl in a snow-white dress. on her head she wore a little gold crown, from which hung a long transparent veil. she was resting her head on her hand, and did not look up till peter and the parsnip-men were quite close to her. then she gave a cry of joy. "so you've come at last, peter!" she cried, her eyes brightening with delight; and as she took his hand, he saw that she was no other than his favourite playfellow and neighbour, little mary. there was a second seat beside her, and to this she drew peter. then she beckoned to the parsnip-men, and said, "you have got everything ready, have you not?" the parsnip-men bowed low, and hurried away. in a minute or two they returned, followed by about thirty mannikins like themselves, who bore a magnificent dress which they deposited before peter. there was a coat of blue silk, turned up with fur, and trimmed with precious stones. besides this there were knee-breeches of the same material, slashed with white and fringed with gold, white silk stockings, and smart shoes with gold buckles. to complete the whole, there lay on the top a cap, with a heron's plume fastened by an aigrette of gold. but peter's attention all this time had been fixed upon mary. he fancied she looked bigger than usual and unfamiliar in some way. "take the clothes into that room," said she to the little men; "and you, peter," she added, "go with them and dress. then we will go to supper." "but--er--does your mamma know you're here?" asked peter. he could not get over his amazement at the style and tone in which little mary issued her orders in this strange place. "i should think not!" laughed the little girl. "but never mind, peter: we shall soon be at home again. what you've got to do just now is to put on your things." as if in a dream, peter went into the room into which the clothes had been taken, and where the little men helped him to take off his things and dress himself in his new-finery. some of them then brought a long mirror, in which peter could see himself from head to foot, and he fairly laughed with delight at his fine appearance in his new clothes. then the little men led him back to the queen, who looked him well over, and she also smiled complacently. "did you bring your doll, mary?" said peter presently. "that's not very likely," replied she. "it would not do for a queen to play at dolls." "have you been a queen very long?" peter inquired. "for several years," said mary. "but you and i were playing together only yesterday," said poor peter, in puzzled tones. but mary had turned her back to him, and was pulling a bell at the back of her throne. although the music was still going on, the clear tone of the bell which the queen had rung was heard above every other sound. the music and the dancing stopped at once. "come, peter, give me your arm," said mary. "we're going into the supper-room." they stepped down into the hall, where all the parsnip-men had now ranged themselves in two long rows, down the centre of which the queen and her companion now passed, and then the parsnip-men closed in and formed a long procession behind them. in this way they came to the other end of the hall. the large folding-doors swung open, and peter fancied he was looking into a large garden. but it was only another hall in which tall foreign-looking trees were planted, whilst many-tinted flowers of gorgeous colours and strange shapes hung from the walls, and hither and thither among them flitted curious birds of many hues. as in the first hall, crystal lustres with wax tapers descended from the roof, and in the middle of the room, to which they now advanced, was a long table covered with a white table-cloth, and laid out with gold and silver plate of all sorts. there were golden vases with handles, golden tankards, golden dessert-dishes filled with splendid fruits; silver plates and goblets and drinking-cups, and beside them stood crystal flasks. hundreds of chairs were placed round the table, and in every place was a little silver knife and a plate. peter could not gaze long enough. he wanted to stop every moment, but mary only laughed, and dragged him on. [illustration] about the middle of the long table there was a dais raised above the level on which the other chairs and table stood. it was covered by a canopy of yellow silk, and under this was a table more richly laid out than the big one, and two seats of pure gold. to this mary led peter, and then said emphatically--"these are _our_ seats." up they climbed, and then mary dropped peter's arm and sat down on one of the seats, and he seated himself beside her on the other. from his present elevation peter was well able to observe the parsnip-men as they passed by in procession, and took their places on the chairs. when all were seated the music recommenced. then out of a side door came about fifty mannikins carrying large cakes on silver dishes, which they set down on the long table, and having cut them up handed them round to the guests. others poured red or golden wine from the vases into the goblets. everybody ate and drank, and chatted and laughed between-whiles. among the golden dishes on the golden table where peter and mary sat, was one which held a cake which had a particularly inviting smell. mary cut a piece off and put it on to peter's golden plate. then, from a beautiful golden goblet, she poured ruby-coloured wine into their crystal glasses. peter ate and drank with great relish, and soon disposed of the cake and wine. [illustration] "i should like to have some of that beautiful fruit, too, if i may," said he. and as he spoke mary filled his plate with grapes, apples, and pears. "eat away, peter!" said she, laughing till her white teeth shone through her lips. "don't be afraid of emptying the dish. there is plenty more fruit if we want it." "i should like to take some home to mamma," said peter, biting into an apple. "may i, mary?" mary nodded kindly, and handed him a golden dish full of sweetmeats, saying, "put as many of these into your pocket as you like." and he filled his pockets accordingly. peter felt as happy as a king. his head was quite turned. he shouted aloud for joy, and swung his legs backwards and forwards as he sat on his golden chair. "but i say, mary," said he, laughing, "we shall go on playing together the same as ever, sha'n't we? i shall bring my leaden soldiers, and you'll bring your dolls again, won't you?" but at this moment mary seized his arm, and whispered in a frightened voice--"hush, peter, hush! don't you hear?" the music had suddenly ceased, and with it all the talking and laughing at the long table, and in the silence the sound of the church clock could be distinctly heard. _it struck one._ at one stroke--the lights went out, a blast of wind blew through the banqueting-room, and then all was as still as death. * * * * * left alone in the dark--mother--the parsnip-man by daylight--three pounds. peter sat in his chair, as if petrified with terror, mary still holding fast by his arm. "quick, quick!" she cried, breathlessly. "we must get away from here." then she let his arm go, and hurried away from him. "wait, wait!" he cried, anxiously; "i don't know where i am. take me with you, mary! i can't see my way. mary! mary! mary!" nobody replied. peter slid down from his chair and groped his way forward till he knocked against the corner of the table. terror fairly overcame him, and he cried--"mother! mother! mother!" "what's the matter, dear?" said his mother's gentle voice. "i am here, mother," cried peter; "but i am so frightened! mary has run away and left me all alone in the dark hall." "come, peter, come; collect yourself," said his mother, who was standing by the bed where poor peter was sitting straight up with an anxious face, down which big tears were running. "you're here, peter, you know; in your own little bed," said his mother, putting her arms round him. peter began to take heart a little, and looked round him with big wide-open eyes. "but how did i get here?" he asked, still stupefied with sleep. "you've never been anywhere else, you know," said his mother. "but i know the parsnip-man took me away, and i rode on the mouse, too," said little peter. "nonsense, nonsense; you're still dreaming. there, get up and put on your clothes." "but i want the other clothes, the beautiful blue dress. these things are so dreadfully patched and darned," said peter, in a lamentable tone. "and i have brought something nice for you too, mother dear. it's in the pockets of the blue coat." "you haven't got a blue coat, child," said his mother. "come, come. put on your clothes and come into the warm kitchen." and she carried peter out into the arm-chair by the breakfast-table, and began to pour out some coffee for him. and she put the parsnip-man (who had been lying all night behind the stove) into his hand. "see," she continued, "here's your parsnip-man, about whom you have been dreaming all this fine nonsense." peter examined it with eager eyes. it looked exactly the same as it had done the night before. "but mary was there too," he said, still doubtfully. "she is the queen of the parsnip-men, you know. and she gave me cake and wine and fruit." "well, we'll ask her about it next time she comes," said his mother, laughing. just then there was a knock at the door. the mother hastened to open it, and found a messenger waiting with a letter in his hand which had several seals on it. it was addressed to herself, and beside the address was written, "_three pounds enclosed._" having given a small sum to the messenger for his trouble, the widow broke the seals of the letter with trembling fingers. the three pounds were duly enclosed, but no letter accompanied the welcome money. overcome with joy, the widow seized peter, who had crept curiously to her side, in her arms and exclaimed with delight, "ah! you shall have a nice blue dress, after all, my child." but when the boy asked, "who has sent us all this money, mother?" all she could say was, "i wish i knew, my dear. but you see there is no letter with it." then peter smiled expressively, but said nothing, for he thought--"mother won't believe me, i know. but who can the money have come from, except from the little parsnip-man?" a child's wishes. (_from the german of r. reinick._) a certain old knight had a little daughter called gertrude; and when his brother died, leaving an only son, he took the boy into his castle, and treated him as his own son. the boy's name was walter. the two children lived together like brother and sister; they only played where they could play together, and were of one heart and of one soul. but one day, when gertrude had gone out alone to pick flowers beyond the castle gate, some gipsies came along the high-road, who stole the child and took her away. no one knew what had become of her; the poor old father died of grief, and walter wept long days and nights for his gertrude. at last there came a warm spring day, when the trees began to bud, and walter went out into the wood. there, in a beautiful green spot, a brook bubbled under the trees, where he had often sat with gertrude, floating little boats of nutshells on the stream. he sat down there now, cut himself a hazel stick for a hobby-horse, and as he did so he said to himself-- "ah! if i were but a grown-up knight, as tall and stately as those who used to come to my uncle's castle, i would ride out into the wide world and look for gertrude!" meanwhile, he heard something screaming near him, and when he looked up he saw a raven, which was stuck so fast between two branches of a tree that it could not move, whilst a snake was gliding towards it to devour it. walter hastily seized his stick, beat the snake to death, and set the raven free. "a thousand thanks, my dear child!" said the raven, who had flown up into a tree, from which he spoke--"a thousand thanks! and now, since you have saved my life, wish for whatever you like, and it shall be granted immediately. a year hence we will speak of this again." when walter heard this, he saw at once that the raven was an enchanted bird, and exclaimed with joy-- "i should like to be a noble knight with a helmet and a shield, a charger and a sword!" all happened just as he wished. in an instant he was a tall, stately knight; his shield stood near him, and his hobby-horse became a proud charger, which, to show that it was no ghost, but a real horse of flesh and blood, began then and there to drink out of the stream. at first, walter could not think what had happened to him, but stood as if he were in a dream. soon, however, a new life seemed to wake within him; he swung himself on to his horse with all the energy of youth, and rode far out into the land to look for little gertrude. like other knights, he met with many adventures on his way. there was always something to contend with, either wild beasts or else knights, who, like himself, roved about the country delighting to find any one with whom they could do battle. on every occasion, however, walter came off conqueror, for he was far more valiant than any of his opponents. at last, one day he came within sight of a mountain, on which stood a high castle belonging to a certain queen. as he reached the summit, he saw from afar a little maiden, who sat playing with her doll before the castle gate, and when he drew nearer he found that it was his little gertrude. then he put spurs to his horse and shouted joyfully-- "good-day, dear gertrude!" but the child knew him not. as he drew nearer, he called again: "it is i indeed!--it is cousin walter!" but the child believed him not. and when he sprang from his horse to kiss her, and his armour, sword, and spurs rattled and clashed as he did so, the child was afraid that this strange man would hurt her, and she ran away back into the castle. poor walter was very much troubled. he went in, however, and presented himself to the queen, who received him very graciously. he told her all that had happened, and learnt from her that she had bought gertrude from the gipsies. but when he begged that she would let him take his dear little cousin away with him, she consented only on condition that the child herself should be willing, for gertrude had become very dear to the old queen. so she called the little maid in, and said-- "now look here, my child: this really is your cousin walter. do you no longer love him, and will you not go away with him?" the child looked at the knight from head to foot, and then said in a troubled voice-- "since you both declare that it is walter, i suppose i must believe it. ah! if only he were still as little as he was a year ago, i would go into the wide world with him, wherever he wanted; but now, i never can. it would be no good, whilst he is like that. if i wanted to play hide-and-seek, as we used to do, his armour would shine, and his spurs rattle, and i should know where he was directly. if i wanted to go to school with him, he could not sit by me on the little benches at the little tables. then what could a poor child like me do for such a stately knight? if i tried to work for him, i should burn my little hands; if i tried to make his clothes, i should prick my little fingers; and if i ran races with him, i should hurt my little feet. if i were a grown-up princess, indeed, it would be a different thing." walter could not but feel that what gertrude said was true. so he took leave of them both, mounted his horse, and rode away; but the queen and gertrude watched him from the battlements of the castle. he had not ridden many steps when a voice from a tree called "walter! walter!" and when he looked up, there was the raven, who said-- "a year has passed since you wished to be a knight. if you have another wish, speak, and it shall be granted; but observe, what you wished before will then be at an end." to these last words walter paid no attention. the raven had no sooner said that he might have another wish than he interrupted it, exclaiming: "then i wish gertrude to be a grown-up princess!" but even as he spoke he himself became a child again, and his horse a hobby-horse, just as they had been a year ago. but when he looked up to the battlements, there stood by the queen a wonderfully beautiful princess, tall and slim and stately; and this was--his gertrude! then the boy, taking his hobby-horse, went back up to the castle steps, and wept bitterly. but the queen was sorry for him, took him in, and tried to comfort him. and now there was another trouble. dearly as the princess gertrude and the boy walter loved each other, they were not so happy as they should have been. if walter said to her, "come, gertrude, and we'll run races, and jump over the ditches," she would answer, "oh! that would never do for a princess; what would people say?" if walter said, "come and play hide-and-seek," gertrude would answer again, "oh! but that would never do for a princess; i should leave my train hanging on the thorns, and my coronet would be tumbling off my head." then if gertrude asked walter to bring in some venison for the table, the boy would bring her a mouse instead; and if a bull or a mad dog came after them, gertrude must snatch walter up in her arms, and run off with him, for she was so much bigger than he, and could run a great deal quicker. meanwhile he remained in the castle, and the boy became very dear to the old queen. another year passed by, and one morning gertrude sat under a tree in the garden with her embroidery, whilst walter played at her feet. then, as before, a voice called out of the tree, "walter! walter!" and when the boy looked up, the raven was sitting on a branch, who said: "now once more you may wish, and it shall be granted; but this is the last time, therefore think it well over." but walter did not think long before he answered: "ah! let us both be children all our lives long." and as he wished so it happened. they both became children as before, played together more happily than ever, and were of one heart and of one soul. but when another year had passed by, and the children sat plucking flowers and singing together in the garden, an angel flew down from heaven, who took them both in his arms and carried them away--away to the celestial gardens of paradise, where they are yet together, gathering the flowers that never fade, and singing songs so wondrously beautiful, that even the blessed angels hear with joy. war and the dead. a dramatic dialogue. (_from the french of jean macé._) dramatis personæ. peace. war. a french grenadier. a german hussar. a scotch highlander. a cossack. a russian peasant woman. a french peasant woman. a german peasant woman. an english peasant woman. soldiers _are lying on the ground._ peace _is seated at the back, leaning her elbow on one knee, her head resting on her hand_. _enter_ war. war. to-day is the th of june, the anniversary of the battle of waterloo, the day of a wrath which still mutters, and of a hatred yet unappeased. let us employ it in re-animating this torpid century, which succumbs to the coward sweetness of an inglorious peace. after forty years of forced repose brighter days seemed at last to have returned to me. twice did i unfurl the old colours in the breeze; twice i made hearts beat as of old at the magic din of battles; and twice that hateful peace, rising suddenly before me, snatched the yet rusty sword from my hands. up! up! o heroes of great battles! you whom twenty-five years of warfare did not satiate: rise from your graves and shame your degenerate successors. up! up! bid some remember that they have a revenge to take, and tell others that they are not yet enough avenged. peace _rises_. peace. what do you want here, relentless war? dispute the world of the living with me if you will, but at least respect the peace of the grave. war. i have a right to summon the dead when it is in the name of their country. peace. the dead are with god; they have but one country among them. war. you may dispense with set speeches, most eloquent peace, for i pay no attention to them. i go forward, and leave talk to chatterers. the world belongs to the brave. peace. the world belongs to those who are in the right. since, however, you will not listen to me, you shall hear the dead themselves, and see if they agree with you. (_turns to the_ dead.) arise, my children; come and confound those who wish to fight with the bones of the departed. _the_ dead _rise_. grenadier. i have slept a long time since austerlitz. who are you, comrades? hussar. i come from the battle-field of leipsic, where the great german race broke the yoke which your emperor had laid upon it. grenadier. you were left upon the field? hussar. i am proud to say so. grenadier. and you are right, old fellow; every man owes himself to his country. we others have done just the same. if you had let us alone in ' we should not have come to you. cossack. i was killed under the walls of paris, where great russia went to return the insult she had received at moscow. highlander. i fell at waterloo, avenging the great english people for the threats of the camp at boulogne. i drowned in my blood the last effort of your imperial eagle. grenadier. well! we are well matched. my blood reddened the plain of austerlitz, where the great french nation was avenged on brunswick and souwaroff. we have all perished, buried in a triumph. we can shake hands upon it. cossack. brave men are equals, in whatever dress. let us shake hands. hussar. we have all died for our country. let us be brothers. highlander. let us be brothers. the hatreds of earth do not extend beyond the grave. [_they join hands._ grenadier. and now peace is proclaimed, let us tell each other what we used to do before we became warriors. cossack. i cultivated a piece of ground in the steppes and took care of my old mother. highlander. i brought up my daughter by farming a piece of ground which i had cleared on my native heath. hussar. i lived with my wife on the piece of land which we cultivated. grenadier. i tilled a piece of ground also, and supported my sister. it seems that we were all four of the same way of life. how did we come to kill one another? cossack. the czar spoke, and i marched. highlander. parliament voted for war, and i marched. hussar. our princes cried, "to arms!" and i marched. grenadier. as for me, my comrades cried, "to arms!" and i put on my best sabots. but after all, what have we against each other? where was the quarrel between our respective ploughshares? (_to the_ hussar.) you, for instance, who began, what did you come into my country for? hussar. we came to destroy brigands. grenadier. brigands! that is to say, my unfortunate self, and other labourers like you and me. after this, well might we be made to sing about "vile blood soaking our furrows!" i see now this "vile blood" was yours, my friend, and that of brave men like you. cursed be those who forced us to fight together! hussar. cursed be the contrivers of war! war (_advancing_). shame on you, degraded warriors! your very wives would disown you. (_the_ dead _gaze fixedly._) you are silent! what have you to answer? peace. the dead do not reply. (_points with her hand to the stage entrance._) these shall answer for them. _enter_ four veiled women. [_one of the_ veiled women _slowly advances. when in front of the stage she lifts her veil, and is seen by the audience. the others afterwards do the same._ first woman. oh, my brother! where are you now? if you are ill, who nurses you? if you are wounded, who watches over you? if you are a prisoner, who comforts you? if you are dead--alas! every night i go to rest weeping, because i have had no news of you; and every morning i awake dreading to receive it. we were so happy! we lived so comfortably together! and now i sit at our little table, with your empty place before me, and cannot eat for looking at it. yet i made you promise to come back when we said good-bye. ah! unkind! why are you so long in fulfilling your promise? [_she closes her veil and crosses to one side of the stage. the others afterwards do the same._ grenadier. it is my sister, friends. she is repeating the words of our last adieu. second woman. oh, my father! why have you left your child? alas! when you went away i played--poor fool!--with your brilliant uniform. (dark livery of death, would that i had never seen thee!) i said i should be proud of you when you came back to me, having killed a great many of your enemies. child that i was to speak of killing, not knowing what it meant! and now, when will you return? what have they done with you, dear father? what has become of that revered head, which my lips never approached but with respect? perhaps at this very moment it is dragged, all stained and livid, through the dust or in the mud. oh, god! if my prayers may still avail for him, withdraw him speedily from those frightful conflicts, where every blow falls upon a father, a son, a brother, or a husband. pity the many tears that flow for every drop of blood! highlander. it is my daughter! i yet hear the last farewell her innocent mouth sent after me. third woman. oh, my beloved! where can i go to look for you? little did we think, when we vowed before god never in this life to forsake each other, that war would come and carry you away as a leaf is driven before the wind. perhaps at this moment you are stretched upon an armful of bloody straw, and other hands than mine dress your glorious wounds. ah, miserable me! of what does my tender jealousy complain? who knows if you are not by this time safe from wounds for ever? oh, my god! if thou hast taken him, take me also. i promised to follow him when i received his parting kiss. hussar. it is my wife beyond a doubt! i recognize the words her sweet voice murmured that very day in my ear. fourth woman. i said, "go, and bear yourself like a man." he went, and he has not returned. ah, merciless tigers! we rear our children with fear and weeping. we pass whole nights bent over their little cradles, and when we have made men of them you come and take them away from us that you may send them to death. and we, miserable women! must encourage them to die if we would not have them dishonoured. poor dear boy! so strong! so handsome! so good to his mother! ah! if there be a god of vengeance, surely the cries of desolate mothers will allow no sleep to those who provoke such massacres. they will haunt them to the grave, and rise behind them to the foot of that throne where the great judge of all awaits them. [_she buries her face in her hands._ cossack. it is my mother! i recognize her last words. (_he springs towards her_.) it is i, mother, it is i! (_she raises her head_.) what do i see? a stranger! and it is an englishwoman! highlander (_raising the daughter's veil_). good heavens! she is a german. hussar (_raising the wife's veil_). it is not she! it is a frenchwoman. grenadier (_raising the sister's veil_). she is a russian! it is not for us that they are weeping; perhaps it is for some of those whom we have killed. how could we be so deceived? peace (_advancing_). there are sisters, wives, daughters, and mothers everywhere, my children, and nature has but one language in all countries. (_to war_.) as for you, go and sound your trumpet in barracks and drinking-houses, but invoke the dead no more, and do not reckon upon women. note.--the battle of austerlitz was fought december , . the battle of leipsic, august - , . the allies took paris march , . _richard clay & sons, limited, london & bungay._ _the present series of mrs. ewing's works is the only authorised, complete, and uniform edition published._ _it will consist of volumes, small crown vo, at s. d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the series will be completed within months. the device of the cover was specially designed by a friend of mrs. ewing._ _the following is a list of the books included in the series--_ . melchior's dream, and other tales. . mrs. overtheway's remembrances. . old-fashioned fairy tales. . a flat iron for a farthing. . the brownies, and other tales. . six to sixteen. . lob lie-by-the-fire, and other tales. . jan of the windmill. . verses for children, and songs. . the peace egg--a christmas mumming play--hints for private theatricals, &c. . a great emergency, and other tales. . brothers of pity, and other tales of beasts and men. . we and the world, part i. . we and the world, part ii. . jackanapes--daddy darwin's dovecote--the story of a short life. . mary's meadow, and other tales of fields and flowers. . miscellanea, including the mystery of the bloody hand--wonder stories--tales of the khoja, and other translations. . juliana horatia ewing and her books, with a selection from mrs. ewing's letters. s.p.c.k., northumberland avenue, london, w.c. proofreading team. up the chimney by shepherd knapp [illustration] preface this play is intended, not only for acting, but also for reading. it is so arranged that boys and girls can read it to themselves, just as they would read any other story. even the stage directions and the descriptions of scenery are presented as a part of the narrative. at the same time, by the use of different styles of type, the speeches of the characters are clearly distinguished from the rest of the text, an arrangement which will be found convenient when parts are being memorized for acting. the play has been acted more than once, and by different groups of people; sometimes on a stage equipped with footlights, curtain, and scenery; sometimes with barely any of these aids. practical suggestions as to costumes, scenery, and some simple scenic effects will be found at the end of the play. what sort of a christmas play do the boys and girls like, and in what sort do we like to see them take part? it should be a play, surely, in which the dialogue is simple and natural, not stilted and artificial; one that seems like a bit of real life, and yet has plenty of fancy and imagination in it; one that suggests and helps to perpetuate some of the happy and wholesome customs of christmas; above all, one that is pervaded by the christmas spirit. i hope that this play does not entirely fail to meet these requirements. worcester, mass. shepherd knapp. the introduction _before the curtain opens_, mother goose _comes out, and this is what she says_: good evening, dear children. i see you are all expecting me to show you a christmas play. well, i have one ready, sure enough. and now let me see, what shall i tell you about it? for one thing it will take place on christmas eve, and then it will be all about christmas, of course. the first scene will be in the house, where a little girl and a little boy live, with their father, who is a doctor, and their mother. it is evening and the weather is very cold outside. the little girl and boy are writing letters--can you guess to whom they are writing?--and the mother is knitting, and the father is reading his newspaper; as you will see in a moment for yourselves. so be very quiet, for now it is going to begin. up the chimney the first scene _the curtain opens, and you see a room in a house and four people, just as mother goose promised. on one side is a fire-place, and notice the stockings hanging by it. at the back is a window, looking out into the street, but you cannot see anything there, because it is dark out of doors. the little girl's name is polly, but the first one to speak is her brother, named_ jack, _who looks up from his letter and says_: mother, how do you spell "friend"? mother _answers_: f, r, i, e, n, d. have you nearly finished your letter, jack? yes, _says_ jack, _still writing. then he stops, straightens up and says_, there! it's all done. shall i read it to you, mother? do, mother _answers. and father puts down his newspaper to listen, and polly stops writing. mother goes on knitting, because she can knit and listen at the same time_. _so_ jack _reads_: "dear santa claus, i have been very good this year--most of the time; and i wish you would bring me a toy soldier. i am very well and i hope you are. your loving little friend, jack." is that all right, mother? it is a very good letter, _says_ mother; only i thought you were going to speak about that pair of warm gloves for father. oh, i forget that, _says_ jack, _looking a little bit ashamed_. i'll put it in a postscript. _so he goes on writing, and so does polly_. jack _says his words aloud while he writes them_: "p.s.--fa--ather--would--like--a--pair--of--warm--gloves." mother _looks over at polly, who seems to have finished, and says_: polly, let us hear your letter. _so_ polly _reads_: "dear santa claus, i am so glad that tomorrow is christmas. we have all hung up our stockings, and i think i would like best to have a doll in short dresses. i love you very much. your little friend, polly. p.s.--i think mother would like a ball of white knitting cotton." i had to put that in a postscript, mother, because i forgot, too. _and now_ father, _who has been listening all this time, says_: where will you put the letters?--on the mantel-piece or in the stockings? oh, on the mantel-piece, _answers_ jack. we always put them on the mantel-piece. don't you remember that, father? yes, i believe i do, now that you speak of it, _says_ father. _then the children put the two letters on the mantel-piece, standing them against the clock, so that they can be easily seen. while they are doing this, some one passes the window, walking along the street, and there comes a knock at the door_. come in, _says_ father; _and in comes a little woman, rather old, and rather bent, and rather lame_. why, if it isn't little nurse mary, _cries_ father, _and they all rise up to greet her. she kisses both the children, and shakes hands with father and mother._ here's a chair for you, nurse mary, _says_ jack. let me take your cloak and hood, nurse mary, _says_ polly. _when they were all seated again_, father _says_, i am afraid i shall have to give you a little scolding, mary, for coming out on such a cold night. it really don't do, you know. now, doctor john, nurse mary _answers_, what do you expect? haven't i seen you every christmas eve since you were half the size of master jack here, and didn't i knit with my own hands the first little stocking you ever hung up for santa claus, and don't i remember how frightened you were that time when we heard the reindeers on the roof, and when the handful of walnuts came tumbling down the chimney? and do you expect me to stay away on christmas eve, like some lonely old woman, who never was nurse to any children at all, let alone two generations of them? what are you thinking of, doctor john? i am thinking, _says_ father _smiling_, that if you hadn't come, we should have missed you dreadfully. but tell me, nurse mary, how are you feeling? well, _answers_ nurse mary, to speak the truth, doctor john, i think you must give me some medicine. medicine? _cries_ mother. are you sick, nurse mary? _asks_ polly. yes, miss polly, sick, and very sick, too, nurse mary _answers_. but how? _asks_ father. what's wrong? where is the trouble? first of all, in my back, doctor john, _says_ nurse mary. today, after sweeping and scrubbing a little, and baking a christmas cake, i just ironed out a few pieces, my best cap and apron, and the likes of that, and before i had finished, i give you word my back began to ache. now what do you make of it? and then, my joints--stiff! yes, dr. john, stiff! how am i to do my work with stiff joints, i'd like to know? i see, _says_ father, _shaking his head._ this is a serious matter. but cheer up, nurse mary; i believe i have the very thing that will help you. _he opens his medicine case, which stands on the table, and takes out a little bottle._ here it is, _he says_, and let me tell you how to take it; for with this medicine that is the most important part. you must find some children to give it to you. if you take it from grown-up people, it will do you no good at all, so you must find a child somewhere, or two would be better, one to pour it out and one to hold the spoon-- oh, let me pour it out, _cries_ jack. and let me hold the spoon, _cries_ polly. why, that will do finely, _says_ father, _and hands jack the bottle._ and now i must go out, _he continues_; for old mrs. cavendish is sick and has sent for me. it may be quite late, when i come home. _he begins to put on his overcoat._ and i, _says_ mother, have some christmas bundles to tie up. if nurse mary goes before i come back, will you both go quietly to bed like good children? yes, mother, _cry_ polly _and_ jack _together._ well, good night, then, mary dear, _says_ mother. good night, nurse mary, _says_ father. _then mother and father both go out, the one to her own room and the other to the street._ come, nurse mary, _says_ jack, you must take your medicine. do you suppose it is very bitter? _asks_ nurse mary. i think it is, _says_ jack, _looking into the bottle and smelling it_. it looks bitter and it smells bitter. but you mustn't mind that, nurse mary, _says_ polly; because it will make you well. all right, _says_ nurse mary. pour it out. _then polly holds the spoon, and jack carefully pours the medicine into it. nurse mary opens her mouth, swallows the dose, and makes a wry face, shuddering._ was it horrid? _asks_ jack. horrid! _answers_ nurse mary. do you feel better? _asks_ polly. i can't tell yet, _answers_ nurse mary. i suppose i must wait a little for the medicine to work. and while we are waiting, _says_ jack, tell us about when father was a little boy. _so nurse mary sits down, and takes polly on her lap, while jack sits on a stool at her feet, and then_ nurse mary _begins_, when dr. john was a very little boy-- but, nurse mary, jack _says, interrupting_, he wasn't named "dr. john" then, was he? no, _answers_ nurse mary, he was just "master john" then. well, when he was a very little boy, so that i could carry him upstairs to bed without any trouble at all, he was the most beautiful boy you ever saw. he had fat rosy cheeks, and fine big eyes, and stout little legs. was he big enough to walk, when you first took care of him? _asks_ polly. no, indeed, _answers_ nurse mary; and the first time he ever went to a christmas tree, i had to carry him. i held him up to see the candles. did he like it? _asks_ jack. i think that he was just a wee bit frightened, _says_ nurse mary, but i'll tell you what he did like. you know the little figures of mary and joseph and the christ child in the manger, that you always set out on christmas day, with the cows and the sheep standing all about? _the children both nod_. well, when your father saw that, and heard your grandparents and all the older brothers and sisters singing "the carol of the friendly beasts"--just as you will sing it again tomorrow--he held out his hands and danced up and down in my arms. i tell you, i could hardly hold him. nurse mary, _says_ polly, won't you sing us "the carol of the friendly beasts" now? in my old cracked voice? _says_ nurse mary. well, if you will both help me, i'll try. _so the three of them together sing_: the carol of the friendly beasts[ ] jesus our brother, strong and good, was humbly born in a stable rude, and the friendly beasts around him stood. i, said the cow, all white and red, i gave him my manger for his bed, i gave him my hay to pillow his head. i, said the camel, yellow and black, over the desert, upon my back, i brought him a gift in the wise man's pack. i, said the donkey, shaggy and brown, i carried his mother uphill and down, i carried her safely to bethlehem town. i, said the sheep, with the curly horn, i gave him my wool for his blanket warm, he wore my coat on christmas morn. i, said the dove, from my rafter high, cooed him to sleep that he should not cry, we cooed him to sleep my mate and i. and every beast, by some good spell in the stable dark, was glad to tell of the gift he gave immanuel. [footnote : by robert davis.] _when the carol is finished_, nurse mary _looks at the clock, and says_, my dears, it is time we were all in bed, or santa claus when he comes, will find us awake, and that would never do. so i must be going home. but how do you feel? _asks_ polly. has the medicine done your back good? my back? _says_ nurse mary. why, i had forgotten all about my back--not an ache in it. and your joints? _asks_ jack. i wouldn't know i had any joints, _answers_ nurse mary. i declare, i believe i could dance the highland fling. but where is my cloak? _then polly gets the cloak and hood, and helps her put them on, and as nurse mary goes out at the door_, good-night, nurse mary, _cry_ jack _and_ polly. good-night, my dears, nurse mary _answers. and the door closes behind her_. _now while the children had their backs turned, a funny thing happened, for out of the fire-place there stepped, without making a sound, a little man dressed all in green. jack and polly, when they turn about, see him standing there._ why, who are you? _asks_ jack, _standing still, but very bravely keeping in front of polly._ _the little green man says never a word, but after waiting a moment with his finger on his lips, he beckons to them to come forward, and slowly, for they are a little frightened, they obey him. when they are quite close, he looks cautiously around, and then draws a large white letter out of his pocket, and hands it to jack. jack looks at it, and shows it to polly. then he looks at the little green man, who nods his head with a funny little jerk._ shall i open it? _asks_ jack. _and the little green man nods again. so jack opens it._ shall i read it? _asks_ jack. _and the little green man nods again. so jacks begins to read:_ "my dear children all over the world, i, who write you this letter, am your old friend santa claus, and how shall i tell you the sad news, for tonight is the night when i ought to get into my reindeer sleigh and go about filling your precious stockings with christmas gifts, and i cannot do it because i am sick. my back aches like a tooth ache, and every joint in my whole body is so stiff that i can hardly move. old father time, who pretends to be something of a doctor, says the trouble is that i am growing old--the idea of it! i sent him packing about his business, i can tell you. but all the same i do feel mighty queer, and that's a fact. and the worst of it is that this is christmas eve, and here i am shut up indoors in my house at the north pole, and every stocking in the world is hanging empty. i cannot bear to have christmas come and go without any word at all from me, so i have gotten my good little friends the gnomes and fairies and elves to help me out. they had some old fairy toys, that are almost as good as new, and these they are going to carry about to all the children; and although these gifts are rather different from what you usually receive from me, i hope they will at least keep you from forgetting poor old santa claus." _jack and polly look sadly at one another, and then at the little green man. he reaches out his hand, takes the letter, folds it up, replaces it in the envelope, and tucks it away in his pocket. then he brings out two little packages, all in green paper, tied with green string, and gives one to polly and one to jack. then, quick as a flash, he has disappeared in the fire-place._ where did he go to? _asks_ polly, _after a moment of surprise._ up the chimney, _says_ jack. but what has he given to us? _says_ polly, _looking at the little green package in her hand._ let's open them, _says_ jack. _so the two children untie the strings, and open the papers, and soon hold up the things they have found inside. jack has a pair of spectacles with large round glasses and black rims. polly has a curious little brown cap. they look at them in perplexity._ oh, there is some writing fastened to mine, _says_ polly. and to mine, too, _adds_ jack. polly _reads:_ "a fairy wishing-cap am i; so put me on, and away you fly. wherever you wish, 'tis there you'll be, and quicker than saying three-times-three." _polly puts the cap on her head. then_ jack _reads_: "fairy spectacles are we; put us on, and you shall see things you never saw before, easy as saying four-times-four." _jack puts the spectacles on his nose, and begins to go about the room looking at everything through them_. oh, polly, _he exclaims_, i can see all sorts of queer things. i can see what is in the table drawer without opening it, and i can see the pictures in the books right through the covers. and oh, polly, look here. _he is looking into the fire-place, when he says this_. i can see now how the little green man went up the chimney, for there are steps in the side, all the way up. look at them. polly _looks. then she says_, i don't see any steps, jack. it's the fairy spectacles, polly, _cries_ jack. isn't it wonderful? jack! _says_ polly _suddenly_, do you know what we must do? we must go to santa claus, and carry him the medicine that cured nurse mary's back and joints. you will go first up the chimney, and i will go after, stepping just where i see you step, and then at the top i will take tight hold of your hand, and with my wishing cap on i will wish to be at santa claus' house at the north pole. splendid! let's start this minute, _cries_ jack. _polly takes the spoon, and jack takes the medicine bottle, and one after the other they go up the chimney._ _a moment later_ mother _comes in._ children, _she begins, looking about; but then she continues_, oh, i see: they have gone to bed. _she goes across to the other door and listens. then she says_: not a sound! they are fast asleep already. _so she takes the lamp from the table, and carries it out with her, leaving the room all in black darkness._ _and that is the end of the first scene._ * * * * * interlude _while the curtain is closed_, mother goose _comes out, and this is what she says:_ children, did you see jack and polly go up that chimney? well, as soon as they got to the top, polly took fast hold of jack's hand and wished to be at the north pole, and away they went flying through the air. they have gotten there already, i think. hark! yes, they are just going in at the gate that leads up to santa claus's house, and soon they will be knocking at his door. then you will see them come in, for you will be there before they are; and when the curtain opens, as it will in just a moment, you will see the inside of the house where santa claus lives. you must be very quiet for santa claus is sick, remember, and a noise might make his head ache. hush! it is going to begin. * * * * * the second scene _when the curtain opens, you again see a room, but quite different from the first one. there is a door on one side, and at the back is a sort of tall box with closed doors in the front of it, a kind of cupboard. on shelves at the sides of the room are some toys and packages, and a bag, nearly full, leans against the wall. there are two people in the room. one of them, of course, is santa claus, but oh, how sick he looks. the other person is a woman, you will see, and she must be mrs. santa claus. there are two other figures that look a good deal like people, but they are only big toys that santa claus and his wife have been making, a soldier on one side, and a doll on the other._ santa claus, _who is sitting, wrapped up in a great blanket wrapper, and is leaning his head on his hand, while he holds a cane in the other is saying_, what is the use of working any longer, for if i can't carry the presents to the children, what is the good of finishing them? but you might feel better at the last moment, _says_ mrs. santa claus, _who is tieing a sash on the big doll that stands beside her._ that's true, _says_ santa claus. well, i believe i'll finish this soldier, then. he's the last one i need to make, and he's all done except to have his cheeks painted. i'll get my paint out and finish him. _so santa claus rises up very stiffly and painfully, and hobbles across the room to get his paint and paintbrush. then he sits down again in front of the big toy soldier, and paints both its cheeks a fine bright red. just as he is finishing, there comes a knock at the door._ come in, _says_ mrs. santa claus. _and in walk jack and polly, hand in hand, wearing the fairy spectacles and the wishing cap, one holding the bottle and the other the spoon._ donner and blitzen! _exclaims_ santa claus, _laying down his brush,_ if it isn't polly and jack! oh, santa, _cries_ polly, we got your letter and the wishing-cap-- and the fairy spectacles, says jack. and we've brought you some of father's medicine, _continues_ polly, because it made nurse mary quite well--her back, you know. and her joints, _adds_ jack. and you have to take it from children, polly _goes on._ one of them holds the spoon--_here_ polly _holds out the spoon._ and the other pours out the medicine, _says_ jack, _and with that he pours it out._ it's very bitter, _he adds, as polly holds it out for santa claus to take._ _then santa claus opens his mouth, and swallows the dose, with a wry face and a shudder._ is it horrid? _asks_ polly. horrid! _says_ santa claus. but it will make you well, you know, _says_ polly _encouragingly._ only you have to wait a little for the medicine to work. and you came all the way to the north pole, to bring me this medicine? _says_ santa claus, _looking from polly to jack and back to polly again_. how did you get here? first, we went up the chimney, _says_ jack, i saw the steps with the fairy spectacles, you know. and then, _says_ polly, i held fast hold of his hand, and wished. i had the wishing-cap, you see. but weren't you afraid? _asks_ santa claus. when you climbed up the black chimney, and when you stood on the top, in the black night under the stars, and when you came flying through the air, weren't you frightened? well, it wasn't much fun, _says_ polly, but we didn't know how else to get here. and we knew you were sick, _says_ jack. but, _asks_ santa claus, what difference did it make to you children whether an old man like me was sick or not? why, santa claus, _answers_ polly, we all just love you, you know. well, well, _says_ santa claus. _then he lays down his cane on the floor, and stretches himself, and stands up, and walks across the room without hobbling at all._ how do you feel now? _asks_ jack. feel? _answers_ santa claus, _moving more and more briskly_. i feel as young as a snow flake; i feel as strong as a northeast blizzard. quick, mrs. santa claus, bring me my fur cap and gloves. there's time yet to fill the children's stockings. _while mrs. santa claus is out of the room_, jack _says_: santa, i didn't even know there was a mrs. santa claus. have you ever been very sick? _asks_ santa claus. we've had chicken pox, _answers_ jack. oh, that doesn't count, _says_ santa claus, but some times, when children are very sick indeed--or, for days and days--and when they are very good and patient, and take their medicine, and never kick the bed clothes off, then mrs. santa claus comes in the night, and brings them a present, and when they wake up, they find it beside the bed. oh, _says_ polly, i think she must be almost as good as you, santa claus. and besides that, _says_ santa claus, who do you suppose dresses all the dolls that i put into the stockings? she does, of course. look here at this fine one that she has just finished. to be sure, i make the doll part myself, and this one here is a very fine one, if i do say it: it can talk. would you like to hear it, polly? just pull that string there. _polly pulls the string and the_ doll, _in a very squeaky voice, says_, ma-ma. and, by the way, santa claus _goes on_, i must put this doll and that soldier into the shrinking-machine. why, what is that, santa claus? _asks_ jack. the shrinking-machine? _says_ santa claus. that is it, over there. _he points to the tall cupboardy thing at the back. then he goes on_. you see it's easier to make toys big, but i couldn't carry them that way, for the sleigh wouldn't hold them, and besides they wouldn't go into the stockings. so after they are made, i put them into the machine, and shrink them. open the doors, polly, and we will shrink these two. _so polly opens the doors, and at a signal from santa claus the doll and the soldier walk in; but they move in a funny stiff way, because they haven't any joints at their knees or elbows._ _then_ santa claus _shuts the doors_. jack, _say he,_ you may turn the crank, if you want. _so jack turns the crank._ _after a little_ santa claus _says_: stop! _then he opens the door and out walk, in the same funny stiff way, the doll and the soldier, only now they are about half as big as they were before. they walk down to the front._ santa claus _looks at them, shakes his head, and says,_ no, you must be much smaller than that. go back into the machine. _so back the doll and soldier go; and jack again turns the crank and this time, when_ santa claus _cries,_ stop, _and the doors are opened, the toys have grown very small indeed, as you can see, when santa claus holds them up. he puts the soldier into a box, and then puts the box and the doll into his bag._ _and now mrs. santa claus comes in with the cap and gloves; and santa claus puts them on. at the same time sleighbells are heard outside, and a stamping of hoofs._ we're off! _cries_ santa claus, _taking up his pack._ come, polly! come, jack! i'll stow you away as warm as toast down under the buffalo robe. good-bye, _cries_ mrs. santa claus as _they go out at the door._ good-bye, good-bye, _they_ all _call back._ _then there is more stamping of hoofs outside, and a great jingling of sleighbells, which grow fainter and fainter, as they drive away._ _and that is the end of the second scene._ * * * * * interlude _again while the curtain is closed_ mother goose _comes out, and this is what she says:_ my dears, we must hurry back to the house where jack and polly live, for santa claus's sleigh is going so fast through the sky, that it will be there before us, unless we are quick about it. it is still dark night there, and nothing has happened since we were there before, except that dr. john has come home from seeing sick old mrs. cavendish, and he has let himself in with his key, and has felt his way in the dark to his own door, and has gone to bed. he and mother are both fast asleep, and they haven't an idea but that jack and polly are fast asleep in their beds too. but you and i know that they are in the reindeer sleigh with santa claus. and all the time they are coming nearer and nearer. listen for the sleighbells, for now it is going to begin. * * * * * the third scene _when the curtain opens you can see nothing at all at first, for the room is all dark, just as mother left it, you remember, when she went out and took the light with her. but after a moment you can hear something--the sleighbells far away. nearer and nearer they come; then there is a stamping sound on the roof; then a sort of scrambling sound in the place where you know the chimney is; and then santa claus, who by this time is crouching down in the fire-place, turns the light of his lantern into the room. he steps out carrying his pack, and then down the chimney come jack and polly._ hush! _says_ santa claus, _with his finger at his lips._ off to bed with you both! and don't you dare to open your eyes until the day-light comes. it won't be long. _on tiptoes polly and jack go out at the door. then santa claus turns to his work. first he reads polly's letter by the light of his lantern, and fills polly's stocking and mother's; then he reads jack's letter and fills jack's stocking and father's; then he puts out the light so that the room is all dark again. you hear him climbing up the chimney, then there is a jingling of sleighbells on the roof, which grows fainter and fainter, and then all is still once more._ _after a little while you notice that you can see faintly through the window at the back, because it is beginning to be daylight. very, very slowly it grows brighter. then the door, that jack and polly went out by, opens, and in come the two children in their wrappers._ is it daylight now? _asks_ jack, _but he is looking toward the fire-place instead of toward the window._ yes, i think it is, _says_ polly, _and she is looking in the same direction._ _then they go on tiptoe to the door of the other room, where father and mother sleep; they open the door and shout:_ merry christmas! merry christmas! _two rather sleepy voices, from_ mother _first and then from_ father, _answer:_ merry christmas. merry christmas. _and_ mother _continues,_ all right, children; we'll be there in a moment, as soon as we have put our wrappers on. _the children go over to the fire-place, and feel the lumpy stockings; and then in come father and mother in wrappers and nightcaps._ oh, _says_ father, old santa claus hasn't forgotten us, has he? and candy canes are still in fashion, i see; i'm glad of that. bring mother her stocking, polly; and jack, get mine for me. we'll sit down and take our time about it. no fair, jack, _cries_ polly. you're peeking into your stocking. i've only felt of mine. but my thing is in a box, _says_ jack, so that i can't see anything anyway. oh, let's begin quick. all right, _says_ father, and ladies first. mother, you lead off. shall i? _says_ mother, _feeling her stocking_. oh, i know what this round thing is: it's an orange. no, it isn't either: it's a ball of knitting cotton. just what i want, and the very kind i use. now, polly, it's your turn to see what is in the top of yours. i'm sure i know what mine is, _says_ polly, _and then as she draws it out._ yes, it is: it's a doll. why, polly, _cries_ jack, it's the very same doll that we-- hush! _says_ polly _quickly_. yes, it's the very same kind of a doll i asked for. see, mother, she has a pink sash. isn't she lovely? now, jack, _says_ father, i think it is your turn next. what is in that box of yours? slate pencils, probably. slate pencils! _says_ jack, _indignantly_. you know i didn't want slate pencils. but are you sure you will get just what you want? _asks_ father. yes, indeed i am, _answers_ jack, _pulling out the box and opening it_, and there it is--a soldier. i knew it would be that, because i saw it when-- hush! _says_ polly _quickly_. father, it is now your turn at last. and i know all about mine, _says_ father. it is soft and squashy, so of course it's a sponge. now why do you suppose santa claus brought me a sponge? for my old one is quite good enough. but it isn't a sponge at all, _cries_ jack, _who has been peeking into the little bundle_. not a sponge? _says_ father. but what is it, then? _he opens the paper_. a pair of warm gloves, i declare--just what i need. well, santa claus is a great old fellow, and no mistake. _mother has been turning her head toward the window, as though she were listening to something, and now she says:_ hush! is that singing that i hear, far away? _they all listen, and sure enough from some distance can be heard the sound of singing voices. the children, nodding their heads, show that they hear it._ what can it be? _says_ mother. why, i know; it's the christmas waits, of course, singing carols from house to house. oh, i wish they would sing in our street, _cries_ polly, _and runs to the window. then she exclaims,_ there they are: they are coming around the corner. _the others all go toward the window, and_ jack _says delightedly._ one of them has a fiddle. oh, i do hope they will stop here. _then outside the window the christmas waits can be seen, all in warm caps and mittens and mufflers. they stop just in front of the window, hold up their music before them, and begin to sing the dear old carol, called_: the carol of christmas morning god rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay. remember christ our saviour was born on christmas day. _when the carol is finished_, polly _and_ jack _and_ mother _and_ father _wave to the waits, and cry,_ merry christmas! merry christmas! _and the_ waits _wave back and cry_: merry christmas! merry christmas! merry christmas! _and this is the end of the play._ * * * * * characters and costumes mother goose--the conventional costume; full skirt, peaked hat, cane, spectacles, mits. it is effective for her to draw her lips tight over her teeth so that her speech is that of a toothless old woman. polly--a little girl } first in ordinary indoor clothes; } jack--a little boy } afterwards in wrappers. doctor john--their father; indoor clothes; also overcoat and hat; medicine case; afterwards in a dressing gown. mother--doctor john's wife; indoor clothes; afterwards in kimono or wrapper. nurse mary--a little old woman; first dressed for outdoors, in cloak and hood; simple dark dress underneath. an elf--acted by a very little boy, dressed all in green; he does not speak. santa claus--at first in heavy wrapper, preferably white; underneath this his conventional costume; later he puts on fur cap and gloves. mrs. santa claus--indoor clothes of red and white, corresponding to the conventional costume of santa claus. doll--acted by two girls, one much smaller than the other, but both exactly alike as to dress, stockings, sash, hair ribbons, and color and arrangement of hair. soldier--acted by two boys, one much smaller than the other, but corresponding as closely as possible in uniform and appearance, except that the small one has bright red cheeks from the beginning. christmas waits--boys in outdoor clothes; warm caps, mufflers, gloves or mittens; one carries and plays a violin; others hold copies of the carols. * * * * * scenery and scenic effects scenes i and iii. the stage should contain a table, a little at one side, opposite the fire-place, and five chairs, one for each of the family, and the fifth for nurse mary when she arrives. on the table a lighted lamp. for safety, it may be lighted by an ever-ready electric torch. the lighting of the stage must, of course, be otherwise provided for. there should be two doors on opposite sides of the stage, and a practicable window at the back, through which in the last scene a view of houses or landscape is visible, and the waits at the close. as the fire-place is at the side, it is easy to arrange steps by which the elf and the children appear to climb up and down the chimney. a box or small step ladder, just out of sight on the side toward the front, will serve the purpose. the carol of the friendly beasts may be sung to the following tune: [illustration: music] there is also another tune composed by clarence dickinson. a different carol may, of course, be substituted, if desired. scene ii. the shrinking machine stands at the back of the stage, and must be accessible from behind, for the changing of the doll and the soldier. there should be doors in front which can be opened wide. at one side should be the crank. for this an ice cream freezer will serve, well secured in place, only the handle showing through the cambric side wall of the machine. the sound is effective, even though the children in the audience will announce its identity at once. for painting the soldier's cheeks, cranberry juice is both brilliant and harmless. if gifts or candies are to be distributed, mother goose may enter again immediately after the final curtain, and say something like this: well, my dear children, it is all over, and i hope it has pleased you. i heard you laugh once or twice, and that makes me think that you must have liked it. but there is one more thing to tell you, and this you are sure to like very much indeed. you will remember that they had only looked at the first things, in the very top of their stockings. well, after the curtain closed, they had time to look at what was left. and what do you suppose father found in the bottom of his stocking, down in the very toe of it? a little note from santa claus, telling him that if he would look into the fire-place he would find there some boxes of candy, one for every child in this audience: and sure enough, there they were: and if you will sit very still, the curtain will open again, and they will be brought out and given to you. and so, my dears, as i bid you good-night, i wish you all (or, i hope you have had) a very merry christmas and (wish you) a happy new year. proofreading team. down the chimney by shepherd knapp [illustration] the heidelberg press * * * * * to those who first acted in this play to those who with so much skill and patience trained the participants and to the friendly audiences of boys and girls who encourage us by their applause it is dedicated * * * * * preface this play is intended, not only for acting, but also for reading. it is so arranged that boys and girls can read it to themselves, just as they would read any other story. even the stage directions and the descriptions of scenery are presented as a part of the narrative. at the same time, by the use of different styles of type, the speeches of the characters are clearly distinguished from the rest of the text, an arrangement which will be found convenient when parts are being memorized for acting. the play has been acted more than once, and by different groups of people; sometimes on a stage equipped with footlights, curtain, and scenery; sometimes with barely any of these aids. practical suggestions as to costumes, scenery, and some simple scenic effects will be found at the end of the play. what sort of a christmas play do the boys and girls like, and in what sort do we like to see them take part? it should be a play, surely, in which the dialogue is simple and natural, not stilted and artificial; one that seems like a bit of real life, and yet has plenty of fancy and imagination in it; one that suggests and helps to perpetuate some of the happy and wholesome customs of christmas; above all, one that is pervaded by the christmas spirit. i hope that this play does not entirely fail to meet these requirements. worcester, mass. shepherd knapp. * * * * * down the chimney the first scene _now the curtain opens, and you see the roof of a house, just as mother goose promised. keep your eyes open to see what will happen next, for here comes_ jack frost, _who is dressed all in white. he walks with a quick and nimble step, and this is what he says_: would you believe from the look of things, that to-morrow is christmas? there is not a flake of snow anywhere. this roof is as clear as it is in summer. these pine trees, whose boughs hang over the roof, are all green. the chimney has not even an icicle on it. i hear people saying that we have no old-fashioned winters any more. even old mother cary said to me the other day, "jack frost," said she, "when are you going to give them a real snow-storm?" but i told her not to be impatient: i would attend to it all in good time. and when i do begin, it doesn't take me long to get up a fine old storm, i can tell you. _now he walks up to the chimney, and knocks on the side of it_. say, old fellow. _he waits a moment; then knocks again_. wake up there. _he waits a moment; then knocks again_. wake up, i say. _and now--would you believe it?--the chimney opens, first, one of his eyes, then the other; and then his mouth and nose appear together. each of his eyes is exactly the shape and size of one brick. so is his nose. and his mouth is as long as two bricks side by side. they all turn a very bright red, when they appear, as though light were shining through them._ jack frost _goes on talking_: what do you mean, mr. chimney, by going to sleep in winter, i'd like to know? summer is the time for you chimneys to go to sleep; but in winter when the people in the houses have their fires burning, you ought to keep wide awake, so as to carry off the smoke; don't you know that? sleepy head! you ought to be ashamed of yourself. the chimney _answers_: nothing of the sort. have you forgotten what night this is, jack frost? don't you know that this is christmas eve, when the fires are all put out, so that santa claus can climb down without getting burned? that's why i was taking a little nap. see? _he winks with one eye._ jack frost _says_: oh, that's it, is it? well, that's true enough. i hadn't thought of old santa claus. he'll be here before long, probably. yes, too soon, _says_ the chimney; for i haven't had my sleep half out, and here you are, keeping me awake for nothing. with your kind permission, i'll take another forty winks. _and now his eyes close, then his nose and mouth disappear, and in a moment he is sound asleep again._ lazy old fellow! _exclaims_ jack frost. well, i must get to work if we are to have a real old-fashioned storm before morning. and first for some wind. where are those wind fairies, i wonder? they ought to be here by now. _he puts his hands beside his mouth, and calls in a high voice:_ hoo--oo! hoo--oo! the wind fairies _are heard from far, far away, calling in answer:_ hoo-oo! hoo-oo! jack frost, _as soon as he hears them, says joyfully:_ there they are. they'll be here in a second. _and now you can hear the wind fairies coming gradually nearer, making the wind-noise as the come, like this:_ z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z--z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z--z--z--z--z _this grows louder and louder, till suddenly in come the wind fairies, running. they are all in gray; they have on gray peaked caps, gray capes which comes down to their knees, and long gray stockings; and they have gray masks over the upper parts of their faces. the fairies stop short before jack frost, and make him a low bow. then they sing their song, which is called_ the song of the wind fairies[ ] do you hear us blow, in our coats of gray? do you hear us blow, till the trees rock and sway? do you hear us blow--for from far, far away we have come with a storm for your christmas. refrain oh, the sound of the wind is strange for to hear; and the breath of the wind, it is cold and clear; you'll hear us blow, as we fly thro' the air, and we've brought you a storm for your christmas. you can hear us sigh at the window-pane; and we moan and cry in the snow and the rain. then away we fly, for we may not remain, but we leave you a storm for your christmas. refrain oh, the sound of the wind is strange for to hear; and the breath of the wind, it is cold and clear; you'll hear us blow, as we fly thro' the air, and we've brought you a storm for your christmas. [footnote : to the tune "_d' ye ken john peel?_"] _as soon as the song is over, off run the wind fairies, making the wind-noise as they go, which grows fainter and fainter as they get further and further away, like this_ z--z--z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z _when the sound of the wind has quite died away_, the chimney _opens one eye, and speaking slowly and sleepily, says:_ look here, jack, something's going on in my inside. _he opens the other eye, and his nose and mouth appear. he speaks more briskly_: it feels as though there were something hot in there. do you suppose those stupid people in the house down below have forgotten all about santa claus, and are lighting the fire on the hearth? i believe they are. i wish you'd just climb up on my shoulder, and shout down to them to stop. do: there's a good fellow. jack frost _climbs up, puts his head over the chimney, then draws back coughing_. fire? _cries he_. i should say there was, and smoke, too; enough to choke a locomotive. _he cautiously peers down_. hello there, you people, put that fire out. do you hear? put it out. santa claus is coming. do you hear what i say? santa claus is coming. put out that fire. _there is a pause; then a hissing sound, loud at first, then dying away, like this_: s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s there! _says_ jack frost, they've thrown a pitcherful of water on it. _he climbs down from the chimney_. the chimney, _who has now grown sleepy again, says to him, in a voice that grows fainter and fainter_: thank you, my dear fellow: you--real--ly (_here one eye closes_) are--ver--y--ki--_and he never finishes the sentence, for the other eye closes, and the nose and mouth "go out" at the same moment._ asleep again, i declare, says jack frost, _with disgust_. well, now for the snow fairies. _he walks to the edge of the roof at one side, and blows a shrill blast on a whistle. almost at once snow begins to fall from the sky, slowly at first, then more and more. jack frost looks up at it and nods his head approvingly. when it is snowing very hard, in come on tip-toe, very softly, the snow fairies, dressed in snowy white, with white hoods and muffs. some of them quietly spread snow on the boughs of the trees, taking it out of their muffs; others hang flakes on the chimney, in such a way as to make eyebrows, mustache, and beard for the face. but this doesn't show at first, because the chimney is still asleep. then the fairies, standing in front of the chimney, so that they hide it, sing their song, which is called_ the song of the snow fairies[ ] when children go to bed at night, we fairies come with snow-flakes white; cover the earth, silent and still; house-top, and tree-top, and field and hill. when children wake at morning light, they find the world all snowy white. where, then, are we? who of you know? cosily tucked in our beds of snow. [footnote : to the tune of schumann's "_kindernacht._"] the chimney, _who is still hidden behind the snow fairies, wakes up while they are singing the last line, and calls out_: what's this, i'd like to know? who's been decorating my face? _the snow fairies stand back on either side, so that his face can now be seen, with its white eyebrows and mustache and beard, all made of snow-flakes; and he goes on talking in a jolly voice_: oh, you sly ones, you are at your old tricks. well, well, i'm really glad to see you. it seems like old times to have snow at christmas. now don't mind me; go on with your work; cover me up with your snowflakes as much as you choose--eyes, nose, mouth, and all; i don't mind it a bit. _so the snow fairies, moving softly about, hang more snow-flakes on the chimney, even over his eyes and nose and mouth, which show dimly through the snow. his eyes blink now and then._ _and now, sleigh-bells are heard in the distance._ hark! _cries_ jack frost. _they all listen: the bells are still heard, a little nearer._ _then_ jack frost _continues_: there comes santa claus, sure enough. let's give the old fellow a surprise. here! all hide behind the chimney. _very quickly, but very quietly, too, they all hide. the sleigh-bells come nearer and nearer, till they seem to be just outside: then they stop, and a voice, which plainly belongs to_ santa claus, _says_: whoa! quiet, prancer! blitzen, stand still there! _and now santa claus himself appears, with his pack of toys. he walks to the middle of the roof, and sets down the pack._ it certainly is getting cold, _says_ santa claus _to himself. for he does not see jack frost and the snow fairies, who are hidden behind the chimney. he goes on talking_: and what a lot of snow there is about here. it is really like the christmas eves we used to have fifty years ago. my pack seems to be coming undone. _he stoops to fix it._ i should hate to have it burst open, while i was going down the chimney. _now the snow fairies have come out from behind the chimney, and are stealing up behind him on tip-toe. when they are quite close, they throw great handfuls of snow at him. he starts up, surprised, but bursts into a great laugh_: ho! ho! ho! this is a fine way to treat an old man! _says_ santa claus. ho! ho! ho! ho! this is fine fun indeed! hello, jack frost, is that you? and how are you, my little roley-poley snow-balls? white and light as ever, i see. and you've made me all white too, but not very light, i fear. well, well, be off with you, for i must go down the chimney. _he bows to the chimney, whose eyes blink through the snow._ good evening, my old friend, _says_ santa claus. you are enjoying good health, i hope. may i climb down inside of you as usual? the chimney _answers, in a muffled voice, because he is so covered up with snow_: go ahead, santa, i'm used to it. _so santa claus climbs to the top of the chimney, steps over, and after throwing a kiss to the snow fairies, who return it, he goes down out of sight._ _and that is the end of the first scene._ * * * * * the interlude _again, before the second scene begins_, mother goose _comes out in front of the curtain and this is what she says_: well, my dears, i hope you are enjoying my little play. and what do you suppose comes next? wouldn't you like to see who lives down inside that house, where the chimney was; and what they were doing while jack frost and the others were up on the roof, and whether they heard the wind fairies; and whether they knew that the snow fairies had come; and how they came to make that mistake, lighting a fire in the fireplace where santa claus had come down? well, that is just what the next scene is to be about. last time we were up on the roof; this time we shall be down in the room, in front of the fire-place. so be still and listen carefully, for now it is going to begin. * * * * * the second scene _when the curtain opens this time, you can see into the room of the house, just as mother goose promised. notice that on one side of the fire-place is a window with curtains drawn, on the other, a washstand with howl and pitcher. in front, on right and left, are two large beds. in the middle of the room, with her hack to the fire-place, the grandmother is seated on a low chair, and about her in a half-circle on stools, sit the eight grandchildren, four girls and four boys, all in their night-clothes and wrappers._ isabel _begins by asking_: grandmother, how old are you? grandmother _replies_: how old do you think, my dear? isabel _guesses_: a hundred? almost, _says_ grandmother: why, i can remember when all your mothers and fathers were little boys and girls like you. your mother, margaret and sally, and your father, jack and tom and helen, and your father, isabel, and your mother, ned and frank, were my little boys and girls, you know; and on christmas eve i used to sit with them in the nursery, just as i am sitting with you now. that is why i told them to go downstairs and leave me alone with you for a little while tonight--for the sake of old times. yes, they used to sit around me just like this, and then i used to tell them a story. a story! a story! _cry_ all the children. _and_ grandmother _says_: shall i tell you one? _the children all nod_. let me think, _says she_. _the wind fairies are heard outside, making the wind-noise, like this_: z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z--z--z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z--z--z--z--z grandmother _listens to them, then begins her story_: well, once there was a wicked king, who didn't like cold weather; so he sent his soldiers, and told them to catch all the cold wind fairies and-- tom _interrupts her to ask_: are there really wind fairies, grandmother? grandmother _answers_: of course there are. i think i heard them a moment ago. listen! _they all listen. the wind fairies are heard outside, like this_: z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z--z--z--z--z do you hear them? _asks_ grandmother. _the children all nod_. yes, _she continues, going on with the story_, the king told his soldiers to catch all the wind fairies, and all the snow fairies, and jack frost himself, and to lock them all up in prison. and did the soldiers do it? _asks_ helen. yes, _answers_ grandmother. they locked up all of them except one little wind fairy, and he was so small and so quick, that they couldn't catch him; and what do you suppose he did? he rattled the windows so hard that the king couldn't sleep, and he blew so hard down the chimney and through the cracks around the doors, that he blew out all the lights in the king's house, and gave the king such a bad cold in his head, that-- _here grandmother herself sneezes. and the wind fairies are heard outside, like this_: z--z--z z--z--z z--z--z--z--z--z--z how the wind does blow tonight, _says_ grandmother. children, it seems to me very cold in this room. _she looks around to see what makes it so chilly._ why, bless me, _she says_, they have forgotten to light the fire. _she rises, the children also, and they all go toward the fire-place._ frank, _says_ grandmother, hand me the matches. _he brings them. she stoops at the hearth, the children standing around, and soon a bright glow appears and is seen to dance about._ there, that will soon make a fine blaze, _says she._ hold up your hands, children, and warm them. _but suddenly from up the chimney comes the voice of_ jack frost: hello there, you people, put that fire out. _grandmother and the children are startled._ do you hear? _shouts_ jack frost. put it out. santa claus is coming. do you hear what i say? santa claus is coming. put out that fire. why, children, _cries_ grandmother, i had forgotten all about that. quick! we must indeed put the fire out at once. ned, bring me that pitcher of water. _he brings it; she throws the water on the fire. the glow disappears and a great hissing sound is heard, loud at first, then dying away, like this_: s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s--s there! _says_ grandmother. it is quite out, you see. and now, you must hang up your stockings, quickly, and hurry into bed. _a shrill whistle is heard outside_. what was that? grandmother _asks_. it sounded like a whistle out of doors, _answers_ margaret; _and she goes to the window and looks out._ why, grandmother, _says she_, it's beginning to snow. good! _says_ grandmother. that will make it easier for santa claus to get here in his sleigh. so make haste with your stockings, and then, before you get into bed, we will read from the good book about what happened on the first christmas night so many, many years ago. _they bring their stockings and hang them in a row over the fire-place. meantime grandmother has taken the big bible, and seated herself in the low chair in the middle of the room. the children, when the stockings are hung, group themselves beside her, standing, looking over her shoulders, her arms around some of them. then_ grandmother _reads_: and there were shepherds in the same country abiding in the field, and keeping watch by night over their flock. and an angel of the lord stood by them, and the glory of the lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. and the angel said unto them, "be not afraid; for, behold, i bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all the people. for there is born to you this day in the city of david a saviour, who is christ the lord. and this shall be the sign unto you: ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger?" and suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising god, and saying, "glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." and it came to pass, when the angels went away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, "let us now go even unto bethlehem, and see this thing that is come to pass, which the lord hath made known to us." and they came with haste, and found mary and joseph, and the babe lying in the manger. _then_ grandmother _closes the book_. and now your prayers, _says she_. _they all kneel down for a few moments, the boys by the bed on the right, the girls by the bed on the left. then they rise and climb into the beds._ _but_ sally _has a question to ask_: may we sing one song, grandmother, before we go to sleep? _and_ grandmother _answers_, well, just one. _then sitting up in the bed, they sing the dear old song, that is called_ the carol of christmas night holy night! peaceful night! all is dark save the light yonder where they sweet vigil keep o'er the babe, who in silent sleep rests in heavenly peace. silent night! holiest night! darkness flies; all is light! shepherds hear the angels sing, "hallelujah! hail the king! christ, the saviour, is here, jesus, the saviour, is here." _when the song is finished, they all lie down. grandmother tucks the bed-clothes about their shoulders, and goes out. soon they are all asleep._ _then a faint sound of sleigh-bells is heard on the roof._ _then all is quiet for a moment._ _and then santa claus comes down the chimney, and steps out into the room. silently he looks at both beds, full of sleeping children, turning his pocket flash light on them, so as to see them better. he counts the children in each bed. then he counts the stockings hanging by the fire-place to be sure they are all there. next he fills each of the stockings, taking the toys out of his pack. then he takes his empty bag, and, after looking once more at the children, he disappears up the chimney._ _and this is the end of the play_. * * * * * characters and costumes mother goose--the conventional costume; full skirt, peaked hat, cane, spectacles, mits. it is effective for her to draw her lips tight over her teeth so that her speech is that of a toothless old woman. jack frost--all in white, decorated with tinsel, tall peaked cap, white gloves. the chimney--no costume; for he sits inside the chimney throughout. the wind fairies--four little boys, all in gray, capes, caps, half-masks, long stockings. the snow fairies--four little girls, all in white, capes or coats, hoods, muffs. the muffs full of loose cotton, which they use as snow, to hang on trees and chimney, and to throw at santa claus. santa claus--the conventional costume; white hair and beard; pack, with few toys protruding from the top. the grandmother--gray hair, lace cap, gray or black dress. the grandchildren--four boys in pajamas, with wrappers over them; four girls in night dresses with kimonos over them. scenery and scenic effects scene i. the chimney, which must be large enough to hold two people, one of them santa claus with his pack of toys, may consist of a light frame covered with turkey red cambric and backed with cardboard or heavy paper. the cambric should be marked off into bricks. the face is produced by cutting away the cardboard or paper backing behind two bricks for the eyes, one for the nose and two together for the mouth. boxes must cover these openings on the inside, one for each eye and a larger one for mouth and nose together. in these three boxes are three electric lights which can be turned on and off independently by the boy inside the chimney. dry batteries have been used when an electric current was not available. the light shining through the cambric makes the face. turning off, and on again, the light behind one of the eyes makes the chimney wink, etc. small hooks or nails, sticking out above the eyes, under the nose, and under the mouth, should be provided to hold the snow which the fairies hang on to represent eyebrows, mustache and beard. the background and flies for this scene should be made of black cambric, dull side out, and a dim light should be used, blue or green preferable, so distributed as not to throw shadows on the "sky." the trees may be real spruces or pines, or may be painted, or may be made of green cambric touched up with paint or charcoal. the wind noise is made by some one behind the scenes, preferably not the wind fairies themselves. it should be plainly heard. the same applies to the sound of water thrown on the fire. if accompaniment is desired for the songs, a violin gives a better effect than a piano. the effect of falling snow is produced by a simple machine, consisting of a connected series of perforated cardboard boxes suspended from a cord or wire, and filled with finely cut paper. at one end they are attached to a wire spring, and by a cord at the other end they are shaken, so as to make the paper snow shower down. such a machine may be bought for a small sum from firms dealing in sunday school supplies. two of them used together are more adequate than one. scene ii. it is not necessary to use real beds. boards on low horses or boxes will make excellent substitutes, and a strip of cloth will conceal their structure. an advantage of this plan is that they need not be as long as regulation beds. four children to a bed means packing them like sardines, but it can be done, and it always amuses the audience. the effect of a fire on the hearth can be made by quick motions with an ever-ready flashlight operated from behind. the children and grandmother, standing in front, allow but an imperfect view of the fire-place, so that the illusion is easy to produce. the fireplace, however, may be a real one, if that is more convenient. in that case the flashlight must be operated by one of the children, kneeling in front of the fire-place; and when santa claus enters the room must be absolutely dark, so that he will first be seen when he turns on his flashlight, as he crouches before the fire-place, having apparently just come down the chimney. if candies or gifts are to be distributed to children in the audience, as when this play is used as the christmas entertainment of a sunday school, mother goose may come out again, as soon as the curtain closes after the second scene, and speak as follows: well, my dear children, my little play for you is finished, and i hope you liked it. there is just one thing left to be said. those little boys and girls whom you saw asleep in their beds found that santa claus had not only put into their stockings presents for them, but also left something for you; and what do you suppose it was? a box of candy for each one of you, and if you will sit still a moment longer, the curtain will open again, and the candy will be handed to you. and so, my dears, as i say good-night, i wish you all (or i hope you have all had) a merry christmas and (wish you) a happy new year. history plays _for_ the grammar grades copyrighted, , mary ella lyng _to_ miss cora gallagher _principal of_ mckinley school in appreciation of a pleasant association and many kindnesses. introduction the play idea will always appeal to the minds of children. history, so often thought to be a dry subject, is made a live wide awake game when the pupils live the parts. the great men and women of history are made real to them. this method has been worked out by the pupils in the fifth grade in the mckinley school in san francisco and found to be most successful. the chief characters in mace's beginners history, the california state text, have been dramatized. the children read the story and study by outline. then with the help of the teacher the important events are made into a play. much outside reading is encouraged. this awakens an interest in good reading and an ability to do independent studying. the lives of great men and women represent great things. studying about these people is an inspiration to the children for the bigger and nobler things of life. "lives of great men, all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and departing leave behind us-- footprints on the sands of time." --_longfellow_. mary ella lyng contents christopher columbus john smith and pocahontas sir walter raleigh william penn sir francis drake pilgrims george washington george rogers clark andrew jackson john c. fremont webster, clay and calhoun the story of abraham lincoln grant and lee robert e. lee some women of history christopher columbus introduction: christopher columbus was born in genoa, italy, more than four hundred and fifty years ago. genoa was a rich town on the mediterranean sea. she had trading routes to india, china and japan. columbus was fond of stories of the sea and liked the study of geography. he was anxious to go to sea and while a boy made his first voyage. when he grew up to be a man, he went to lisbon the capital of portugal. the bold deeds of henry of portugal drew many seamen to this city. lisbon was full of learned men and sailors longing to go on long voyages. these sailors had tried to find a shorter way to india but without success. columbus thought this could be done by going directly west. he thought the world round although most people at that time thought it flat. after many trails he laid his plans before the court of the king of spain. the first act will be columbus at the court of spain. act i. king and queen on throne--courtiers around. columbus enters and bows before king and queen. q. isabella: you have come to us to talk about a shorter way to india? columbus: yes, your majesty. according to this map and the proof i have gathered, i believe india to be directly west. i have gone on long voyages and have talked to many seamen about the signs of land to the westward. i believe the world to be round and if your majesty could aid me i know i could find this shorter route. queen: we would be glad indeed to aid you, but at the present time spain has little money. the war has taken so much. wise man of spain: your majesty, this man thinks the world round. that is foolish. if you use your eyes you can see it is flat. to sail westward in the hope of getting to india is impossible and ridiculous. wise man: your majesty, i think this man right. he says the world is round and i think if we study carefully, we will find it is so. if it is possible we should give him a chance. _end of act i._ act ii. introduction: columbus receiving little encouragement and after several years of waiting, set out to try his fortune in france. he stopped at a convent to beg for some bread. the prior became interested in his plan and went to the court of spain, and begged the queen not to allow columbus to go to france but to help him in his plans. the next act will be columbus talking to queen. queen: columbus, i will pledge my jewels in order to raise the money for a fleet. i will fit out an expedition and make you governor over the land you discover. columbus: thank you, your majesty. the lands discovered will be taken up in the name of the king of spain. queen: will you take a vow to use the riches you obtain to help drive out the turks from the holy city of jerusalem? columbus: i will take that vow. (_columbus takes vow_). _end of act ii._ the voyage across the ocean was a long and tiresome one. the sailors became discouraged and wanted to return to spain. columbus kept on and finally was rewarded. the next act will be the discovery of land. act iii. (columbus talking to sailors:) columbus: i rejoice my friends that you have had the grace to chant the vesper hymn in so devout a spirit at a moment when there is so much reason to be grateful to god for his goodness to us. what cheering signs have encouraged us to persevere. the birds in the air, the unusual fishes in the sea and the plants seldom met far from rocks where they grow. i deem it probable that we reach the land this very night. i call on you all to be watchful. (columbus and luis walk apart from the other sailors. columbus a little in advance, stops, calls luis.) columbus: luis! look in that direction, seest thou aught uncommon? luis: i saw a light, senor. columbus: thine eyes did not deceive thee. luis: what think you, don christopher? columbus: land! bid rodrigo sanchez of segovia to come hither. (rodrigo sanchez comes. all look for light). columbus: this is land. we will behold it soon. (sailors come up and look. all exclaim, land! land!) columbus: see the land, luis? luis: yes. columbus: behold the indies! praise be to god! _end of columbus act._ john smith _and_ pocahontas introduction: john smith was the savior of virginia. he was an officer in the new colony sent out to jamestown. captain newport one of raleigh's old sea captains brought a colony of one hundred settlers to america. the first act will be captain newport talking to some london merchants. first merchant: the king has given us a charter for our new colony in america. second merchant: we need some men of adventure. capt. newport: i know a man, john smith, who could make the colony a success. he has had as wonderful adventures as the knights of old. he has just returned from fighting the turks. merchant: we will see if the king will make him one of the officers in the company. _end of act i._ act ii. introduction: smith was made an officer but was not allowed to take part in governing the colony but resolved to help by visiting the indians and gathering food for the colony. the next act will be smith in the indian village. (powhatan sitting around bench. his wives sit at his side. women and children stand around. in front stood powhatan's fierce warriors. two big stones are rolled in front of powhatan. two warriors rush to smith, drag him to the stones and force his head upon one of them). (pocahontas the chief's daughter rushes in.) pocahontas: save his life! do not kill him! powhatan: your life is saved. you will be my son and play with my daughter. _end of act ii._ act iii. introduction: after awhile smith returned to jamestown. he found much trouble among the settlers. he took command and with the help of pocahontas the little indian maiden, restored order and saved them from starvation. pocahontas was ever afterwards called "the good angel of the colony." the next act will be smith talking to the settlers. smith: (making speech). every one of us must work. he that will not work shall not eat. you shall not only gather for yourself, but for those that are sick. they shall not starve. some of you will plant grain, others will build better houses. if this will take place we will all be happier and more contented in virginia. _end of smith act._ sir walter raleigh introduction: walter raleigh was the englishman who checked the power of the spanish in america. he was a friend of queen elizabeth, and first gained her friendship, by an interesting incident. this act tells the story. act i. (walter raleigh, blount, and tracy, walking along shore see boat of the queen.) blount: see, the queen's barge lies at the stairs. we had best put back and tell the earl what we have seen. raleigh: tell the earl what we have seen! let us do his errand, and tell him what the queen says in reply. blount: do, i pray you, my dear walter, let us take the boat and return. raleigh: not till i see the queen come forth. (queen comes, raleigh removes his hat and stands close to queen as she approaches with her court. she hesitates to pass miry spot. raleigh takes coat from shoulder and lays it on the ground. queen looks at raleigh and passes on). blount: come along, sir coxcomb, your gay mantle will need the brush today, i wot. raleigh: this cloak shall never be brushed while in my possession. blount: that will not be long, if you learn not a little more economy. (member of court comes after raleigh. queen and court at water's edge, waiting). courtier: i was sent to bring a gentleman who has no coat, you, sir, i think. please follow me. blount: he is in attendance on me, the noble earl of sussex, master of horse. courtier: i have nothing to say to that. my orders are from her majesty. (walter and man walk toward queen). blount: who in the world would have thought it! (raleigh is brought to queen, who laughs, and talks to attendants). queen: you have this day spoiled a gay mantle in our service. we thank you for your service, though the manner of offering was something bold. raleigh: in a sovereign's need, it is each man's duty to be bold. queen: (speaking to attendant). that is well said, my lord. (to raleigh) well, young man, your gallantry shall not go unrewarded. thou shalt have a suit, and that of the newest cut. raleigh: may it please your majesty, but if it became me to choose-- queen: thou wouldst have gold? fie, young man. yet, thou mayest be poor. it shall be gold. but thou shall answer to me for the use of it. raleigh: i do not wish gold, your majesty. queen: how, boy, neither gold nor garment! what then? raleigh: only permission to wear the cloak which did this trifling service. queen: permission to wear thine own cloak, thou silly boy? raleigh: it is no longer mine. when your majesty's foot touched it, it became a fit mantle for a prince. queen: heard you ever the like, my lords? what is thy name and birth? raleigh: raleigh is my name. queen: raleigh? we have heard of you. you may wear thy muddy cloak, and here, i give thee this, to wear at the collar. (gives him a jewel of gold, raleigh kneels, and kisses hand of queen). william penn introduction: william penn was a quaker and founded the city of brotherly love. he was the son of a great naval officer, admiral penn. when he became a quaker his family were very much disgraced. his father drove him from home. the next act will be the meeting of king charles and william penn and others. act i. (king charles and court enter. enter william penn and others. all hats removed except king's and penn. king removes his.) penn: friend charles, why dost thou remove thy hat? king: because wherever i am, it is customary for but one to remain covered. (king passes on). (penn's father enters.) penn sr.: sir, i will not permit such conduct toward the king. leave this place at once. _end of act i._ act ii. introduction: after penn's father died, the king gave penn a grant of land in payment of a debt owed to his father. penn invited all persecuted christians to the colony. he gave the colonists the right to choose their own rules and to make their own laws. he also gave them land for their houses and farms. the next act will be penn making a treaty with the indians. (indians in row--penn and people). penn: (talks to indians). we are the same as if one man's body were divided into two parts. we are all one flesh and one blood. indian chief: we will live in love with william penn and his children as long as the moon and the sun shall endure. (pipe of peace is smoked.) _end of play._ sir francis drake introduction: sir francis drake was the english "dragon" who sailed the spanish main and who "singed the king of spain's beard." he was a most daring seaman. from boyhood he had been a sailor. the first act will be drake at the court of queen elizabeth. act i. queen elizabeth and court first maid of honor: francis drake has returned from his voyage around the world. queen: tell me about this francis drake. second maid of honor: he is a cousin of captain hawkins and was with him when he had command of a ship against mexico. the spaniards killed many of the sailors and took all they had. court: he hates the spanish because he thought they were plotting to kill your majesty. queen: bring me to francis drake. i will visit him on his ship. (enter queen and court.) queen: how do you do, francis drake. they tell me you have made a voyage around the world. drake: yes, your majesty. queen: tell me of your trip. drake: (map and pointer showing the trip). we left england and sailed straight for the strait of magellan. i was determined to sail the pacific. we entered this harbor. this is where magellan spent a winter when he made his trip around the world. one of my men will tell you what happened here. man: we sailed safely through the strait but a terrible storm arose. one of our ships were lost and one sailed for england. we went from here, south and here we saw the first great treasure ship. we captured four hundred pounds of gold. drake: week after week we sailed northward until we reached peru, pizarro's conquered land. man: here we saw another great treasure ship. we pursued her and captured more than twenty tons of silver bars, thirteen chests of silver and a great store of precious gems. drake: we sailed northward and back again southward and spent a time in this beautiful bay. i named the country new albion and took possession in your majesty's name. man: the natives believed francis drake a god and begged us to stay with them always. drake: we sailed on until we saw the island where magellan had been. we sailed on through the indian ocean, around the cape of good hope and back to england. queen: kneel francis drake (drake kneels and is knighted by queen). arise, sir francis drake. act ii. drake again went to fight the spaniards. he sailed boldly for the coast of spain. he captured shipload after shipload of treasure. he made the spanish king very angry by his actions and the king resolved to crush england. drake sailed right into the harbor of cadiz. he burned so many spanish ships that it took spain another year to get the fleet ready. the next act will be drake and others talking to the queen after the spanish armada had been destroyed. queen: my brave and noble sir francis drake, you have crushed the spanish power on the sea for all time i think. noble: he has certainly more than singed the king of spain's beard this time. drake: the terrible storm that came up helped us to destroy the spanish fleet. queen: from now on our power on the sea will grow greater and greater. we can now go to america without danger from the spanish. _end of play._ pilgrims act i. introduction: the pilgrims were persecuted for their religion in england. they went first to holland. after a time they decided to come to america because they wanted their children to grow up in their own language and customs. they set sail for america in the mayflower. they had a long and dangerous journey, but on november , they found themselves looking with glad hearts upon the sandy but heavily-wooded shores of cape cod. they signed an agreement as to the government of the colony and elected john carver their first governor. captain standish was their captain. the first act will be captain miles standish and his sixteen men returning from an exploring party. act i. class: the people on mayflower. people: here come miles standish and his men! welcome back to the mayflower! what have you found, standish? standish: we have tramped for three days through the forests, up and down hills along the coast but found no suitable place. first one of men: we found this. (corn). we decided to take it up and later we will pay the indians double. second man: while we were examining an indian snare, bradford (points to bradford) found himself swinging by one leg in the air--(much laughter). we have found a new way to catch game. standish: the second trip was no better but this time i think we have found a good place. i think it is the same place found by capt. john smith and named plymouth by him. governor carver: i think this will be a good place to land. shall we land here? people aboard mayflower: we will get ready to land. people: it is god's will. act ii. introduction: the first winter for the pilgrims was a hard one. many of their people died. among them governor carver. miles standish helped them in every way he could. he kept his army ready for any danger. the next act will be samoset's visit to the pilgrims. act ii. miles standish and several pilgrims talking over military affairs. standish: we must drill every day in order to be ready for danger. bradford: yes we must keep up our careful watching. brewster: look at that fine looking indian coming toward us. (all look toward indian coming). samoset: welcome! welcome! standish: you talk english? samoset: me talk little. me good injun. standish: he looks like a good indian. samoset: me bring more injuns. (enter). squanto: welcome englishmen! bradford: you talk good english. squanto: my name squanto, i been to london. i show you many things. how plant corn, by putting dead fish in hill. how to hoe corn and how to make into meal. i show you to catch eel and how make indian moccasins, canoes and lots of things. bradford: we will be glad to learn all this squanto. you are a good friend to us. act iii. the next act will be the pilgrims planning for the first thanksgiving. (men and women talking.) first woman: our first summer is now over. first man: yes, and we have a big harvest; our houses are repaired and the health of our people is good. second woman: after the hardships of our first winter and the blessings from god we have now, we should have a thanksgiving. all together: yes we should. the time for rejoicing has come. women: we will have a great feast. men: we will have games and military movements. man: we will invite massasoit and his warriors who have been so kind to us. george washington _and_ other heroes of the revolution introduction: (told by pupil). we are now going to tell you the story of george washington and other heroes of the revolutionary war. george washington was the first president of the united states and was called "the father of his country." as a boy he was a skilful horseback rider and liked to go into the forest with his dog and hunt. he had a very good mother. his father called her "the rose of epping forest"--a place in england. (maps are used and pupil points out the places on maps with pointer). the first act will be george washington talking to his mother. act i. washington: mother, it is decided that i should go to sea, is it not? mrs. washington: yes, george, we had consented to your going to sea but i would much rather have you go back to school and have a good education. according to these old virginia days the oldest son in the family, when the father dies, receives a plantation and your brother, laurence, has received a plantation on the potomac. washington: well, mother, if i give up my plans of going to sea and go back to school, what shall i do? mrs. washington: you will receive a plantation on the rappahannock. washington: well, i shall give up all my plans and go back to school and i will try to excel in all my work. mrs. washington: you must excel in both work and play and remember the golden rule--"do unto others as you would have them do unto you." (several boys knock and enter--boys bow and speak to mrs. washington). boys: how do you do, mrs. washington. mrs. washington: how do you do, boys. first boy: george, we want you to come out and play with us. second boy: yes, we want you to be our captain. third boy: we will take a walk in the woods. fourth boy: and maybe have a swim in the old swimming pool. washington: may i go out with the boys, mother? mrs. washington: yes, george, but don't forget to come in before it gets too late. _end of act i._ act ii. introduction: when george washington was sixteen, he was made a surveyor for lord fairfax. at twenty he was put in braddock's army and he saved the broken pieces. he was later elected to the house of burgesses in virginia. after washington's brother, laurence, died, washington received the beautiful mt. vernon plantation on the potomac. one day while washington was on his way to williamsburg, he met a beautiful woman named mrs. martha custis, who later became his wife. the second act will be washington, patrick henry and others in the house of burgesses in virginia. (house of burgesses assembled. class in house of burgesses.) speaker at desk: as you know the french and indian war has left both england and her colonies in debt and king george, thinking only of england, put a tax on tea and a stamp act on the thirteen colonies. through such great men as samuel adams and our own patrick henry, these acts have been repealed. now we are confronted with the trouble in boston. shall the people of boston be slaves or shall the thirteen colonies fight to save that town? (exclamations from house). fight! fight! no! no! fight! speaker: i think patrick henry has a resolution to offer. patrick henry: mr. speaker and gentlemen: i offer resolutions declaring that virginia arm herself for the coming war. men of house: why should we fight england? it is the greatest country in the world and it is our mother country. second man of house: why not send petitions to the king asking him to send his two armies out of boston? third man of house: we cannot fight england. look at drake. he checked the spanish armada on the sea while raleigh checked the spanish on the land. if we fight england it will leave us weaker than we are. fourth man of house: if we fight our mother country now it will spoil the little nation we are trying to build up. we are not ready to fight. patrick henry: mr. speaker. speaker: mr. henry. henry: we must fight! i repeat it, sir, we must fight. an appeal to arms and the god of hosts is all that is left to us. they tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. but when shall we be stronger? will it be next year, or next week? sir, we are not weak if we make the proper use which the god of nature has placed in our power. our chains are forged! their clanking may be heard on the plains of boston! the war is inevitable, and let it come! our brothers are all ready on the field. why stand we here idle! is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? forbid it almighty god! i know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death! (much applause). _end of act ii._ act iii. introduction: the next act will be the second continental congress where george washington was elected commander in chief of the american army and where benjamin franklin, thomas jefferson, and others were appointed to draw up the declaration of independence. mr. hancock, speaker of the house: you all know that in the first continental congress we pledged to stand by boston. if general gage means to make war on that town, let him do it. is there anything to say on the matter, gentlemen? franklin: mr. hancock. hancock: mr. franklin. franklin: i say that the thirteen colonies should unite in order to fight great britain. henry: mr. hancock. hancock: mr. henry. henry: i agree with mr. benjamin franklin. i wish to repeat a statement i made once before. the distinctions between virginians, pennsylvanians, new yorkers and new englanders are no more. i am not a virginian but an american. (applause). richard henry lee: mr. hancock. hancock: mr. lee. lee: i make a motion that the thirteen colonies unite in order to fight and that we declare ourselves free and independent of great britain. member of house: we must show reasons for separating from our mother country. robert livingston: we must show great men like pitt and burke why we want to separate from england. member of congress: i make a motion that a committee of men be appointed to draw up a declaration of independence. r. h. lee: i second that motion. speaker: it has been moved and seconded that a committee of men be appointed to draw up a declaration of independence. all those in favor say aye! contrary minded no! aye! aye! speaker: i appoint thomas jefferson of virginia, benjamin franklin of pennsylvania, robert r. livingston of new york, roger sherman of connecticut and john adams of massachusetts to draw up a declaration of independence. and now gentlemen, the american army needs a head. who shall it be? p. henry: i think mr. adams has a man in view. hancock: mr. adams. adams: i have but one man in mind, a gentleman from virginia, whose skill and experience as an officer, whose independent fortune, great talents and excellent universal character would command the approbation of all america and unite the colonies better than any other person in the union. if you speak of solid information and sound judgment, colonel washington is unquestionably the greatest man on the floor. lee: mr. president. hancock: mr. lee. lee: i nominate colonel washington as commander in chief of the american army. member of congress: i second that motion. hancock: it has been moved and seconded that colonel washington be made commander in chief of the american army. all those in favor say aye. aye! aye! hancock: not in favor, no. (all aye). then general washington is commander in chief of the american army. (cheers). (goes to ante room and brings in washington who left during mr. adams' speech). gentlemen, this is general washington, commander in chief of the american army. (more cheers). washington: i beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in this room that i this day declare with the utmost sincerity i do not think myself equal to the task i am honored with. _end of act iii._ act iv. introduction: the signing of the declaration of independence was adopted on july th, by a congress of representatives of the colonies assembled in the state house in philadelphia. the next act will be the signing of the declaration of independence as written by thomas jefferson of virginia. pres. hancock: after several days of debating in congress the declaration of independence as written by thomas jefferson of virginia is about to be accepted. is there anything more to say on the subject, gentlemen? mr. jefferson have you? jefferson: mr. hancock and gentlemen. we feel that good reasons must be shown to the world and to those brave englishmen, pitt and burke who have been our defenders for breaking away from our mother country. we have tried to show these causes in the paper that i have written. hancock: mr. adams. adams: mr. hancock. we believe that all men are created equal with the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. the present king of england has shown himself a tyrant in his treatment of the colonies by his repeated acts. thomas jefferson has written these facts so the world may see them. hancock: mr. sherman. sherman: mr. hancock. he has taxed us unjustly, without giving us a voice in the matter. he has tried to force us to pay the debts of england. these are more reasons we wish to give to the world for our present action. hancock: mr. franklin. franklin: we have sent petitions to him asking him to stop these abuses. he has answered with insult. a prince with such a character is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. we therefore, declare we are enemies in war, in peace friends. mr. lee: mr. hancock. hancock: mr. lee. lee: i make a motion that the declaration of independence as written by mr. jefferson be accepted and the news be given to the world that we are a free people. member of house: i second that motion. hancock: it has been moved and seconded that the declaration of independence be accepted and the news be given to the world that we are a free people. all those in favor say aye. aye! aye! contrary minded, no. and now gentlemen, i sign my name in large letters so george third may read it without spectacles (writes name). we must all hang together in this matter. franklin: yes, we must all hang together, or we will hang separately. hancock: and now let the news be given to the world that we are a free people. boy: ring! grandpa, ring! oh ring for liberty! _end of washington act._ george rogers clark introduction: george rogers clark was born in virginia in . clark liked to roam the woods. he became a surveyor and an indian fighter at the age of twenty-one. he was a great leader in kentucky along with boone and fought the indians many times. the british officers aroused the indians. they paid a certain sum for each scalp of an american. clark decided to strike a blow at the british across the ohio. he drilled his men at corn island at the falls of the ohio, the beginning of louisville. in june he shot the falls and after a long march they reached the old french town of kaskaskia. the first act will be a dance at kaskaskia. act i. (british and french dancing. enter clark and stands at door. indian lying on floor springs to feet and gives terrible war whoop. the dancing stops. women scream and men rush toward clark). clark: go on with your dance but remember you dance under virginia and not under great britain. (british general goes up to clark). clark: i ask you to surrender in the name of virginia. british general: i surrender. (hands his sword to clark). (french talk in corner. father gibault and other men come up to talk with clark). father gibault: we beg of you, colonel clark, to spare our lives and the lives of our families. clark: father, your lives are safe. america makes war on no church and will protect you all from insult. the king of france has made a treaty with the united states and is sending ships and soldiers to help us. all we want you to do is put up the american flag. father gibault: we are glad to hear this news. it makes us all very happy indeed. i will go to vincennes and tell the good news. _end of clark act._ andrew jackson introduction: andrew jackson was born in north carolina in . his parents were scotch irish. schools were few and poor and andy learned more from the woods than from books. as a boy he was full of fun and mischief and fond of sports, but he was very hot tempered. when he was thirteen he learned what war meant for it was the time of the revolution. colonel tarleton killed more than a hundred of jackson's neighbors and friends, among them andy's own brother. he never forgave the british. at fourteen he was taken prisoner by the british. the first act will be andrew jackson and a british officer. enter soldiers dragging andrew. officer at desk. men salute officer. men: we have found this young fellow acting in a suspicious manner around the camp, colonel. officer: well, well, a young rebel eh! andrew: yes, a rebel. officer: we'll see what you are good for, boy. clean these boots. jackson: i will not. i am a prisoner of war and expect to be treated as such. officer: you won't! won't you! (draws sword and strikes boy on head). (soldiers drag him from room). _end of act i._ act ii. introduction: at camden smallpox killed his remaining brother and left andrew poor and sickly looking. his mother also lost her life in caring for american prisoners. jackson was left an orphan of the revolution. he studied law and at twenty was admitted to practice in the courts of the state. stories from tennessee made him long to see that beautiful country, so in company with nearly a hundred men, women and children he crossed the mountains into tennessee. the next act will be jackson and others sitting around a camp-fire, telling stories of the revolution. jackson: this beautiful country of nolichucky jack's is worth the trouble we have had in coming. something in the stillness of the night makes me think of those dreadful revolutionary days. what a time it was and what a lot of great heroes our country had. one of men: yes, those were stirring days. well do i remember that day on the boston common. on the slopes of the hill where the state house now stands there was a fine place to skate and slide. we fellows learned our spelling those days for if we didn't we couldn't skate. one day after school we hurried to the hillside. we found the ice broken everywhere. we knew the british redcoats had done the damage. they thought it fun to make the yankees angry. we went to general gage and told him what his soldiers had done. he said "you are plucky boys. if my soldiers bother you again, let me know." one of the girls: have you ever heard the story of lydia darrah? no, tell us. lydia was my grandmother. she lived in philadelphia with her husband and younger children. general howe's adjutant took up his quarters and secured a back room in which private councils could be held. just before one of these my grandmother was told to retire early as the british officers would require the room at seven o'clock and would remain late. lydia suspected that something against the patriot army was to take place. she sent the family to bed and taking off her shoes crept down the stairs and listened at the door. she learned that all the british troops were to march out and surprise general washington and his army. she knew it lay in her power to save the lives of thousands of people. she decided to find a way of telling the news. going to the mill for flour, she left her sack to be filled and hurried on to the american camp where she told one of the officers she knew. he galloped off to headquarters and informed general washington. the british officers never knew who gave washington the information. jackson: she was a brave woman. there were many brave women and men. man: and that fight at bunker hill. of course we lost because we didn't have enough powder but how our brave boys did fight, as long as the powder held out. they cut down whole ranks of the british army as they advanced up the shore. jackson: well folks, i think we better go to bed. we have a hard journey ahead of us. i will keep watch. (jackson leans up against tree, smoking corncob pipe). (suddenly the sound of an owl is heard in the distance). jackson speaks to the man with him: "a little too natural that owl. i fear it is indians. we must arouse the people and go." (goes and arouses people who get ready to leave.) _end of act ii._ act iii. introduction: jackson was successful as a lawyer; was made district attorney and was finally elected to congress. later became a frontier judge and a man of business. he won fame as a fighter in the war of , and in many fights with the indians and won the name of "old hickory." the next act will be calling for volunteers to fight at new orleans. jackson's speech: the british are again our enemies. they are capturing our men on the high seas and forcing them to fight for great britain. shall we stand this? no, i say no. perry and other great sailors are fighting hard with our vessels. the british, if we are not careful, will capture new orleans. who volunteers to go with me? on to new orleans and victory!! _end of act iii._ act iv introduction: after the battle of new orleans jackson was a great hero. in he was elected president of the united states. he had bitter quarrels with clay, calhoun and webster over the u. s. banks. in the senate was another great man, thomas h. benton. he and jackson had once fought a duel but were now good friends. benton took jackson's part against the other men. refusal of south carolina to pay the tariff caused trouble during jackson's time. this act was called nullification. the next act will be president jackson talking to general scott about south carolina. act iv jackson: south carolina must be forced to obey the laws of the land. the tariff will be collected by force if necessary. to nullify an act of congress would be most dangerous to the union. take soldiers and war vessels, general scott, to charleston and enforce the law at all hazards. general scott: i will do my best to enforce the laws of the land, president jackson. john c. fremont introduction: john c. fremont was born in savannah, in the year , while his parents were on a journey through the south. his father died soon after, and his mother moved to charleston, south carolina. he was well educated, and after college spent some years in travel. he joined a company of engineers to explore the mountains between tennessee and south carolina to find a place for a railway. this region was a rough, beautiful, and wild country, and it gave fremont a taste for exploring which never left him. his longing for wild life was gratified when he was made assistant to a famous frenchman who went to explore the region between the missouri and canada. he married jessie benton, daughter of the famous senator benton. benton was interested in the growth of the west. he knew that fremont was interested in exploring, and used his influence with president van buren to have fremont explore the rocky mountains. the first act will be fremont talking to president van buren. act i. (senator benton talking to van buren:) benton: the west is a great country, mr. president. we should have it explored and investigated. van buren: i agree with you, senator benton. the west should be explored. if we had a good man to send on this expedition. benton: i know a man, mr. president; john c. fremont. he is an experienced engineer, and loves the wild life of adventure. van buren: bring fremont to me. (fremont enters and is introduced by benton). van buren: you are an explorer of note, mr. fremont? will you undertake a journey to the rocky mountains and bring back a report of that country? fremont: yes, i am very much interested in exploring the west, and with your permission and the permission of congress, will try to find out all that we can about that great country. _end of act i._ act ii. introduction: the next act will be fremont telling about his first and second trip to the west. secretary to president: fremont and his famous guide, kit carson, have returned from their second exploring trip to the west and await outside. president: show them in. (enter fremont and party). fremont: i have just returned from my explorations, and would like to tell you of the trips. on my first trip i left kansas city and followed the kansas river to the south pass. on my second trip i followed the same route to the south pass, where i took four men, and continued on, to the highest peak in the rocky mountains. one of the men: while there and on the top, we unfurled the stars and stripes in all its glory. fremont: then i decided to cross the mountains. after many weary months we beheld a great lake. one of the men: you can imagine what feelings stirred the breasts of men shut in for months by mountains, at seeing what appeared to us to be an ocean here in the midst of a continent. fremont: as we strained our eyes along its silent shores, i could hardly repress the almost desire to continue our explorations. man: after making preparations, we crossed over the mountains till we reached the columbia river, and traveled down to vancouver. here we were the guests of the governor of the british hudson bay company. fremont: on november tenth, we started across the sierra nevada mountains, and then on, till we came to sutter's fort. man: here we met the remarkable captain sutter. captain sutter is a native of switzerland. he came here with the intention of building a colony. the spanish governor, alvarado, gladly gave him a great tract of land. captain sutter has great herds of cattle and many acres of grain. fremont: we then decided to cross the mountains farther to the south, where the san joaquin river makes a gap. here we beheld a great desert. man: an indian told us that there was neither water nor grass--nothing. every animal that goes on this desert dies. fremont: from here we traveled forward, reaching salt lake; having made a circuit of the great basin. here we are, with the story of our trip. president: you have had some wonderful experiences. and now, mr. fremont, i would like you to go on a third expedition--to explore the pacific coast. fremont: very well, mr. president. _end of act ii._ act iii. introduction: fremont did not know about the war with mexico. on his way to the north, he heard that mexicans were planning to kill every american in california. jose castro was a mexican general. the mexicans had one hundred and fifty horses. the americans captured these horses. that was the first victory in the conquest of california. the bear flag rebellion. the americans were indeed a rough looking lot. mounted on horseback, wearing leggings, and carrying pistols and guns. if the americans had known that war was going on, they would have raised the stars and stripes. but not knowing it they decided to make a flag of their own. the next act will be the forming of the california republic. (men and soldiers around room). man: we are now a republic, and must have a declaration of independence. other man: yes, and we must have a flag. here is one. mr. todd made it. a bear is drawn on it, and a star. underneath are the words, "california republic." other man: we will raise this flag on the flagstaff of sonoma. now we are an independent republic. _end of act iii._ act iv introduction: the conquest of california came when a treaty was signed at the rancho de cahuenga. (ca-wen-ga). the next act will be the californians and fremont at the rancho de cahuenga. fremont: general flores, general vallejo, general pico, and californians: you know why you have been called to this meeting? general flores: yes, captain fremont, we know why we have been called. if we sign a treaty, and promise not to take up arms against the united states we will be pardoned for revolting. fremont: yes, you will be pardoned under those conditions. do you promise? californians: we promise. fremont: very well, sign here. (they sign.) fremont: that will do, you are pardoned. good afternoon, gentlemen. californians: good afternoon, captain fremont. webster, clay _and_ calhoun introduction: we are going to tell you the story of webster, clay and calhoun. daniel webster was born in new hampshire in . he was a very weakly child, no one thought that some day he would have an iron body. he spent most of his time playing in the woods and fields. he loved the animals that he found there. he had a brother named ezekiel. one day as they were walking through the field, they noticed that some of the cabbage had been eaten so they planned to catch the thief. the first act will be the story of the woodchuck. act i (daniel and ezekiel find woodchuck in trap). ezekiel: well daniel i see that we have caught the woodchuck. daniel: what shall we do with him? ezekiel: i think that we should kill him. daniel: i think we should take him into the woods and let him go. ezekiel: let us take the matter to father and let him settle it. (go to father). daniel: father, we have caught the woodchuck and we do not know what to do with him. we have brought the matter to you to settle. ezekiel wants to kill him and i want to let him go. father: well boys, we will hold a court. i will be the judge and you will be the lawyers. one defend the case and the other prosecute. ezekiel you may speak first, you are the prosecutor. ezekiel: i think we should kill the woodchuck. if we let him go, he will be just as much trouble as ever, while if we kill him he can't eat any more cabbage and we can sell his skin for at least ten cents and small as that sum is it will help pay for some of the cabbage that he has eaten, so in either way he is of more value dead than alive. father: very good, ezekiel. now daniel we will hear from you. daniel's speech: god made the woodchuck. he made him to live in the bright sunlight and the pure air. he made him to enjoy the free air and the good woods. the woodchuck is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox. he lives in quiet and peace. a hole in the side of a hill and a little food is all that he wants. he has harmed nothing but a few plants which he ate to keep himself alive. the woodchuck has a right to life, to food, to liberty, for god gave them to him. look at his soft pleading eyes. see him tremble with fear. he cannot speak for himself and this is the only way he can plead for the life that is so sweet to him. shall we be so cruel as to kill him? shall we be so selfish as to take from him the life that god gave him? father: ezekiel, ezekiel, let that woodchuck go! act ii. introduction: webster. one day in spring, daniel webster's father took daniel to exeter academy to prepare for college. all the boys laughed at his rustic dress and manners. he finally entered dartmouth college at the age of fifteen. he was the best student there. all the students liked him. at the age of eighteen he gave a fourth of july oration in his college town. after he had finished at dartmouth, he taught school in order to help his parents send his older brother to school. later, he entered christopher gore's law office. he studied very hard and won name and fame as a lawyer. the approach of the war of brought him into politics. he was elected to congress and took his seat in . introduction: henry clay. henry clay was born in virginia at the year of burgoyne's surrender, . his father died when he was four years old. little henry lived near the "slashes" the name given to a low flat region and went to school in a log cabin. he worked on a farm to do his share in the support of the family. sometimes he would be seen barefooted behind the plow or else riding a horse to mill. from this he was called the "mill boy of the slashes." at fourteen he was a clerk in a store but he was made for better use. he was put in the office of a famous lawyer who was a clerk in one of virginia's courts. he went to richmond and studied law there. he formed a debating club and was made leader. from here he went to lexington. there his rise in law was rapid, his fame grew and he was known as a lawyer who seldom lost his case. he was elected to the house of representatives and was made speaker. as speaker he helped to bring on the war of . introduction: john c. calhoun. calhoun was born in the same year as webster, . he was born in south carolina. his parents were scotch-irish. he learned more from the woods than he did from books and filled his memory before people could fill it. at the age of eighteen he began to prepare for college with the aid of his brother-in-law, a presbyterian minister. two years later he entered yale college, studied hard and soon graduated with much honor. he studied law for three years, a year and a half in his own state and a year and a half in connecticut. he began to practice law in south carolina. he did not have much success. perhaps the law was too dry for him or perhaps because he was soon to be elected to congress. in he was married and elected to congress. henry clay (speaker) immediately put calhoun on an important committee. the next act will be john c. calhoun, daniel webster and henry clay speaking of the war of . clay (speaker): members of congress and fellow citizens: england has been at war with france for a number of years. france under napoleon has secured a large part of europe. england has tried in various ways to injure france by proclaiming that no ships of any nation shall trade with france. napoleon retorted, issuing a decree that no ships shall trade with europe and these laws hurt american commerce. shall we stand this or demand our rights? gentlemen, i say we must fight. on to canada! member of house: i think we should be very careful about going to war with great britain. she has a thousand war vessels, while the united states has only ten or twelve first-class vessels. member of congress: england's troops are numerous, well drilled and have had much experience. our troops are few and poorly disciplined and unused to war. i think, all matters in dispute could be arranged without fighting. member of congress: we would make a great mistake to fight england and france at the same time. webster: the british in taking our men have made it a practice to stop american merchant ships and seize the best sailors. they claim these men are british citizens and could be rightfully seized. whenever they see a fine looking seaman, they say: "you are an englishman, we will take you!" we must fight with the navy. if the war must be continued go to the ocean. there the united wishes and exertions of the nation will go with you. even our party divisions end at the water's edge. mr. calhoun: we have tried in various ways to induce england and france to change these laws. these are not the only grievances we have. england has a large navy. she needs many sailors. when our ships were in her parts, she has seized our men and forced them on her ships. is this right? must we stand such treatment? no! so we call forth the patriotism and resources of our country to help us. _end of act ii._ act iii introduction: from to , congress was debating over the missouri compromise. the north opposed and the south favored. the excitement spread to the state legislature and to the people. many meetings were held. finally henry clay succeeded in getting congress to pass the missouri compromise. this act admitted missouri as a slave state. hayne had spoken against a protective tariff and for nullification and daniel webster felt called upon to reply so he made a great speech. his speech was considered by good judges the best ever delivered in congress. he was probably the greatest orator of his time. south carolina refused to pay the tariff in and nullified the law of congress. president jackson hurried the army and navy to make her pay. john calhoun was for nullification. he said to save the south from the north, a state had a right to nullify a law of congress. the third act will be henry clay, daniel webster and john c. calhoun, speaking on the right of nullification. speaker clay: gentlemen, we have been debating on the right of a state to nullify. we must think of this matter in a calm manner. it is one of the most serious times of our country. our union is in danger. we have heard mr. hayne speak on nullification; also mr. calhoun. member of congress: congress has no right to force another state to pay a tariff and we declare a state has a right to nullify. member of congress: president jackson says the federal union must and shall be preserved. he has warned the people of south carolina that any attempt at resistance will be put down with a high hand. we of the north feel that this must be done in order to save the union. member of congress: tariff is helpful to the north but not to the south. there is always a difference between the north and south and we of the south feel that nullification is right to save us from the north. calhoun: mr. clay. clay: mr. calhoun. calhoun: the southern people using slave labor will raise more tobacco and cotton than they need so the tariff is hurtful to them. the northern people using free labor will manufacture all kinds of things and the tariff is helpful to them. the southern people are for agriculture. the northern people for manufacturing. the southern are for slavery and the northern are for free labor. to protect the south from the north the state has the right to nullify a law of congress. the state has the right because the state is above the nation. the states made the constitution. i believe that nullification is a means of saving the union from secession. haynes: that is the way i feel, gentlemen. nullification is right. mr. webster: mr. clay. mr. clay: mr. webster. mr. webster: we must not let south carolina refuse to obey the laws of the union. for if she does she leaves the union. if south carolina leaves the union other states will also leave. gentlemen of congress: nullification is another name for secession. when my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may i not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious nation. but may i see our flag without a single stripe erased or polluted, not a single star obscured but everywhere spread all over in characters of living light, that sentiment dear to every american heart, liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable. mr. clay: gentlemen: i offer a compromise hoping it will please both the north and south. i propose that the tariff be gradually reduced till when all duties shall be % on the value of the articles imported. i think, gentlemen this will be a solution of the question. we will debate on it at the next meeting. _end of act iii._ act iv introduction: it was in that our country declared war on mexico and won it with a great victory for the american army. the treaty of peace with mexico gave the united states all the territory then known as alta (upper california) and new mexico. the north and the south disputed over this territory. the south said: "it must be open to slavery." the north said: "it must be free." the quarrel grew so bitter that many men thought the union would be destroyed. kentucky legislature sent clay back to the united states senate by a unanimous call, democrats as well as whigs joining in the vote. it was a proud moment for the old man. webster then went back to the united states senate where he joined clay in supporting the great compromise of . calhoun opposed the compromise. the last act will be clay, webster and others talking on the compromise of . speaker of the house: gentlemen, for many days we have been debating on the serious question of the danger of the south leaving the union. mr. clay will read his compromise. (mr. clay enters on arm of friend. he is an old man now). mr. clay: mr. president and gentlemen: i believe that the union is in danger of destruction but if we can again compromise, i think it can be saved. this is what i propose: first that california shall be admitted as a free state. second: that the slave trade be stopped in the district of columbia. this should please the north. to please the south, first: i propose that all federal officers be given authority to hunt for slaves that have escaped to the north and without trial or jury be returned to their masters. second: i propose that the new territories coming in as states decide for themselves whether they shall be free or slave. member of congress: the fugitive slave law reads thus: 'any slave escaping to the north might be seized wherever found and brought before a united states judge. he cannot give testimony, or prove that he is not a slave. all citizens are commanded to aid in the capture of the fugitive.' are we willing to accept mr. clay's clause in this compromise? as for myself, gentlemen, i think not. member of congress: no, gentlemen, i do not think that we should accept this. many of these people have escaped into the north and are living peaceably as free men. if this law goes into effect we will have men who for money will go into the north and return these people to slavery. there is a higher law even than an act of congress. it is the golden rule: 'do unto others as you would have them do unto you.' member of congress: i say, sir, we should have our slaves returned. we need our slaves badly. (mr. calhoun's speech is read). mr. clay: i believe from the bottom of my soul that this measure is the re-union of the union. member of congress: mr. clay's country is virginia. he does not understand that we of the south need slaves. if we of the south can't keep our slaves, we will leave the union. mr. clay: the honorable senator speaks of virginia being my country. this union is my country, but even if my own state should raise the standard of disunion i would go against her. i would go against kentucky much as i love her. mr. calhoun's speech, mr. president. mr. calhoun is ill, i have a speech he wishes to be read. mr. president: honorable senator, read mr. calhoun's speech. (mr. calhoun's speech). gentlemen of congress: the union is in danger today on account of the abolitionists. they have stirred up strife. all agitation against slavery should be stopped. the relation existing between the two races has existed for two centuries. we cannot permit it to be destroyed. 'slavery is a good, a positive good.' there should be an equal division of territory between the north and south. if you of the north will not do this, then let our southern states separate and depart in peace. having faithfully done my duty to the best of my ability, both to the union and my section, i shall have the consolation that i am free from all responsibility. mr. webster: mr. president. mr. president: mr. webster. mr. webster: i wish to speak today not as a massachusetts man nor as a northern man, but as an american and a member of the united states senate. i speak today for the preservation of the union. hear me for my cause. i speak from an anxious heart for the return of the peace and quiet of this union. i should rather have heard that this union should never be dissolved than that word secession. secession, peaceable secession. sir, your eyes and mine will never see that miracle. sir, i see as plainly as i see that sun in heaven that secession means a war. it means a war, a war i cannot describe. _end of play._ the story of abraham lincoln act i. introduction: abraham lincoln was born in hardin county, kentucky, february , . his parents were very poor. when he was seven years old his parents moved to indiana. (he educated himself. whenever he came in from work he read a book. he read the bible, Ã�sop's fables, robinson crusoe and other books). he loved his mother very dearly. she died when he was very young. her last words to him were: "try to live as i have taught you and to love your heavenly father." many years after he said, "all i am or hope to be, i owe to my angel mother." the first act will be abraham lincoln and john hanks coming in from work. hanks: gee, i am tired, aren't you? lincoln: yes. (goes to cupboard, takes bread to eat, picks up book and begins to read). hanks: (gets bread and lies down). what you reading? lincoln: o, a story of george washington. hanks: tell us about him. lincoln: after a while. hanks: all you do is to read and cipher anyway. i am going to take a nap. _end of act i._ act ii. introduction: abraham lincoln went on a flat boat down the mississippi. the boat was laden with supplies to sell at new orleans. while in new orleans lincoln visited a slave auction. after having seen this auction, lincoln was very much more opposed to slavery. the next act will be abraham lincoln at the slave auction. (auctioneer and slaves. sells several slaves. class bid and carry on auction, etc.) (at end of auction, auctioneer says:) auctioneer: rest of these slaves to be sold tomorrow. gentlemen be sure to come. (lincoln and hanks talk.) hanks: well, well. abe lincoln what do you think of that? lincoln: i think it is terrible. _if i ever get a chance to hit that thing, i'll hit it and i'll hit it hard._ hanks: i don't blame you. _end of act ii._ introduction: after lincoln came back from his voyage down the mississippi, and the blackhawk war, he ran for the state legislature, but was defeated. a little later he ran again and this time he won. he said to a friend: "did you vote for me?" his friend said, "i did." "then," said lincoln, "you must loan me two hundred dollars;" for lincoln needed a new suit of clothes and stage coach fare to the capital. later he was sent to congress and sometime later he was spoken of for president. the next act will be lincoln waiting in a newspaper office in springfield for news of his nomination. act iii. (newspaper office. lincoln and several men talking and walking around room. among them hanks.) lincoln: i wonder who got the nomination. exclamations: you got it abe! sure you got it! hope seward didn't get it! oh! there is no chance, abe has it i know! sure, sure. (enter man in great excitement). gentlemen, there has been a nomination. (people in office crowd around him and talk). mr. seward (disappointment on faces of lincoln and men) mr. seward is the second name on the list. (jumps upon chair and exclaims). three cheers for abraham lincoln, the next president of the united states. _end of act iii._ act iv. introduction: abraham lincoln was elected president. soon after war broke out between the north and the south. lincoln declared that the war was not to free the slaves but to save the union. lincoln soon saw that it was time to free the slaves, so he signed the proclamation of emancipation. this act linked the name of lincoln with one of the greatest acts in history. the last act will be president lincoln signing the proclamation of emancipation. (lincoln sits at desk. two men are showing him papers. one enters and says: "mr. lincoln, here is mr. seward with the proclamation." enter seward and several others.) mr. seward: i have brought you the proclamation to sign, mr. president. (lincoln takes paper, reads it over, takes up pen, tries to write, drops pen several times.) mr. seward: what is the matter, mr. lincoln? mr. lincoln: i have been shaking hands since nine o'clock this morning and my right hand is almost paralyzed. if my name ever goes down into history it will be for this act and my whole soul is in it. if my hand trembles as i sign this document, the ones who examine it will say--he hesitated. grant and lee introduction: ulysses s. grant was born in ohio, april , . his father was a tanner. he was brought up for farm work. later went to west point from where he graduated in . he distinguished himself in the mexican war. he resigned from the army in , tried various kinds of business in st. louis and galena, illinois. on the day after the fall of sumter, grant made up his mind to return to the army. in august he became a brigadier general. from to his name was connected with most of the successful operations in the west, till lincoln said of him, "i can't spare this man. he fights." his greatest characteristic was his indomitable grit. the first act will be grant sending his answer to general buckner at the capture of fort donelson. act i. (grant at desk, writing and looking over maps. men at wall looking over maps. officer speaks to general grant.) officer: two soldiers from general buckner await outside, general grant. grant: show them in. (enter soldiers with union man. soldier salutes). soldier: general grant, general buckner wishes to know on what terms you will consider the surrender of fort donelson. grant: no terms except an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. i propose to move immediately upon your works. soldier: your answer will be given to general buckner. good bye, general grant. (salute). grant: (salute). goodbye. robert e. lee introduction: robert e. lee was born in , of an old aristocratic virginia family; he graduated from west point ( ) and spent thirty-two years in the regular army; he distinguished himself in the mexican war. just before the civil war broke out, he wrote to a friend: "if the union is dissolved and the government disrupted, i shall return to my native state and share the miseries of my people, and, save in defense, will draw my sword no more." a few days after the fall of fort sumter, he was offered the command of the united states army and declined it. he resigned and after virginia seceded, accepted a confederate commission. he took command of the army of northern virginia june , . he had great power over men and his soldiers had perfect confidence in "uncle robert." act ii. introduction: the surrender of appomattox court house. salute. lee and his staff in room. lee in full dress uniform. grant enters with his staff. grant shakes hands with lee. grant dressed in rough clothes. grant: how do you do, general lee. we have not met since the mexican war. strange is it not? lee: (salute). how do you do, general grant. no we have missed meeting. i have sent for you today, general grant, to ask you the terms of a surrender. grant: the terms are the same as those sent you a few days ago, general lee. all of northern virginia must lay down their arms and take up the stars and stripes. lee: write them and i will sign. union soldier speaks to officer with lee: why is it that you and your general are in full dress uniform? officer: when sherman came through we saved our best suit and this is all we have. (grant writes terms and reads to general lee.) the terms: all the army of northern virginia must lay down their arms and take up the stars and stripes. the men are to be allowed to return to their homes and are not to be disturbed by the united states authority so long as they observe their paroles and the laws in force where they reside. they are to be allowed to take their horses home to do the spring plowing. lee: you have been generous, general grant. (offers sword to grant. grant takes it and returns it with this remark): grant: a brave man should not be separated from his sword. i tender it back to you. (grant and lee shake hands. lee goes to his men and speaks to them). lee: men we have fought through this war together. i have done my best for you. grant: (speaks to his men). this day is not to be spent as a day of victory but in peace and quiet. these men are now citizens of the same country and are to be treated as such. some women of history introduction: we are now going to tell you the story of some of the great women of our nation, elizabeth cady stanton, susan b. anthony, julia ward howe, and others. the first act will be elizabeth cady stanton, the first champion of woman suffrage, and the first woman's rights convention. act i. mrs. stanton talking: ladies we are met here today to discuss women, our social, civil and religious conditions, and the rights of women. (applause). for generations we have been held down by man (more applause). i want to read to you a set of resolutions. we will call them a declaration of sentiments. they will be met of course with ridicule but that does not matter. right is right and in time will prevail. here are some of the resolutions: first: we should have the same right as any other citizen of the united states. the right to own and manage our own property. the right to cast a vote at an election. there are others that we will talk of. you see ladies we should have an equal vote with men. (much applause). act ii. introduction: susan b. anthony met mrs. stanton soon after this convention and though she had not been in sympathy with the "declaration of sentiments" she changed and was ever after a friend of women's suffrage. they started a weekly paper which they called "the revolution." the next act will be mrs. stanton and miss anthony talking about their paper. miss stanton: we must let the people of the united states see that the only true republic is this "men their rights and nothing more--women their rights and nothing less." miss anthony: yes, this is the only way for us to get our rights. we will organize a national women's suffrage association. miss stanton: we will go over the country to any state we are needed and talk to the people. miss anthony: yes, i will address congress and i will cast a vote for the president. it is my right under the fourteenth amendment to the constitution. _end of act ii._ transcriber's note: the reader is obliged to seek information on "julia ward howe, and others" elsewhere, as the digital images of this document contain final blank pages and a back cover, but no further text. * * * * * transcriber's note: a table of contents has been added to this ebook for the reader's convenience. inconsistencies in punctuation, spelling and capitalization have been retained to match the text of the original document. the following typographical corrections have been made: page : removed stray parenthesis (powhatan's fierce warriors.) page : changed adam's to adams' (mr. adams' speech) page : added missing word 'of' (before one of these) page : added missing letter 'i' to 'with' (with the indians) page : added missing period (they sign.) page : changed 'ahe' to 'the' (caught the woodchuck) page : added missing word 'of' (member of congress) page : changed Ã�sops to Ã�sop's (Ã�sop's fables) page : added missing period (sure, sure.) page : added missing period (mr. lincoln) page : added missing quotation marks (with the proclamation.") page : changed . to ? (what is the matter, mr. lincoln?) for ease of navigation during classroom use, a few minor formatting adjustments have been made in this ebook. six speakers' names were converted to small caps to match the style of the text; four cases of left-justified unattributed dialogue were indented (three cases of "aye! aye!" and one case of "no, tell us."); and parentheses were added around some stage directions to better differentiate them from dialogue. (this file was produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) [transcriber's note: the songs in this book were set with the lyrics interlinear with the sheet music. these have been put into lyric form in the text for legibility.] _the rescue_ _of the_ _princess winsome_ [illustration] _the rescue_ _of the_ _princess winsome_ _a fairy play for old and young_ * * * * * by annie fellows johnston _author of "the little colonel series," "big brother," "joel: a boy of galilee," "in the desert of waiting," etc._ music by albion fellows bacon boston _l. c. page & company_ _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) * * * * * _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) * * * * * _all rights reserved_ first impression, august, _colonial press_ _electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co._ _boston, u.s.a._ _publishers' note_ the princess winsome, the part taken by the "little colonel" in the play called "the rescue of princess winsome" in "the little colonel's hero," has shared the popularity of the creator of the rôle. appealing to children because of its association with their favorite heroine, and to their parents because of its high moral tone and the beauty of its lines, the play has found great favor among children's clubs for their private theatricals, in many cases rivalling the success of the "little colonel" and her friends in obtaining funds for charitable purposes. in response to repeated requests, the publishers are glad to present the play in separate form, making it more easily accessible to young amateur actors and actresses. "_the rescue of the princess winsome_" characters original cast king rob moore. queen allison walton. prince hero keith macintyre. princess winsome lloyd sherman. knight malcolm macintyre. ogre joe clark. witch kitty walton. godmother elizabeth loyd lewis. frog-eye fearsome ranald walton. titania elise walton. bewitched prince. hero, the red cross dog chorus of fairies. { morning-glory. { pansy. { rose. flower messengers { forget-me-not. { poppy. { daisy. "_the rescue of the princess winsome_" act i. scene i. in the witch's orchard. frog-eye fearsome drags the captive prince and princess to the ogre's tower. at ogre's command witch brews spell to change prince hero into a dog. scene ii. in front of witch's orchard. king and queen bewail their loss. the godmother of princess promises aid. the knight starts in quest of the south wind's silver flute with which to summon the fairies to his help. act ii. scene i. in the tower room. princess winsome and hero. godmother brings spinning-wheel on which princess is to spin love's golden thread that shall rescue her brother. dove comes with letter from knight. flower messengers in turn report his progress. counting the daisy's petals the princess learns that her true knight has found the flute. act iii. scene i. in witch's orchard. knight returns from quest. blows the flute and summons titania and her train. they bind the ogre and witch in the golden thread the princess spun. knight demands the spell that binds the prince and plucks the seven golden plums from the silver apple-tree. prince becomes a prince again, and king gives the knight the hand of the princess and half of his kingdom. chorus of fairies. "_the rescue of the princess winsome_" act i. scene i. _witch bends over fire in middle of orchard, brewing a charm in her caldron. ogre stalks in, grinning frightfully, swinging his bludgeon in triumph_. _ogre_ ha, old witch, it is done at last! i have broken the king's stronghold! i have stolen away his children twain from the clutch of their guardsmen bold. i have dragged them here to my castle tower. prince hero is strong and fair. but he and his sister shall rue my power, when once up yon winding stair. _witch_ now why didst thou plot such a wicked thing? the children no harm have done. _ogre_ but i have a grudge 'gainst their father, the king, a grudge that is old as the sun. and hark ye, old hag, i must have thy aid before the new moon be risen. now brew me a charm in thy caldron black, that shall keep them fast in their prison! _witch_ i'll brew thee no charm, thou ogre dread! knowest thou not full well the princess thou hast stolen away is guarded by fairy spell? her godmother over her cradle bent. "o princess winsome," she said, "i give thee this gift: thou shalt deftly spin, as thou wishest, love's golden thread." so i dare not brew thee a spell 'gainst her. my caldron would grow acold and never again would bubble up, if touched by her thread of gold. _ogre_ then give me a charm to bind the prince. thou canst do that much at least. i'll give thee more gold than hands can hold, if thou'lt change him into some beast. _witch_ i have need of gold--so on the fire i'll pile my fagots higher and higher, and in the bubbling water stir this hank of hair, this patch of fur this feather and this flapping fin, this claw, this bone, this dried snake skin! bubble and boil and snake skin coil, this charm shall all plans but the ogre's foil. [_as witch stirs and sings, the ogre, stalking to the side, calls._ _ogre_ ho, frog-eye fearsome, let the sport begin! hence to the tower! drag the captives in! [_frog-eye fearsome drags prince hero and princess winsome across the stage, and into the door leading up the tower stair. they are bound by ropes. prince tries to reach his sword. princess shrieks._ _princess_ oh, save us, good, wise witch, in pity, save us, pray. the king, our royal father, thy goodness will repay. [_pulls back, wringing hand._ oh, i cannot, _cannot_ mount the tower! oh, save us from the bloody ogre's power! [_they are dragged into the tower, door bangs and ogre locks it with key a yard long. goes back to witch, who hands him vial filled from caldron with black mixture._ _witch_ pour drop by drop upon prince hero's tongue. first he will bark. his hands and feet will turn to paws, and he will seem a dog. seven drops will make the change complete. the poison has no antidote save one, and he a prince again can never be, unless seven silver plums he eats, plucked from my golden apple-tree. _ogre_ revenge is sweet, and soon 'twill be complete! then to my den i'll haste for gold to delve. i'll bring it at the black, bleak hour of twelve! _witch_ and i upon my broomstick now must fly to woodland tryst. come, hornèd owl and venomed toad! now play the spy! let no one through my orchard prowl. [_exit witch and ogre to dirge music._ scene ii. _enter king and queen weeping. they pace up and down, wringing hands, and showing great signs of grief. godmother enters from opposite side. king speaks._ _king_ good dame, godmother of our daughter dear, perhaps thou'st heard our tale of woe. our children twain are stolen away by ogre grim, mine ancient foe. all up and down the land we've sought for help to break into his tower. and now, our searching all for nought, we've come to beg the witch's power. [_godmother springs forward, finger to lip, and anxiously waves them away from orchard._ _godmother_ nay! nay! your majesty, go not within that orchard, now i pray! the witch and ogre are in league. they've wrought you fearful harm this day. she brewed a draught to change the prince into a dog! oh, woe is me! i passed the tower and heard him bark: alack! that i must tell it thee! [_queen shrieks and falls back in the king's arms, then recovering falls to wailing._ _queen_ my noble son a _dog_? a _beast_? it cannot, must not, _shall_ not be! i'll brave the ogre in his den, and plead upon my bended knee! _godmother_ thou couldst not touch his heart of stone. he'd keep _thee_ captive in his lair. the princess winsome can alone remove the cause of thy despair. and i unto the tower will climb, and ere is gone the sunset's red, shall bid her spin a counter charm-- a skein of love's own golden thread. take heart, o mother queen! be brave! take heart, o gracious king, i pray! well can she spin love's golden thread, and love can _always_ find a way! [_exit godmother._ _queen_ she's gone, good dame. but what if she has made mistake, and thread of gold is not enough to draw our son from out the ogre's cruel hold? canst think of nought, your majesty? of nothing else? must we stand here and powerless lift no hand to speed the rescue of our children dear? [_king clasps hand to his head in thought, then starts forward._ _king_ i have it now! this hour i'll send swift heralds through my wide domains, to say the knight who rescues them shall wed the princess for his pains. _queen_ quick! let us fly! i hear the sound of feet, as if some horseman were approaching nigher. 'twould not be seemly should he meet our royal selves so near the witch's fire. [_they start to run, but are met by knight on horseback in centre of stage. he dismounts and drops to one knee._ _king_ tis feal the faithful! rise, sir knight, and tell us what thou doest here! _knight_ o sire, i know your children's plight. i go to ease your royal fear. _queen_ now if thou bringst them back to us, a thousand blessings on thy head. _king_ ay, half my kingdom shall be thine. the princess winsome thou shalt wed. _queen_ but tell us, how dost thou think to cope with the ogre so dread and grim? what is the charm that bids thee hope thou canst rout and vanquish him? _knight_ my faithful heart is my only charm, but my good broadsword is keen, and love for the princess nerves my arm with the strength of ten, i ween. come weal, come woe, no knight can fail who goes at love's behest. long ere one moon shall wax and wane, i shall be back from my quest. i have only to find the south wind's flute. in the land of summer it lies. it can awaken the echoes mute, with answering replies. and it can summon the fairy folk who never have said me nay. they'll come to my aid at the flute's clear call. love _always_ can find a way. _king_ go, feal the faithful. it is well! successful mayst thou be, and all the way that thou dost ride, our blessings follow thee. [_curtain._ act ii. scene. _room in ogre's tower. princess winsome kneeling with arm around dog's neck._ _princess_ _art_ thou my brother? can it be that thou hast taken such shape? oh turn those sad eyes not on me! there _must_ be some escape. and yet our parents think us dead. no doubt they weep this very hour, for no one ever has escaped, ere this, the ogre's power. oh cruel fate! we can but die! each moment seems a week. _is_ there no hope? oh, hero dear, if thou couldst only speak! but no! within this tower room we're captive, and despair must settle on us. 'tis the doom of all dragged up yon winding stair. [_drops her head and weeps. enter godmother, who waves wand and throwing back curtain, displays a spinning-wheel._ _godmother_ rise, princess winsome, dry your weeping eyes. the way of escape within your own hand lies. waste no time in sorrow, spin and sing instead. spin for thy brother's sake, a skein of golden thread. question not the future, mourn not the past, but keep thy wheel a-turning, spinning well and fast. all the world helps gladly those who help themselves, and the thread thou spinnest, shall be woven by elves. all good things shall speed thee! thy knight, the faithful feal, is to thy rescue riding. up! to thy spinning-wheel! [_disappears behind curtain._ _princess_ all good things shall speed me? sir knight, the faithful feal, is to my rescue riding? [_in joyful surprise._ turn, turn, my spinning-wheel! (_she sings._) _spinning wheel song_ [illustration: spinning wheel song] . my godmother bids me spin, that my heart may not be sad. spin and sing for my brother's sake, and the spinning makes me glad. . spin, sing with humming whir, the wheel goes round and round. for my brother's sake, the charm i'll break, prince hero shall be found. spin, sing, the golden thread, gleams in the sun's bright ray, the humming wheel my grief can heal, for love will find a way. [_pauses with uplifted hand._ what's that at my casement tapping? some messenger, maybe. pause, good wheel, in thy turning, while i look out and see. [_opens casement and leans out, as if welcoming a carrier dove, which may be concealed in basket outside window._ little white dove, from my faithful knight, dost thou bring a message to me? little white dove with the white, white breast, what may that message be? [_finds note, tied to wing._ here is his letter. ah, well-a-day! i'll open it now, and read. little carrier dove, with fluttering heart, i'm a happy maiden, indeed. (_she reads._) "o princess fair, in the ogre's tower, in the far-off summer-land i seek the south wind's silver flute, to summon a fairy band. now send me a token by the dove that thou hast read my note. send me the little heart of gold from the chain about thy throat. and i shall bind it upon my shield, my talisman there to stay. and then all foes to me must yield, for love will find the way. here is set the hand and seal of thy own true knight, the faithful--feal." [_princess takes locket from throat and winds chain around dove's neck._ _princess sings_ _the dove song_ [illustration: the dove song] now, flutter and fly, flutter and fly, bear him my heart of gold, bid him be brave little carrier dove! bid him be brave and bold! tell him that i at my spinning wheel, will sing while it turns and hums, and think all day of his love so leal, until with the flute he comes. now fly, flutter and fly, now flutter and fly away, away. [_sets dove at liberty. turning to wheel again, repeats song._ _princess repeats_ my godmother bids me spin, that my heart may not be sad; spin and sing for my brother's sake, and the spinning makes me glad. sing! spin! with hum and whir the wheel goes round and round. for my brother's sake the charm i'll break! prince hero shall be found. spin! sing! the golden thread gleams in the sunlight's ray! the humming wheel my grief can heal, for love will find a way. [_first messenger appears at window, dressed as a morning-glory._ _morning-glory_ fair princess, this morning, when the early dawn was flushing all the sky, beside the trellis where i bloomed, a knight rode slowly by. he stopped and plucked me from my stem, and said, "sweet morning-glory, be thou my messenger to-day, and carry back my story. "go bid the princess in the tower forget all thought of sorrow. her true knight will return to her with joy, on some glad morrow." [_disappears._ _princess sings_ spin! spin! the golden thread holds no thought of sorrow. my true knight he shall come to me with joy on some glad morrow. [_second flower messenger, dressed as pansy, appears at window._ _pansy_ gracious princess, i come from feal the faithful. he plucked me from my bower, and said, speed to the princess and say, "like this sweet flower the thoughts within my bosom bloom ever, love, of thee. oh, read the pansy's message, and give a thought to me." [_pansy disappears._ _princess sings_ spin, spin, o golden thread! and turn, o humming wheel. this pansy is his thought of me, my true knight, brave and leal. [_third flower messenger, a pink rose._ _rose_ thy true knight battled for thee to-day, on a fierce and bloody field, but he won at last in the hot affray, by the heart of gold on his shield. he saw me blushing beside a wall, my petals pink in the sun with pleasure, because such a valiant knight the hard-fought battle had won. and he kissed me once on my soft pink cheek, and once in my heart of gold, and bade me hasten to thee and speak. pray take the message i hold. [_princess goes to the window, takes a pink rose from the messenger. as she walks back, kisses it and fastens it on her dress. then turns to wheel again._ _princess sings_ spin, spin, o golden thread, and turn, o happy wheel. the pink rose brought in its heart of gold a kiss, his love to seal. [_fourth messenger, a forget-me-not._ _forget-me-not_ fair princess, down by the brook, when the sun was low, a brave knight paused to slake his thirst in the water's silver flow, as he journeyed far for thy sake. he saw me bending above the stream, and he said, "oh, happy spot! ye show me the princess winsome's eyes in each blue forget-me-not." he bade me bring you my name to hide in your heart of hearts for ever, and say as long as its blooms are blue, no power true hearts can sever. _princess sings_ spin, spin, o golden thread. o wheel, my happy lot it is to hide within my heart that name, forget-me-not. [_fifth messenger, a poppy._ _poppy_ dear princess winsome, within the shade of a forest glade he laid him down to sleep, and i, the poppy, kept faithful guard that it might be sweet and deep. but oft in his dreams he stirred and spoke, and thy name was on his tongue, and i learned his secret ere he woke, when the fair new day was young. and this is what he, whispering, said, as he journeyed on in his way: "bear her my dreams in your chalice red, for i dream of her night and day." _princess sings_ spin, spin, o golden thread. he dreams of me night and day! the poppy's chalice is sweet and red. oh, love will find a way! [_sixth messenger, a daisy_. _daisy_ o princess fair, far on the edge of the summer-land i stood with my face to the sun, and the brave knight counted with strong hand my petals, one by one. and he said, "o daisy, white and gold, the princess must count them too. by thy petals shall she be told if my long, far quest is through. "whether or not her knight has found the south wind's flute that he sought." so over the hills from the summer-land, your true knight's token i've brought. [_gives princess a large artificial daisy. she counts petals, slowly dropping them one by one_. _princess_ far on the edge of the summer-land, o daisy, white and gold, my true love held you in his hand. what was the word he told? he's found it. found it not. found it. found it not. that magic flute of the south wind, sweet, will he blow it, over the lea? will the fairy folk its call repeat, and hasten to rescue me? he's found it, found it not. found it, found it not. found it, found it not. he's _found_ it! [_turning to the dog._ come, hero! hear me, brother mine; thy gladness must indeed be mute, but oh, the joy! we're saved! we're saved! my knight has found the silver flute! (_sings_.) "_spin, wheel, reel out thy golden thread_" [illustration: spin, wheel, reel out thy golden thread] spin, wheel, reel out thy golden thread, my happy heart sings glad and gay,... hero shall 'scape the ogre dread, and i my own true love shall wed, for love has found a way, for love has found a way. [_curtain._ act iii. scene. _in front of witch's orchard. knight comes riding by, blows flute softly under the tower window. princess leans out and waves her hand. knight dismounts, and little page takes horse, leading it off stage._ _knight_ lean out of thy window, o princess fair, rescuers now are at hand. thou shalt be led down the winding stair by the queen of the fairy band. listen, as low on the south wind's flute i call the elves to our tryst. down rainbow bubbles they softly float, light-winged as stars in a mist. [_he blows a flute, and from every direction the fairies come floating in, their gauzy wings spangled, and each one carrying a toy balloon, attached to a string. they trip back and forth, their balloons bobbing up and down like rainbow bubbles, singing._ _fairy chorus_ [illustration: fairy chorus] we come, we come at thy call, on rainbow bubbles we float. we fairies, one and all, have answer'd the wind flute's note. . the south wind's silver flute, from the far-off summer land, it bade us hasten here, to lend a helping hand. it bade us hasten, hasten here, to lend a helping hand. . to the aid of the gallant knight, to the help of the princess fair, to the rescue of the prince, we come to the ogre's lair. to the rescue of the prince, we come to the ogre's lair. . and now, at thy behest, we pause in our bright array, to end thy weary quest, for love has found a way, to end thy weary, weary quest, for love has found a way. [_queen titania coming forward, waves her star-tipped-wand, and looks up toward princess at the window._ _titania_ princess winsome, when thy good godmother bade thee spin love's thread, it was with this promise, these the words she said: all the world helps gladly those who help themselves. the thread thou spinnest bravely, shall be woven by elves. and now, o princess winsome, how much hast thou spun, as thy wheel, a-whirling, turned from sun to sun? _princess_ this, o queen titania. [_holding up mammoth ball._ to the humming wheel's refrain, i sang, and spun the measure of one great golden skein. and winding, winding, winding, at last i wound it all, until the thread all golden made a mammoth wonder-ball. _titania_ here below thy casement thy true knight waiting stands. drop the ball thou holdest into his faithful hands. [_princess drops the ball, knight catches it, and as titania waves her wand, he starts along the line of fairies. they each take hold as the witch and ogre come darting in, she brandishing her broomstick, he his bludgeon. they come through gate of the orchard in the background. as the ball unwinds, the fairies march around them, tangling them in the yards and yards of narrow yellow ribbon, singing as they go._ _fairy chorus_ we come, we come at thy call, on rainbow bubbles we float. we fairies, one and all, have answered the wind-flute's note. to the aid of the gallant knight, to the help of the princess fair, to the rescue of the prince, we come to the ogre's lair. we come, we come at thy call, the witch and ogre to quell, and now they both must bow to the might of the fairies' spell. love's golden thread can bind the strongest ogre's arm, and the spell of the blackest witch must yield to its mighty charm. [_ogre and witch stand bound and helpless, tangled in golden cord. they glower around with frightful grimaces. king and queen enter unnoticed from side. knight draws his sword, and brandishing it before ogre, cries out fiercely._ _knight_ the key! the key that opens yonder tower! now give it me, or by my troth your head shall from your shoulders fly! to stab you through i'm nothing loath! [_ogre gives knight the key. he rushes to the door, unlocks it, and princess and dog burst out. queen rushes forward and embraces her, then the king, and knight kneels and kisses her hand. princess turns to titania._ _princess_ oh, happy day that sets me free from yon dread ogre's prison! oh, happy world, since 'tis for me such rescuers have 'risen. but see, your majesty! the plight of hero--he the prince, my brother! wilt thou _his_ wrong not set aright? another favour grant! one other! [_titania waves wand toward knight who springs at witch with drawn sword_. _knight_ the spell! the spell that breaks the power that holds prince hero in its thrall! now give it me, or in this hour thy head shall from its shoulders fall! _witch_ pluck with your thumbs seven silver plums [_speaking in high, cracked voice_. from my golden apple-tree! these the dog must eat. the change will be complete, and a prince once more the dog will be! [_princess darts back into orchard, followed by dog, who crouches behind hedge, and is seen no more. she picks plums, and, stooping, gives them to him, under cover of the hedge. the real prince hero leaps up from the place where he has been lying, waiting, and hand in hand they run back to the centre of the stage, where the prince receives the embraces of king and queen. prince then turns to knight_. _prince hero_ hail, feal the faithful! my gratitude i cannot tell, that thou at last hast freed me from the witch's fearful spell. but wheresoe'er thou goest, thou faithful knight and true, the favours of my kingdom shall all be showered on you. [_turns to titania._ hail, starry-winged titania! and ye fairies, rainbow-hued! i have not words sufficient to tell my gratitude, but if the loyal service of a mortal ye should need, prince hero lives to serve you, no matter what the deed! [_characters now group themselves in tableau. queen and prince on one side. godmother and titania on the other. king in centre, with princess on one hand, knight on other. he places her hand in the knight's, who kneels to receive it. ogre and witch, still making horrible faces, are slightly in background, bound. fairies form an outer semi-circle_. _king_ and now, brave knight, requited stand! here is the princess winsome's hand. to-morrow thou shalt wedded be, and half my kingdom is for thee! _fairy chorus_ love's golden cord has bound the strongest ogre's arm, and the spell of the blackest witch has yielded to its charm. the princess winsome plights her troth to the knight to-day, so fairies, one and all, we need no longer stay. the golden thread is spun, the knight has won his bride, and now our task is done, we may no longer bide. on rainbow bubbles bright, we fairies float away. _the wrong is now set right_ _and love has found the way!_ _curtain._ transcriber's note minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. a printer error has been changed and is listed at the end. dramatic reader for lower grades by florence holbrook new york cincinnati chicago american book company copyright, , by florence holbrook. entered at stationers' hall, london. holbrook's dramatic reader. to the children these little plays--well-known stories done into dialogue--were written for children who like to imagine themselves living with their favorite characters in forest, in palace, or in fairyland. it is hoped that you will enjoy these old friends in their new dress almost as well as you loved them in the old. when you read the words of bird or tree or prince or child, try to speak with the voice and manner which you think that character would use. thus you will make the reading a joy to yourselves and a great satisfaction to your hearers. to try to put oneself in the place of another is very good training for the imagination. it also teaches us to be more kind to others and to all living creatures. we learn that most persons are striving to do better and to be better, and we grow in understanding and sympathy. may these little plays help you to the enjoyment of the great dramas which you will read when you are older. florence holbrook contents page little red riding-hood goldilocks, or the three bears the bird with the broken wing cornelia and her jewels cinderella the pied piper mother goose's party little two-eyes the days of the week hÄnsel and gretel king alfred robin hood and the sad knight william tell time and the seasons the gingerbread man the good fairy a dramatic reader little red riding-hood persons in the play--little red riding-hood, mother, bird, wolf, miller, grandmother scene i.--_at red riding-hood's home_ _mother._ would you like to go to grandmother's to-day, my child? the sun is bright and the air is warm and pleasant. _little red riding-hood._ yes, mother, you know i always like to visit dear grandmamma. _mother._ then you may go. you may carry your little basket, and i'll put some honey and a jar of butter in it for grandma. _little red riding-hood._ oh, that will be a nice present for her! and may i take her some flowers? _mother._ yes, dear child. gather some of those you like best. _little red riding-hood._ here they are, mother--roses and pansies! aren't they pretty? _mother._ very pretty and sweet. now put on your little red cloak and take the basket. be very careful as you pass through the wood, and go directly to grandma's house. _little red riding-hood._ yes, dear mother. nothing will harm me. all the birds and animals love me and i love them. _mother._ good-by, little daughter. give me a kiss and take my love to dear grandmother. _little red riding-hood._ good-by, mamma: good-by! scene ii.--_in the wood_ _little red riding-hood (singing)._ good morning, merry sunshine, how did you come so soon? you chase the little stars away and shine away the moon. i saw you go to sleep last night before i ceased my playing. how did you get 'way over there, and where have you been staying? how pretty it is here in the wood! oh, what a lovely bed of moss! you must come with me, pretty green moss, to grandma's house. good morning, pretty bird: will you sing to me this morning? _bird._ yes, little red riding-hood. i will sing to you because you love all the birds and can understand my song. soon i'll show you my little birds who are just big enough to fly. _little red riding-hood._ thank you, dear bird, i shall be glad to see the cunning little things. but now i must hurry to grandmother's with the butter and the honey. good-by! _bird._ good-by, little friend! chirp, chirp; chirp, chirp! _little red riding-hood._ now the little bird has flown away. i must put this moss in my basket and then hurry along-- _wolf._ ugh, ugh! _little red riding-hood._ oh! how you frightened me, mister wolf! where did you come from? _wolf._ from my pretty cave, far, far in the dark wood, little girl. what is your name? _little red riding-hood._ why, don't you know me? i'm little red riding-hood. _wolf._ i'm a stranger in this place, little girl; but i shall know you the next time i see you--ugh, ugh! what have you in your pretty basket, little red riding-hood? it smells like honey. _little red riding-hood._ it _is_ honey, mr. wolf. i am taking it to my dear grandmother. _wolf._ are you all alone in the wood, my child? isn't your mother with you? aren't you afraid? [illustration] _little red riding-hood._ afraid? no, indeed! why should i be afraid? all the animals are my friends. _wolf._ oh, yes, of course they are all your friends! but is it far to your grandmother's house? _little red riding-hood._ no, mr. wolf, only about half a mile. you go down this path to the mill and then turn to the right, and the first house you come to is my grandmother's. it's a little red house. _wolf._ oh, that is very easy to find! but i know a shorter way through the wood. let us run a race and see who will get there first. _little red riding-hood._ all right, mr. wolf. good-by! _wolf._ ugh, ugh; good-by! _little red riding-hood._ how fast he runs! i know he will win the race. how surprised dear grandma will be when mr. wolf knocks at the door! now i see the mill. i will sing the pretty mill song we learned in school the other day. [_begins to sing, then stops suddenly._] oh, there is the miller. good morning, mr. miller! have you seen mr. wolf go by? _miller._ no, little red riding-hood. have you seen a wolf in the wood? _little red riding-hood._ yes, mr. miller, and he said he would race with me to my grandmother's house. _miller._ my dear child, i will call the men who are chopping trees in the forest and they will catch mr. wolf. he is no friend of ours, and you must not talk with him, for he is cruel and will do you harm. _little red riding-hood._ will he? then i will never say another word to him. but i must hurry on to dear grandmother's. scene iii.--_grandmother's house_ _little red riding-hood._ here i am at the door; i will knock. may i come in, dear grandmother? _wolf_ (_in the house_). open the latch and walk in. _little red riding-hood._ here i am, dear grandmother! i am so glad the bad wolf did not get here first. are you so sick you must stay in bed? see the nice butter and honey that mother sent you. and see the pretty flowers i've brought you. _wolf._ thank you, my child. _little red riding-hood._ how rough your voice is, grandmother! _wolf._ that's because i've such a bad cold. _little red riding-hood._ but how bright your eyes are, grandmother! _wolf._ the better to see you, my child. _little red riding-hood._ how long your arms are, grandmother! _wolf._ the better to hold you, my child. _little red riding-hood._ and how big your teeth are, grandmother! _wolf._ the better to eat you--ugh! ugh! [_the miller and the wood choppers rush in._] _mr. miller._ here's an end to you, mr. wolf! these men with their axes will stop your cruel deeds. [_the wolf runs out, followed by the men._] come, little red riding-hood, don't be afraid. the wolf can't harm you now. here is your grandmother, who has just come home from the village. she will take care of you. [illustration] _little red riding-hood._ dear grandmother! i thought that the wolf was you. _grandmother._ darling little red riding-hood! how glad i am that you are safe. now you must stay with me till your mother comes, and we will tell her how the brave men saved you and me from the hungry wolf. won't she be glad to see her little red riding-hood again? goldilocks, or the three bears persons in the play--goldilocks, the dollie, father bear, mother bear, baby bear scene i.--_goldilocks in the garden with her doll_ _goldilocks._ o dear! i do wish mother would come home. i am going to meet her. she told me not to go out of the garden lest i should get lost; but if i keep in the road, i _can't_ get lost! come, dollie, you and i will go just a little way to meet mamma. how warm it is in the sunshine! i think we shall go into the shady wood a little while. let us pick some of these pretty flowers to make a wreath--won't mother be surprised when i show her all these flowers. here is a lovely red one; and here's another like a daisy. how dark it is here! i cannot see the road. i wonder if i'm lost! o mamma, mamma! i'm afraid. dear dollie, i'm glad you are with me. _dollie._ but i'm afraid, too! _goldilocks._ please, dear dollie, don't be afraid. why, there's nothing to be afraid of--oh! _dollie._ what is the matter, goldilocks? _goldilocks._ look, what is that? _dollie._ i don't see anything. _goldilocks._ i thought i saw a bear. _dollie._ well, i hope not. i don't like bears. _goldilocks._ but there is a little house. isn't it a funny little house? i wonder who lives there! _dollie._ dear goldilocks, please, don't you think we'd better go home? i don't like strange little houses in the wood. _goldilocks._ perhaps a kind fairy lives there who will show us the way home. _dollie._ yes, or perhaps she is the gingerbread witch who will turn us into gingerbread for her supper! _goldilocks._ don't say such uncomfortable things, dollie. she couldn't turn you into gingerbread, anyway. _dollie._ well, i know i'm made of sawdust, but she might make mush of me for breakfast! _goldilocks._ i know you're fooling now, dear dollie. let's look in the window. i don't see anyone. i'll knock at the door. no one answers. come, dollie, we'll open the door and walk in. how nice and warm it is. there is a good fire in the kitchen stove. _dollie._ yes, and i smell something good to eat. _goldilocks._ here it is on the table--what pretty bowls--one, two, three! i'll taste the porridge in the big bowl first. o dollie, it is too hot! i burned my mouth. _dollie._ try the next bowl. perhaps the porridge in the middle-sized bowl is not so hot. _goldilocks._ no, indeed, it isn't; but it is too cold. _dollie._ aren't you hard to please? i'm so hungry i could eat anything. [illustration] _goldilocks._ now this in the little bowl is just right. sit down, dollie, and we'll eat it all up. _dollie._ do you think it is very polite for us to eat it all? _goldilocks._ you should have spoken of that before. it is too late now when it is all gone. come, let us go into the parlor. _dollie._ don't you think we'd better go home? _goldilocks._ how can we when i don't know the way? i'm tired, and i think i'll rest awhile in this nice big rocking-chair. but it's too high; i can't get into it. _dollie._ don't move it out of its place. _goldilocks._ never mind! i'll try the middle-sized chair. i don't like this, it is too low. _dollie._ well, goldilocks, you must not put chairs out of their places! [illustration] _goldilocks._ oh, it won't hurt them. now let us try this pretty little chair. come, dollie, i'll sing you a song: rock-a-bye, dollie, in the treetop, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock; when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall and down will come dollie, cradle and all! [_chair breaks._] _dollie._ well, something broke then! _goldilocks._ yes, the cradle and all came down that time. dear, o dear! i wish i hadn't rocked you so hard. i wish i hadn't run away! [_crying._] _dollie._ don't cry, dear goldilocks. let us see what we can find in the next room. perhaps some one is in there who will take us to your dear mother. _goldilocks._ o dollie! i'm a naughty girl not to mind my mother. if i'd only stayed at home in the garden! _dollie._ oh, see the big bed! _goldilocks._ i'm so tired i believe i'll climb in and go to sleep. but i don't like it. this big bed is too hard. _dollie._ and this middle-sized one is too soft. _goldilocks._ but this little one is _just right_. go--to--sleep--dollie-- scene ii.--_the bear family in the wood_ _father bear._ well, little son, aren't you about ready to go home? _sonny bear._ oh, no, father! let me play just a little longer. here are such good places to hide in the shady wood. _mother bear._ no, dear little sonny, we must go home now. it is getting late. it's time for you to have your supper and go to bed. _sonny bear._ all right, mother dear. i believe i am hungry, and your porridge is always so good. _mother bear._ most children like porridge. perhaps you can have a nice red apple, too. _sonny bear._ oh, goody! little sonny bears always like apples, don't they, papa? _father bear._ yes, my dear. mother, let me take your knitting basket. what are you making now? _mother bear._ a warm cap for sonny. isn't it pretty? _father bear._ very pretty, and he should be very glad he has such a good mother. _sonny bear._ she _is_ a good mother, and you are a very good father, too. _father bear._ well, here we are at home again. but the door is open. i'm certain i closed it when we went away. who has been here? _mother bear._ let us take off our wraps and have our tea. _father bear._ why, somebody has been tasting my porridge. _mother bear._ what? let me see! some one has left a spoon in my porridge, too. _sonny bear._ oh, mamma! look at my bowl! some one has eaten my porridge all up. _mother bear._ never mind, sonny boy, you may have some of mine. but i wonder who has been here. let us go into the parlor and see if anyone is there. _father bear_. who's been moving my chair? _mother bear._ some one has been sitting in my chair! _sonny bear._ look, mother! some one has been rocking in my chair and broken it all to pieces! o dear! my nice little chair! _father bear._ never mind, sonny bear; don't cry. i'll buy you another chair at mr. wolf's store to-morrow. _mother bear._ and now it is time for us to go to bed. our little son is tired and sleepy. _father bear._ i'll carry him up stairs. come, sonny, there you are up on my shoulder. ride a cock horse to banbury cross to see an old woman ride on a white horse. with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she shall have music wherever she goes! well, who's been in my bed, i'd like to know? _mother bear._ why, look at my bed. some one has been lying on my bed! _sonny bear._ come quick, mother! father, come! some one is in my bed. [illustration] _goldilocks_ (_waking and frightened_). oh, see the three bears. come, dollie, let us jump out of the window. [_runs away._] _mother bear._ the little girl has gone, dear. now you must go to sleep. the bird with the broken wing persons in the play--the bird, the oak tree, the maple, the willow, the spruce, the pine, the juniper, the forest fairy, jack frost scene i.--_in the woods_ _the oak._ see that flock of birds coming! the winter is near and they are flying south. _the maple._ i hope they will not light on my branches; i like to keep my leaves in order. _the willow._ so many birds will break my tender twigs. i am sure i do not want them either. here they come! [_the birds fly over the trees._] _little bird._ oh, i can fly no farther! my wing is broken and i cannot hold it up. i am so tired and cold and hungry! i must rest to-night in this forest. i am sure some big strong tree will give me a resting place. i will ask this tall oak, he looks so strong and his leaves are so thick and warm! may i rest in your branches to-night, great oak tree? i am a poor little bird with a broken wing and i am cold and tired and hungry. _the oak._ i am sorry; but my branches are all engaged by the squirrels, who are getting their acorns in for the winter. i have no room for strange birds. _little bird._ oh! i am so lonely, so tired! surely the handsome maple tree will take me in. she has no acorns and so the squirrels will not be in her branches. kind, lovely maple tree, may i rest to-night in your branches? i am a poor little bird with a broken wing. i will not harm your pretty leaves. _the maple._ my leaves tremble to think of taking in strange birds! my house is in perfect order and i cannot think of disturbing it. please go away! _little bird._ oh, what shall i do? the oak and the maple are so unkind and i am shivering with cold and weak with hunger. surely _some_ tree must be kind. dear willow, you are kind, are you not? will you take me upon your graceful branches just for to-night? _the willow._ really, mr. bird with the broken wing, i think you should have gone on with the other birds. i cannot take you in. i do not know your name or anything about you. besides, i am very sleepy, and so, good night! _little bird._ oh, my dear bird friends, how i wish some of you were here! i shall perish with the cold if i must stay on the ground. where can i go? the oak, the maple, and the willow have all turned me away and the night is coming on. _the spruce._ dear little bird with the broken wing, come to me! can you hop up into my branches if i hold them down to you? see, here i am! i am not so handsome as the maple tree, but my leaves grow thick and i'll try to keep you warm through the night. come! [illustration] _little bird._ dear spruce tree, how kind you are! i did not see you at first. yes, here i am, on your lowest branch. how cosy and warm i feel. oh, you are so good, and i was so tired and cold. here i'll rest. i wish i could ever thank you enough for your goodness. _the spruce._ do not speak of that, dear little bird; i am ashamed of the proud, selfish trees that would not shelter you. should we not all be kind and helpful to one another? _the pine._ well said, sister spruce. and i will do my best to help you. i am not so strong as the oak tree, little bird, but i will stand between you and the cold north wind. rest warm and safe in the branches of the kind spruce tree. _little bird._ i thank you, tall pine tree, for your kindness. you are a good brother of the spruce and i shall rest well while you are both taking care of me. _the juniper._ i cannot keep the strong north wind from you, little bird with the broken wing, but if you are hungry, you may eat of my berries. perhaps then you will rest better. _little bird._ thank you, dear juniper tree. why are you all so kind to me? your berries are good, and now i am cold and hungry no longer. i'll go to sleep. good night, dear trees! _trees._ good night, little bird, and may you have sweet dreams! [illustration] scene ii.--_midnight in the forest_ _jack frost._ here i am in the great forest. how i dislike to touch all these beautiful leaves; yet i must obey the orders of king winter. here comes the forest fairy. do you know why i have come, dear fairy of the forest? _forest fairy._ yes, mr. frost. i know that you must touch all the leaves, turning them into brilliant hues of gold and crimson and brown. i dislike to have them go, and yet you and i must obey the commands of king winter. but,-- _jack frost._ but what, dear fairy? you speak as if you had some wish to make--what is it? _forest fairy._ i must tell you. such a dear little bird came to the forest this evening. he had a broken wing, and he was cold and very tired. he asked shelter from the great oak, the proud maple, and the graceful willow,--and all refused. i was so ashamed of my trees! _jack frost._ what! did all the trees refuse to help a poor, tired little bird? _forest fairy._ listen! just as i was intending to speak to the trees, i heard the spruce tell him to come to her branches and she would give him shelter. then the pine tree offered to keep the north wind from him, and the juniper gave him her berries to eat. could you, dear jack frost-- _jack frost._ yes, yes, i know what you would ask. such kindness as this should meet with some reward. the leaves of the proud oak, the maple, and the willow shall fall to the ground when the cold of winter comes; but the spruce, the pine, the juniper, and all their family shall keep their leaves and they shall be green all through the year. they shall be called the evergreen trees. cornelia and her jewels persons in the play--cornelia, nydia the maid, julia, elder son, younger son scene.--_home of cornelia_ _nydia._ madam, the lady julia waits to salute you. _cornelia._ bid her enter, i pray. it is not fitting to have her wait. _nydia._ she is at the door, gracious madam. _cornelia._ welcome, thrice welcome, fair julia. [_nydia carries julia's casket._] _julia._ thanks, dear cornelia, for your kind greeting. may you and all your household have peace and joy. _cornelia._ and may those blessings be yours also, dear julia. but tell me, what treasures have you in that charming casket? _julia._ a few poor jewels, fair friend. bring me the casket, nydia. these are some presents my parents and husband have given me. _cornelia._ i am so glad you have brought them to show me. you are very kind, for you know i greatly admire beautiful jewels. _julia._ see, here is a pearl necklace. _cornelia._ how lovely! let me clasp it about your neck. it is very becoming. and what other gems have you? _julia._ here is a girdle my mother gave me for a wedding present. isn't it pretty? _cornelia._ pretty! my dear, it is exquisite! your mother showed much good taste when she chose this for you. _julia._ and here are some rings from the far east. see these emeralds and rubies; how they flash in the sunlight! _cornelia._ how well they look on your white hands! but i see something else. _julia._ yes, this is my handsomest jewel, a diamond bracelet. this i like best of all. _cornelia._ they are all lovely, my dear friend, and i am glad you have such beautiful things. _julia._ but, dear cornelia, where are your jewels? all rome knows how rich your famous father, scipio, was, and surely he gave you many handsome ornaments. please show them to me. _cornelia._ oh, no, dear friend. but hark! i think i hear my sons. nydia, tell them i wish to see them. _nydia._ here are the children, madam. _the boys_ (_running in_). dear mother! darling mother! _cornelia._ tell me, my caius, what did the pedagogue teach you to-day? _caius._ o mother! it was wonderful! he told us how horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old. wasn't that a great and noble deed, mother mine? _cornelia._ yes, my darling. and you, my tiberius, have you been pleased with your lessons? [illustration: cornelia and her jewels] _tiberius._ mother, how you must honor our grandfather, the noble scipio! our teacher told the boys of his great campaigns in africa and how the senate called him africanus after the war was over. _cornelia._ yes, my son, such work and such lives are lessons worthy of study. they teach the young how they too may live and die for their beloved country. _caius._ i shall try to be a brave man some day, too, dear mother. _tiberius._ and i, mother, shall try to be worthy of our noble family. _cornelia._ my dear, noble boys! julia, these are my jewels. _julia._ how you shame my vanity, noble cornelia! what are all the precious stones in the world compared with these noble boys! daughter of the famous scipio, the world will remember you through the great deeds of your sons, and all mankind will honor you as cornelia, mother of the gracchi. cinderella persons in the play--cinderella, mother, father, katherine, elizabeth, fairy godmother, prince, herald scene i.--_cinderella's home_ _mother._ i am so glad we are all invited to the ball at the prince's palace. you know, my dear, that it will be a great pleasure for our girls. _father._ yes; and i suppose you will all have to buy new ball dresses. _katherine._ o mamma! isn't it lovely! may i have a blue silk dress? _elizabeth._ and may i have pink, dear mother? and shall we get them to-day? _mother._ yes, my child; and you may both go with me to buy your dresses and slippers. _cinderella._ dear papa, may i go to the ball at the prince's palace? _father._ you, my child! aren't you too young for parties? ask your mother. _cinderella._ may i go to the ball, mother? _mother._ nonsense, child! what are you thinking of? a ball is no place for a child like you. you are better off at home by the kitchen fire. _cinderella._ but i'm fourteen. sister katherine, won't you coax mamma to let me go? _katherine._ no, indeed, i'll not! what would you do at a ball? a silly thing like you! _elizabeth._ don't be a goose. wait till you're older and better looking. there's no room in the carriage for you, and you are too young, anyway. _mother._ come, girls, it is time for us to go down town to buy our new gowns. cinderella, go to your lessons. don't think any more about the ball. you can't go, and so that's the end of it. scene ii.--_cinderella's home_ _father._ come, girls! aren't you ready yet? is your mother coming? _katherine._ yes, father, in just a minute. _mother._ here we are, dear. don't the girls look sweet? _father._ yes, yes! but, come on, for we are late now. _mother._ good night, cinderella. be a good girl and go to bed at nine o'clock. [_all go out, leaving cinderella alone._] _cinderella._ good-by!--now they have gone and i am all alone. oh, why couldn't i go, too! how pretty they all looked! i would not take up much room, and i don't like to be left here by myself when they are having such a good time. oh, dear! i believe i'm going to cry, but i can't help it. [_cries._] [_enter fairy godmother._] _fairy godmother._ why are you crying, cinderella? _cinderella._ who is that? i thought i heard some one speaking to me, but i can't see anybody. _fairy godmother._ what is the matter, cinderella? _cinderella._ oh, _lovely_ lady! who are you? _fairy godmother._ i am your fairy godmother, my child, and i wish to know why you are crying. _cinderella._ oh, dear! i'm crying because they have all gone to the ball; and i wanted to go, too, and they wouldn't take me! _fairy godmother._ never mind, my dear. stop crying, and i will let you go. _cinderella._ oh, dear fairy godmamma! will you, really? but how _can_ i go in this old dress? _fairy godmother._ you'll see. tell me, cinderella, have you a big yellow pumpkin in the kitchen garden? _cinderella._ yes, i think so. i saw one there yesterday. _fairy godmother._ go, get it for me. _cinderella_ (_runs out, and returns with the pumpkin_). i've found it! here it is! [illustration] _fairy godmother._ yes, that is a fine pumpkin. i'll touch it with my wand. what is it now? [_the pumpkin is changed to a carriage._] _cinderella._ oh! oh! how lovely! such a beautiful, big, yellow coach! why, it is much finer than papa's black carriage. _fairy godmother._ i am glad you like your coach. now do you think there are any rats in your rat trap? _cinderella._ i'll go see. yes, here is the trap with two big rats in it. what long tails they have! _fairy godmother._ wait till i touch them with my fairy wand. now what do you see? _cinderella._ oh, dear godmother! what a wonderful wand to change rats into great handsome horses with long manes and tails! you dear horses! i'll get you some sugar to eat. _fairy godmother._ don't stop to pet them now, but fetch me the mousetrap. _cinderella._ here it is with two cunning little mice in it. what will you do with them? _fairy godmother._ touch them with my fairy wand and turn them into a coachman and a footman. see, the coachman is on the box with the reins in his hand, and the footman holds the door open for you. will you step in, cinderella? _cinderella._ in _these_ clothes, dear godmother? _fairy godmother_ (_laughing_). that wouldn't be nice, would it? well, let us see what my wand can do for you. now look in the glass and tell me what you see there. _cinderella._ oh, what a pretty lady! why, i do believe she is myself! what a beautiful dress! and look, dear godmother! see my pretty glass slippers! _fairy godmother._ yes, my dear, you are all ready for the prince's ball. i want you to have a happy time, but remember this. you must start for home when the clock strikes twelve or your pretty clothes will change, your coach will turn into a pumpkin, your horses to rats, and you will have to walk home. _cinderella._ i'll remember, dear godmother, and run away on the first stroke. thank you so much! good-by! [_enters the coach and is driven away._] scene iii.--_the prince's palace_ _cinderella._ here i am at the palace. please announce me as the lady from far away. _herald._ the lady from far away! _prince._ what a lovely lady! she must be a princess. tell me, fair lady, are you a princess from the land of flowers? _cinderella._ i am not a princess, sir, but only a girl from the land of happy thoughts. _prince._ you say well, fair lady, for no one can look upon you without thoughts of love and joy. _cinderella._ and you, great prince, have thoughts of great and noble deeds, have you not? _prince._ yes, i have thoughts of great deeds, of brave men and fair ladies, of games and victories,--but now i have forgotten all but you. _cinderella._ will you remember me to-morrow or shall i fade away like the dreams of night? [illustration] _prince._ no dreams could be fairer, but i hope you will not vanish as they do. if you do, i am quite sure that i shall find you! _cinderella._ don't be too sure, for i am not what i seem. i am a princess only in your thoughts; really i am-- _prince._ what? a flower, a star, a goddess? _cinderella._ no, only a woman-- _prince._ the best of all, a woman! and now will the dream-woman dance with me? _cinderella._ with pleasure; what lovely music!--and so many pretty women. what beautiful rooms! [_cinderella, the prince, her father, mother, sisters, and two gentlemen dance the minuet._] _prince._ will you not tell me your name and where you live? _cinderella._ both are a secret. _prince._ it makes no difference to me, for i know you, and that is enough. _cinderella._ i hear the clock! what hour is it striking? _prince._ twelve--but that is early. you need not go? _cinderella._ yes, i must, and quietly. do not try to keep me, prince--good night! _prince._ she is gone! and i do not know where she lives. how can i find her? i'll give another ball and hope she will come again. [_all go out._] scene iv.--_cinderella's home_ _father._ well, girlies, did you have a pleasant time at the ball? _katherine._ oh, yes, papa, splendid! but did you see the lovely princess that came so late? _elizabeth._ she was the prettiest girl there. i wonder who she is! _mother._ so do i. it seems to me i've seen her somewhere. perhaps i've met her in my travels; but i can't remember where it was. _father._ what is her name? _katherine._ i heard some one say she was lady far away. but that's not a real name. _elizabeth._ perhaps she is a princess in disguise. _cinderella._ tell me, sister, how this princess looked. _elizabeth._ oh! she is lovely! golden curls and blue eyes and such a sweet smile! _katherine._ she wore a beautiful dress that shone like the moonlight. _elizabeth._ did you notice her pretty slippers? they looked like crystal. _mother._ the prince danced with her all the time. _father._ why, here comes the prince's herald. i'll see what he wants. here is a note. it is an invitation to go to the prince's palace again to-night. do you all want to go? _all._ yes, yes, father, please! _father._ all right, we'll go! _cinderella._ can't i go this time, mamma? _mother._ no, my dear. when you are a little older you can go, but not now. scene v.--_at the palace_ _prince._ i wonder if my fairy princess will come to-night. i've been looking for her for more than an hour. oh, here she is! dear lady, i've been hoping you would come. _cinderella._ so you have not forgotten me? _prince._ no, and never shall. will you go with me to see the flowers? _cinderella._ what lovely flowers! this is certainly the home of the flower fairies. see the roses nodding at us. they almost ask us to love them. _prince._ may i give you this dainty pink one? it is the color of your cheeks. _cinderella._ remember i am from the land of far away and i must vanish at midnight. _prince._ tell me where your father lives that i may call upon him. _cinderella._ not now; but sometime i may tell you about my fairy godmother. _prince._ there! i knew you must be a sister of the fairies. does your fairy godmother have a fairy wand? _cinderella._ yes, and she does wonderful things with it--but my father and mother do not know about her. _prince._ of course not. only very young people know about fairy godmothers. but we know, don't we? _cinderella._ hark! i hear the chimes ringing. it must be twelve o'clock, and i must go. _prince._ do not go, dear princess. stay here in my palace, always. _cinderella._ the fairies are calling me and i am late. i must go. perhaps i can come again sometime. oh, i am afraid-- _prince._ afraid of what? _cinderella._ good-by, good-by! _prince._ she's gone! what was she afraid of? i cannot see her! who is that child running down the stairway? she must be one of the servants who has been watching the dancers. i wish i could see my princess. what is that shining thing on the stairs? she has lost one of her crystal slippers. now i know how i shall find her. to-morrow i shall send a herald through the city to find the owner of this pretty little slipper. scene vi.--_cinderella's home_ _cinderella._ mamma, mamma, here is a man on horseback who wants to see you. _mother._ what is your errand, sir? _herald._ i am sent by the great prince of our country to find the owner of this slipper. he says he will marry no one but the lady who can wear this little crystal slipper. _mother._ i'll call my daughters. katherine! elizabeth! we were all at the ball at the prince's palace. katherine, is this your glass slipper? try it on. _katherine._ yes, mother. my, how small it is! i cannot get my foot in it! _elizabeth._ perhaps it will fit me. my feet are smaller than yours. no, i cannot push my foot in, no matter how long i try. it must be a magic slipper. _cinderella._ may i try on the slipper? _mother._ my dear child, why should you try on the slipper? it belongs to the princess who went to the ball. _katherine._ and you were not at the ball, cinderella! _elizabeth._ your foot is too big for it, my dear little sister. _herald._ pardon me, ladies, but the orders of the prince are that every lady, young or old, must try on the slipper, and when the owner is found she must go with me to the palace. _cinderella._ give it to me, please. see how easily it slips on my foot--and here is the mate to the glass slipper in my pocket. dear mother, i am the fairy princess you saw at the ball. _mother._ you, my dear! and i did not know you! _herald._ now, lady, please come with me to the prince's palace. you shall be a princess. _cinderella._ good-by, dear sisters! good-by, dear mother! i am going to the prince's palace. the pied piper persons in the play--mayor, first councilman, second councilman, third councilman, ten citizens, piper scene i.--_the mayor's office_ _mayor and councilmen, sitting around a table.--citizens come in._ _first citizen._ our mayor is a noddy! _second citizen._ look at our corporation sitting in the gowns we pay for, and doing nothing! _third citizen._ see here, how the rats made a nest in my sunday hat! [illustration] _fourth citizen._ when i was cooking dinner the bold rats licked the soup from my ladle! _fifth citizen._ they are so bold they are always fighting with the dogs and cats! _sixth citizen._ yes, and they kill them, too! _seventh citizen._ my baby cried in his sleep, and when i went to him there was a big rat in his cradle. _eighth citizen._ what are you going to do about it, mr. mayor? _ninth citizen._ you'd better wake up, sirs! don't go to sleep over this! _tenth citizen._ i tell you, you'll have to do something to save us from this army of rats! _first councilman._ what _can_ we do? _second councilman._ i'm sure we've tried everything, but every day the rats grow worse and worse. _third councilman._ i'm sure it isn't very pleasant for us to have the city overrun with the creatures! _mayor._ i'd sell my ermine gown for a guilder! it is no easy thing to be mayor and i wish i was a plowboy in the country! try to think of something to do. _first councilman._ it is easy to bid us rack our own brains! _second councilman._ i'm sure my head aches trying to think. _third councilman._ i've wondered and thought, till i've no thoughts left. _mayor._ oh! if i only had a great big trap! yes, a thousand big traps! bless us, what noise is that? is it a rat?--come in! [illustration] [_enter piper._] _first councilman._ who is this who dares to come into the mayor's office without an introduction? _second councilman._ hasn't he a funny coat? _third councilman._ but what a pleasant face! he smiles all the time. _mayor._ he looks like the picture of my grandsire. what is your name, and your business, my man? _pied piper._ please your honors, my name is pied piper. my business is to play upon my pipe. i can charm with the magic of my notes all things to do my will. but i use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the toad, the mole, and the viper, and rats--rats! _mayor._ rats! well, then, you're the man we want. we'll pay you a thousand guilders if you'll free our town of rats. _piper._ a thousand guilders! done! it's a bargain! scene ii.--_same as scene i. the mayor and councilmen looking out of window_ _mayor._ there he goes down the street. _first councilman._ what a strange looking pipe he plays! _second councilman._ i believe it must be a magic one. _third councilman._ do you hear the music? what is that other noise? _mayor._ look, look at the rats! did you ever see such a sight! _first councilman._ the streets are crowded with them! big and little, brown, black, and gray, they are tumbling over each other in their hurry! _second councilman._ sir! he is going toward the bridge. _third councilman._ they must think he is playing a tune of apples and cheese! _mayor._ there they are at the river. they are plunging in! they will be drowned! _first councilman._ good for the piper! _mayor._ ring the bells for the people. tell them to get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes! _second councilman._ here comes the piper. _third councilman._ that was well done, mr. piper. _pied piper._ yes, all the rats are drowned and now i've come for my pay. _mayor._ pay! why what have you done? just played a tune on your pipe. you must be joking. _piper._ you promised-- _first councilman._ you impudent fellow! you certainly don't think a tune on your pipe is worth one thousand guilders? there is no work in that. _second councilman._ the rats are dead and can't come to life again, i think! _mayor._ my friend, we are much obliged, of course. we are much obliged and will gladly give you fifty guilders. you know your time is not worth more. _piper._ no trifling, pray. i'll have what you promised, or you may find that i'll play a tune you do not like! _mayor._ what! do you threaten us, fellow? do what you please. do you think we care? play on your old pipe whatever tune you wish. _piper._ listen, then, and look from your window when i play again in the street below. [_goes out._] [illustration] _mayor._ what does the lazy fellow mean by his threats? _first councilman._ hear his wonderful music! listen. _second councilman._ oh! what is he doing! see the children! _third councilman._ they are following him. there is my son. where are you going, my boy? come back! _mayor._ let me see! o woe! there are my own three lovely children. run, some one, and stop them! _third councilman._ i'll go; i'll go. [_runs out._] _mayor._ it is useless. every child in our city is following the magic sound. _second councilman._ the music seems to say: "come, children, to the wonderful land of play. there flowers and fruits will welcome you. the birds and beasts will play with you, and you will never be sad or sorry in the wonderful land of play." no wonder the children follow the piper. _third councilman_ (_enters_). the children and the piper have all disappeared! a mountain opened and let them in! _first councilman._ the children, the blessed children, have gone! what shall we do without the children? _mayor._ oh, wicked man that i am! why did i break my promise? why did i not give him the thousand guilders? _second councilman._ yes, we are all wicked men, and we are punished for not keeping our word. _mayor._ let us write this sad story on a column so that all may read; and let us paint the picture of the piper with our little ones following him, on a church window, so that all men may know how our children have been stolen away. _first councilman._ and may this sad story teach us all to keep our word with every one. mother goose's party persons in the play--mother goose, jack goose, mother hubbard, dog, a-dillar-a-dollar, mary (and her lamb), old mrs. shoeman, her sons (tommy tucker, jacky horner), miss muffet, boy blue, bo-peep, nancy etticoat, little boy who lives in the lane, old king cole, man in the moon, tom the piper's son, mistress mary scene i.--_home of mother goose_ _mother goose._ i really think i must give a party. all my friends have been so good to me and i have been entertained in so many homes! wherever i go i am sure to see one of my mother goose books, and the children all seem to love it so much. let me see! whom shall i invite? i think i'll ask old mother hubbard to take tea with me and we'll talk about the party together. jack, jack! _jack_ (_enters_). yes, mother dear, what is it? _mother goose._ jack goose, i wish you to run over to mother hubbard's house and ask her to take tea with me this afternoon. now be nimble, jack,--be quick! _jack._ yes, mother dear. see me jump over the candlestick! isn't that fine jumping? _mother goose._ very fine indeed, jack. now do your errand, and hurry home. _jack._ yes, mother, i will. good-by. _mother goose._ good-by. scene ii.--_house of mother hubbard_ _jack_ (_knocking_). i wonder if old mother hubbard is at home. hark! i hear her dog barking. yes, and i hear her step. here she is! _mother hubbard_ (_opening the door_). who is this knocking so loud? oh, it's you, little nimble jack! will you come in? _jack._ no, thank you, mrs. hubbard. my mother wishes you to come over to our house for tea this afternoon. will you come? _mother hubbard._ yes, thank you, jack, i will. tell your mother that i'm just going to market to buy my poor doggie a bone. _jack._ o mother hubbard! _please_ let me play with your dog. he's such a dear old doggie! do you remember how he danced a jig the other day? _mother hubbard._ yes, jack, i do; and i think you danced with him. you are both nimble young things and both like to dance. well, good-by, now. have a good time together and i'll bring you something little boys like. _jack._ thank you! good-by, good-by! now, doggie, let's dance. old mother hubbard, she went to the cupboard, to get the poor doggie a bone; but when she got there, the cupboard was bare, and so the poor doggie had none. _dog_ (_sadly_). bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow! _jack._ oh! you don't like that song! never mind, old fellow! mother hubbard has gone to the butcher's and she'll get you a bone, i'm sure. wait till she comes back. _dog_ (_gayly_). bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow! _jack._ i thought you would like that. here she comes now. we've had a lovely dance, mother hubbard, and now i must hurry home. _mother hubbard._ thank you for staying and taking good care of my dog. here are some fresh banbury buns for you. _jack._ oh, thank you, mother hubbard. i'm very fond of banbury buns. good-by! _mother hubbard._ good-by, jack. tell your mother i'll be over soon. _jack._ bring your dog with you, and we'll have another dance. good-by. _dog._ bow-wow! bow-wow! bow-wow! scene iii.--_mother goose and mother hubbard at the tea table_ _mother goose._ i am pleased to see you, mother hubbard. i hear that your cupboard is no longer bare and empty, and i am very glad you are able to give your poor dog all the bones a good dog should have. now for our tea. shall i put two or three lumps in your cup? _mother hubbard._ three, please. i like my tea very sweet. and now tell me, mother goose, what is the reason you sent for me to-day? _mother goose._ well, i am going to give a party and i wish to ask your advice. _mother hubbard._ indeed! whom do you think of inviting? _mother goose._ first, the dear old woman who lives in the shoe-- _mother hubbard._ what! and all her children? _mother goose._ no, only the two eldest. you know the party is for my son jack, too, and we must have the young people as well as their parents. old king cole will come and bring his fiddlers three to play for the young folks who dance. _mother hubbard._ i hope you won't invite tom the piper's son, or my son john as his mother calls him,--or humpty-dumpty. they are not good boys for your son jack to play with! _mother goose._ i suppose not; but i like them all, and i dislike to leave out anyone. i don't wish to hurt their feelings. _mother hubbard._ there are little bo-peep and boy blue, who are good children, although rather silly; and there are little miss muffet and nancy etticoat, both very pretty little girls; and there are jacky horner and tommy tucker and the man-in-the-moon and taffey and daffey-down-dilly and-- _mother goose._ i'll have to give a garden party if i invite all those! i can't leave any out, and i think i'll have the party out-of-doors. _mother hubbard._ that will be fine! i only hope it will be a pleasant day. when will you give it? _mother goose._ two weeks from to-day, the first of may. _mother hubbard._ that's may day and a very good day for a party out-of-doors. well i must go home now. good-by! if i can help you, please call upon me. _mother goose._ thank you, mother hubbard! good-by, and thank you again for coming over. scene iv.--_at the party_ _mother hubbard._ what a lovely day you have for your party, mother goose! the sun shines so bright and warm, and the flowers are lovely. is there anything i can do? _mother goose._ no, thank you. i'm glad you came early. have you seen the tables? _mother hubbard._ they are lovely! where did you get such pretty flowers? _mother goose._ from mistress mary, quite contrary. you know she has a garden with cockle shells, and silver bells, and pretty maids all in a row. _mother hubbard._ i see some one coming. _mother goose._ why, how do you do, a-dillar-a-dollar! are you always in such good time? _a-dillar-a-dollar._ i'm afraid not, mrs. goose. they call me a ten o'clock scholar, why did you come so soon? you used to come at ten o'clock, and now you come at noon! _mother goose._ and here comes mary with her little lamb. do you like the lamb better than a teddy bear, mary? _mary._ yes, indeed, i do. because the lamb loves me, you know. it followed me to school one day, which was against the rule; it made the children laugh and play, to see the lamb at school. _mother goose._ here comes the old woman who lives in a shoe, and her two oldest boys. dear mrs. shoe-woman, i am very glad to see you! how did you leave all of your children? _mrs. shoe-woman._ oh, dear, mother goose! i have so many children i don't know what to do: when they are naughty i give them some broth without any bread, and whip them all soundly and put them to bed. _mother goose._ here are all the children coming to the party! come, children, let us have a dance. all stand around the maypole as i call your names: little miss muffet and boy blue; little bo-peep and jacky horner; nancy etticoat and jack-be-nimble; mary and the little boy who lives in the lane. all take ribbons and stand around the maypole. are you all ready? _children._ yes, mother goose, we are all ready when the music begins. _mother goose._ old king cole, will you have your three fiddlers play for the dance? _king cole._ with pleasure, dear mother goose--and i'll sing: hey diddle, diddle! the cat and the fiddle; the cow jumped over the moon; the little dog laughed to see such craft, and the dish ran away with the spoon. _children_ (_sing_). old king cole was a merry old soul; and a merry old soul was he; he called for his pipe and he called for his bowl, and he called for his fiddlers three. [illustration: mother goose's party] _mother goose._ these are very good songs, but they will not do for a maypole dance. here, little tommy tucker, sing for your supper. _tommy tucker._ all right, mother goose. handy spandy, jack-a-dandy, loved plum cake and sugar candy; he bought some at a grocer's shop, and out he came, hop, hop, hop. _children._ little tommy tucker, sings for his supper; what shall he eat? white bread and butter; how shall he eat it without any knife? how shall he marry without any wife? [_dance about the maypole._] _mother goose._ why, who can that man be? he is tumbling down in a very queer way! who are you? _man._ i'm the man in the moon, come down too soon to ask the way to norwich. i went by the south, and burnt my mouth, eating cold pease-porridge. are jack and jill here? _jack._ here i am, mr. moon-man. _jill._ oh, dear mr. moon-man, where is your dog and your bundle of sticks? _jack._ tell us what the children play in your country, the moon! _children._ please do, mr. moon-man! _moon-man._ well, children, i can tell you how they learn to count. they all say-- one, two; buckle my shoe; three, four; shut the door; five, six; pick up sticks; and then they all pick up sticks and put them on the fire. _tom._ i don't think that is much fun! _children._ of course you don't. you don't like sticks. tom, tom, the piper's son, stole a pig and away he run! the pig was eat, and tom was beat, and tom ran roaring down the street! _mistress mary._ now, children, let us sit in a circle and play games and sing songs. little bo-peep, you may sing your little song first. _little bo-peep._ little bo-peep, she lost her sheep, and doesn't know where to find them; _children._ leave them alone and they will come home bringing their tails behind them. _mistress mary._ now jack and jill-- _jack and jill._ shall we go up the hill to get a pail of water? _children._ jack and jill went up the hill to get a pail of water. jack fell down and broke his crown, and jill came tumbling after. _boys._ up jack got and home did trot as fast as he could caper; he went to bed to mend his head, with vinegar and brown paper. _girls._ jill came in and she did grin, to see his paper plaster; her mother, vexed, did spank her next for laughing at jack's disaster. _mistress mary._ now, i'll sing a song and then help mother goose with the supper. [_sings._] sing a song a sixpence, pocket full of rye; four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. when the pie was opened the birds began to sing, wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king? _mother goose._ now i must have some children to help me. _jack goose._ i'll take the bean porridge hot and bean porridge cold, mother, and tommy tucker can go with me and pass the white bread and butter. _mother goose._ that's my good jack. now tom the piper's son may take the roast pig and mary may pass the banbury cross buns. _miss muffet._ dear mother goose, may i pass the curds and whey? _mother goose._ yes, my dear child, but be careful not to spill any. then for the last course jack horner will pass the christmas pie and give every child a big fat plum. _children_ (_sing_). little jacky horner sitting in a corner eating a christmas pie he put in his thumb and pulled out a plum and said--what a great boy am i? _old king cole._ mother goose, you have given us a beautiful party and we have had a lovely time. we hope you will live to give many more to your friends and the children. _children._ yes, mother goose, your party was just lovely! _mother goose._ thank you, dear children. _king cole._ now, little folks, let us sing a good-by song to mother goose. _the girls_ (_bowing to king cole_). the king was in the counting room, counting out his money. _the boys_ (_bowing to mother goose_). the queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey. _all._ the maid was in the garden (_to mistress mary_) hanging out the clothes, along came a blackbird and nipped off her nose! _mother goose._ and that story means that night is coming and putting the day to sleep. _king cole._ so it does, and you see the sun is fast going down behind the western hills. say good-by, children, for it is time to go home. _children._ good night, mother goose. _mother goose._ good night, dear children, and don't forget your old mother goose. _children._ forget dear mother goose? never! good-by, good-by! _mother goose._ good-by. [illustration] little two-eyes persons in the play--mother, little one-eye, little two-eyes, little three-eyes, little old woman, tree, prince, goat scene i.--_dining room at little two-eyes' home_ _mother._ come to dinner, little one-eye and little three-eyes. here is some good soup and white bread for you. little two-eyes, you can have what your sisters do not want. _little three-eyes._ here's a crust for you. that is enough for a girl with only two eyes. _little one-eye._ what a shame to have a sister with two eyes! you look just like other people! little three-eyes and i are very different. _little three-eyes._ here little two-eyes, take this bowl. i don't want any more and you can have what is left. _mother._ now, children, run away and play. little two-eyes, take the goat and go out to the hillside. you must stay till it begins to get dark, and then you may come home. you must work, because you have two eyes like other people, but my little one-eye and three-eyes may stay at home and play. scene ii.--_on the hillside_ _little two-eyes._ come, little goat, here is some green grass for you to eat. i wish that my sisters loved me and that my mother was not ashamed of me. oh, why do i have two eyes just like all other people? i am so hungry, oh, dear! oh, dear! (_cries._) _wood fairy._ my child, why do you cry? _little two-eyes._ because i have only two eyes, and my mother and my sisters treat me badly. i don't have enough to eat and i am so hungry. my dress is old, and my sisters have nice dresses and pretty ribbons. but who are you? _wood fairy._ i am the little old woman who lives on this hill. i have come to help you. listen, little two-eyes! you need never be hungry again. say to your little goat: little goat, bleat! little table, rise! then a table will rise before you with all the food you can eat. when you have finished eating, you must say: little goat, bleat! little table, away! and it will disappear before your eyes. good-by, dear little two-eyes. i must go now, but remember what i have told you. _little two-eyes._ why, where has that queer looking little woman gone? i am so hungry i'll try now if what she said can be true. little goat, bleat! little table, rise! _goat._ bla-a! bla-a! bla-a! _little two-eyes._ oh, look, little goat! what a pretty table! and how good the food looks. now we shall have all we want to eat. here is something for you, and here are oranges and meat and pudding for me! dear little woman! how can i thank her? now i can eat no more. little goat, bleat! little table, away! _goat._ bla-a! bla-a! bla-a! _little two-eyes._ there, it is gone. aren't we happy, little goat? but see, it is time to go home. come, little goat. scene iii.--_at home_ _mother._ here, little two-eyes, here are the crusts your sisters saved for you. _two-eyes._ thank you, mother, but i don't care for any crusts. i'm not hungry. _mother._ not care for them? you are not hungry? you have always eaten them before now and asked for more! you didn't eat any supper last night, either. what does this mean? what did you have to eat to-day? _two-eyes._ i cannot tell you, mother. _mother._ you cannot? then, little one-eye, you shall go to the hillside with little two-eyes and find out why she is no longer hungry. _little one-eye._ i don't want to go! the walk is too long, and i shall get tired! _mother._ just this once, my dear! you will not have to go again. but we must learn the secret. _little two-eyes._ come, sister. come, little goat. scene iv.--_the hillside_ _little two-eyes._ now we are almost there. are you tired, little one-eye? _little one-eye._ oh! i am so tired, and my feet hurt so i can hardly walk. _little two-eyes._ i have to walk this far every day. _little one-eye._ yes, but you have two eyes like other people and you must expect to work. i cannot go any farther. i'll lie down here and rest. _little two-eyes._ i'll sing you a pretty song: are you awake, little one-eye? are you asleep, little one-eye? yes, you are asleep, little one-eye, and now i can have my dinner. little goat, bleat! little table, rise! _goat._ bla-a! bla-a! bla-a! _little two-eyes._ here is the little table again! oh, how thankful i am for the good food. dear little old woman, you are very good to send me such nice things to eat. here is some for you, little goat. now i have had enough. little goat, bleat! little table, away! there, it is gone. little one-eye, wake up! it is time to go home. _little one-eye._ did i go to sleep? _little two-eyes._ indeed, you did, and now we must hurry home. come, little goat! scene v.--_at home_ _mother._ well, little one-eye, tell us what you have seen. why doesn't little two-eyes eat the food we have for her? _little one-eye._ i don't know, mother. the way was so long and i was so tired; i fell asleep; and when i woke up it was time to come home. _mother._ it was a hard walk for you, my dear; but we must find out who is giving little two-eyes something to eat. to-morrow you must go, little three-eyes. _little three-eyes._ i'll find out, mother. if anyone dares to give food to little two-eyes, i'll tell you all about it. _mother._ yes, my dear, i know you won't go to sleep. i can trust you to find out everything. scene vi.--_on the hillside_ _little two-eyes._ come, sister, we must go on, for it is a long way to the top of the hill. _little three-eyes._ i'm not going any farther, i'm too tired! i'll rest a little here. _little two-eyes._ all right, little three-eyes. i'll sing you a song. are you awake, little three-eyes? are you asleep, little two-eyes? yes, you are asleep, and now i'll have my dinner. little goat, bleat! little table, rise! _goat._ bla-a! bla-a! bla-a! _little two-eyes._ here is our dinner again, little goat. see this fresh lettuce and cabbage and good bread and butter. here is some honey, too, and cake. isn't this a good dinner? little goat, bleat! little table, away! _goat._ bla-a, bla-a, bla-a! _little two-eyes._ now it is gone. three-eyes, wake up! it is time home. _little three-eyes._ how long i have slept! what will my mother say? but i think i have a surprise for you, little two-eyes! scene vii.--_at home_ _mother._ well, little three-eyes, did you go to sleep, too? _little three-eyes._--yes, mother, but only with two eyes. little two-eyes sang to me, "are you awake, little three-eyes? are you asleep, little two-eyes?" and so two of my eyes went to sleep, but one stayed awake and watched. _mother._ what did you see? tell me quickly, dear little three-eyes. _little three-eyes._ first she said, "little goat, bleat! little table, rise!" and the goat said, "bla-a, bla-a, bla-a!" then a table came up out of the ground. oh! it was such a pretty little table with a white cloth over it and all kinds of good things on it. no wonder little two-eyes doesn't eat any of our common food. it isn't good enough for her! she has food fit for a queen,--nuts and cake, and candy, too! _mother._ so that is why little two-eyes doesn't eat the crusts we save for her! well, i'll see if she is going to have better food, than we have. bring me the long sharp knife. [_goes out and soon returns._] there, now the goat is dead. little two-eyes, perhaps you'll eat the food we give you now! _little two-eyes._ oh, my poor little goat! what shall i do without it! _mother._ go to bed, and to-morrow morning you shall go to the hillside alone. and you must stay there all day, too. scene viii.--_on the hillside_ _little two-eyes._ oh, dear! oh, dear! my poor goat is dead! now i shall be hungry and lonely too! where shall i go, and what can i do? _little wood fairy._ little two-eyes, why are you weeping? _little two-eyes._ because my mother has killed my poor goat, and she has sent me here to stay all alone, and i am so hungry and thirsty again. _little wood fairy._ little two-eyes, let me tell you what to do. ask your sisters to give you the heart of your goat. bury it in the ground before the house door. watch, and to-morrow a wonderful tree will come up out of the ground. _little two-eyes._ thank you, dear little woman! i'll go home and do as you have told me. scene ix.--_at home_ _little two-eyes._ little one-eye and little three-eyes, please let me have the heart of my goat! _one-eye._ certainly, if that is all you want. _three-eyes._ here it is, but i don't see what you want it for! _little two-eyes_ (_goes to door_). now i'll plant it as the little woman told me. i wonder what kind of a tree will appear to-morrow? poor little goat, i'm so sorry you have gone! now i must go into the house and try to sleep. scene x.--_in the garden_ _little one-eye._ mamma, mamma, look here! come quickly! isn't this a wonderful tree! _mother._ why, how strange! this tree was not here yesterday. i wonder how it came! i never saw such a beautiful tree before! _little one-eye._ do you see the golden apples on it? o mamma! may we have some? please, mother! _mother._ yes, dear little one-eye. you are the oldest, climb up into the tree and pick some golden apples for us. _one-eye._ that will be fun. here i go! _mother._ why don't you get the apples, little one-eye? _little one-eye._ they all get away from me. when i try to pick one it springs back! [illustration] _mother._ come down, little one-eye. now little three-eyes, you can see better with your three eyes, than your sister with her one eye. you may climb up and get some apples for us. _little three-eyes._ i'll pick a lot of them and throw them down for you to catch. why, how funny they act! i almost get one and it always springs away! _mother._ come down and let me try. i never heard of fruit that would not be picked. now children, i'll get some of the lovely apples for you. there! why, what is the matter? i can't reach a single apple. _little two-eyes._ let me try; perhaps i can pick some. _mother._ you, with your two eyes! how can you expect to get them if we can't? _little two-eyes._ please let me try, mother. _mother._ well, i suppose you can try, but i know you can't get them. _two-eyes._ here they are. catch them, mother; catch them, little one-eye! oh, mother! i see a young man on horseback coming along the road. he looks like a prince. _mother._ hurry down, little two-eyes! he must not see you,--a girl with two eyes! i'm ashamed of you. hide under this barrel! [_the prince rides up._] _prince._ good morning, ladies, what a lovely tree you have here! she who gives me a branch shall have whatever she wishes. _little one-eye._ the tree is ours, great prince; but when we try to get its fruit, it slips away from us. _prince._ it is strange, if the tree belongs to you, that you cannot get the fruit! but where do these apples come from? _little three-eyes._ we have another sister, but she has only two eyes and we are ashamed of her; so we hid her under this barrel, and she has rolled the apples out to you. _prince._ little two-eyes, come out. can you get me a branch from this wonderful tree? _little two-eyes._ yes, prince; here is a branch with many golden apples on it. _prince._ and what is your wish, little two-eyes? _little two-eyes._ o prince! my mother and my sisters are ashamed of me and do not treat me well. they do not give me enough to eat and they do not like to have me near them. please take me away where i can be happy and free! _prince._ come with me, little two-eyes; you shall go to my father's palace and be a little princess. there you will be happy and free and never be hungry or lonely again. the days of the week the week--monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday [illustration] _monday._ well, i am glad to be here at last. certainly my work is very important. as the first working day of the week, i begin all business; and i have always heard that if a thing is well begun, it is half done. people call me moon-day--isn't that a pretty name, the day of the moon? how beautiful the moon is, riding in her silver chariot across the dark blue sky! i am proud of my name. the moon is constantly changing and i like change. i like brightness and cleanliness too, and good housewives wash their clothes on monday. how white and clean they look hanging on the line! the sun and wind play hide and seek and help to cleanse the clothes. school begins on monday and the little children run and laugh on their way to school. every one seems happy that another week has begun. [illustration] _tuesday._ i am named for tui, the god of war. in the countries of the north i am greatly honored by all the people. soldiers when going to war call on tui for help, and they like to begin a battle on tuesday. monday likes to begin work, but i like to make some progress. the children always know their lessons better on tuesday, and are happier than on monday. the white clothes are sprinkled and rolled, and now the maids iron the pretty baby dresses and the house linen. they sing and laugh over their work. the world is all running smoothly on tuesday, and i think i like my work the best. [illustration] _wednesday._ i should be the best of days, for i am named for woden, or odin, the king of the gods. the hardest work of the week is finished when i come, and there is time for a rest. perhaps mother will bake a special cake for dinner. to-day the children take their music lessons, and the boys go for a lesson in swimming or gymnastic exercise. this is the day young people choose for their wedding day, and you don't know how glad i am to be a part of their happiness. i believe i have more sunshine than the other days, for woden likes to have clear skies and health-giving breezes. i would not change with any of my sister days. [illustration] _thursday._ i bring the thunder and the lightning, and i cleave the dark clouds with my rapid flashes. i glory in a storm, for thor, the god of thunder, has chosen me for his day, and i bear his name. a life of ease and quiet has no charms for me. i like the din and crash of war, the noise and hurry of business. the fury of the heavens, the crash of falling trees, the roaring of waters,--what can give greater pleasure? business thrives on thursday. men rush to and fro, buying and selling, building great houses, digging in the mines, and sailing the seas. life and action are my delight. hurrah for thor's day! [illustration] _friday._ after the bustle and work of the week i come to clean and settle all disturbances. now dirt and dust must disappear under the broom and brush. how the windows shine and how spotless is the hearth! children rake up the leaves and burn them; all rubbish must be cleared away. order and neatness i love; and so does freya, for whom i am named. she is the goddess of beauty, and there is no beauty where neatness and order are absent. some say that i am an unlucky day, but that is a mistake. see what wonderful things have happened on my day, what great men have been born on friday! i am the last school day of the week, and to-day the children may forget lessons and play outdoors a little longer. to-day the family gather for a story at the twilight hour, and all is rest and happiness. [illustration] _saturday._ i am the jolly day of the week. "school is out!" the children cry, and all day long they sing and call to each other in their games. to-day i smell the cakes and pies cooking in the range, for saturday is baking day. how the little children love to watch mother stirring the cake and frosting, and how they beg to clean the sweet stuff out of the bowl. father comes home earlier to-day, and all go for a walk in the woods or park. all men need a holiday, for "all work and no play makes jack a dull boy." the boys play ball and run and shout in their joy. the girls have little parties, and cook gives them some fresh cakes. i am named for saetere, god of the harvest, and he is always merry. so i wish all people to be happy on saturday, the play day of the week. [illustration] _sunday._ you have all spoken well, my sisters, and each one has some claim to be the best day of the week. how fine it is that every day holds some special joy in work or play! but you all know the highest joy is mine. i am named for the golden sun that gives light to the world. on sunday men think of the inner light that makes them love the good and the true and persuades them to do right. to-day the family is united, and in the morning with fresh garments and happy faces they seek the knowledge of a higher life. around the dinner table they talk happily together of their work and play, and they plan how they may do better work during the next week. love and peace are in all hearts. a desire to help the weak and poor and sad is in every soul. i am happy and blest to be sunday. hÄnsel and gretel persons in the play--hÄnsel, gretel, mother, father, the gingerbread witch, sandman, children scene i.--_in the cottage_ _hänsel._ i wish mother would come home! i'm cold and hungry. i'm tired of bread. i want some milk and sugar. _gretel._ hush, hänsel; don't be cross! _hänsel._ if we only had something good to eat: eggs, and butter and meat. oh, dear! _gretel._ dear hänsel, if you will stop crying, i'll tell you a secret. _hänsel._ oh, what is it? something nice? _gretel._ yes, indeed. look in this jug! it is full of milk. mother will make us a pudding for supper. _hänsel._ goody, goody! how thick the cream is! let me taste it. _gretel._ aren't you ashamed, you naughty boy! take your finger out of the cream. we must go back to work. when mother comes she will be cross if you have not finished the broom. _hänsel._ i'll not work any more. i want to dance. _gretel._ so do i. i like to dance better than to work. come, let us dance and sing. brother, come and dance with me, both my hands i offer thee; right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again. _hänsel._ i can't dance. show me what i ought to do. _gretel._ look at me. do this. with your foot you tap, tap, tap! with your hands you clap, clap, clap! right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again. _hänsel_ (_dancing_). with your hands you clap, clap, clap! with your foot you tap, tap, tap! right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again. _gretel._ that is fine, brotherkin! soon you will dance as well as i. come, try again. with your head you nick, nick, nick! with your fingers click, click, click! right foot first, left foot then, round about and back again. _hänsel._ o gretel dear, o sister dear, come dance and sing with me. _gretel._ o hänsel dear, o brother dear, come dance and sing with me. tra, la, la, tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, tra, la, la. [_knocks down the milk._] [illustration] _mother_ (_enters_). what is all this noise? _gretel._ 'twas hänsel. he wanted-- _hänsel._ 'twas gretel. she said i-- _mother._ hush, you noisy children! what work have you done? gretel, your stocking is not done yet; and where are your brooms, you lazy hans? you have knocked over the milk too! what shall we have for supper? lazy folks can't stay in my house. take the basket and go to the woods for strawberries. and don't dare to come back without them! off with you! and be quick too! [_the children go out. mother sits weeping._] oh! i am so tired and hungry. nothing in the house to eat. what shall i do for the poor hungry children--oh, dear, what can i do! [_goes to sleep, crying._] _father_ (_enters, singing_). hillo, hilloo, hillo, hilloo, little mother, where are you? _mother_ (_looking up_). who is singing and making so much noise? _father._ i called you, for i am hungry and want my supper. _mother._ your supper! with nothing in the house to eat and nothing to drink. _father._ let us see. open your eyes and look in my basket. cheer up, mother! _mother._ what do i see? ham and butter and flour and sausage! where did you get all these good things, father? _father._ hurrah, won't we have a merry time, won't we have a happy time? i sold so many brooms at the fair that i could buy you all these good things and some tea besides. _mother._ tea! how good it smells and how glad i am! now i will cook the supper. _father._ but where are the children? hänsel! gretel! where are they? _mother._ oh, the bad children! they did no work and they were singing and dancing and spilled the milk, so i sent them to the woods to pick some strawberries for supper. _father._ laughing and dancing! why should you be angry? where have they gone? _mother._ to the mountain. _father._ to the mountain! the home of the witch! _mother._ what do you mean? the witch? _father._ yes, the old witch of the mountain turns all children to gingerbread and then she eats them. _mother._ eats them! oh, my children, my pretty little children! come, we must find them! hänsel, gretel, where are you? [_runs out._] _father._ i will go with you, mother. don't cry! we will surely find them. [_goes out._] scene ii.--_in the forest_ hÄnsel, gretel _gretel._ see, my wreath is nearly done. _hänsel._ and the basket is filled with strawberries. won't mother be pleased? we will have them for supper. _gretel._ let me put the wreath on you! _hänsel._ no, no! boys don't wear wreaths. put it on your own head. you shall be queen of the woods. _gretel._ then i must have a nosegay, too. _hänsel._ now you have a scepter and a crown. you shall have some strawberries, too. don't they taste good? _gretel._ let me feed you. _hänsel._ and i'll feed you. don't be greedy! _gretel._ oh, hänsel, the berries are all gone. what naughty children we are! we must pick some more now for mother. _hänsel._ i don't care, i was so hungry. but it is too late to pick strawberries now. let us go home. _gretel._ let us hurry; it is dark and i'm afraid. _hänsel._ pooh, _i'm_ not afraid. but i can't see the way. gretel, we're lost! _gretel._ what was that? _hänsel._ what? _gretel._ that shining there in the dark! _hänsel._ pshaw, don't be afraid! that is a birch tree in its silver dress. _gretel._ there, see! a lantern is coming this way. _hänsel._ that is a will-of-the-wisp with its little candle. _gretel._ i'm frightened, i'm frightened! i wish i were home! _hänsel._ gretelkin, stick close to me! i'll take care of you. _gretel._ see! what is that little man in gray? _hänsel._ i see him, too. i wonder who he is! _sandman_ (_comes_). with my little bag of sand by every child's bedside i stand. then little tired eyelids close, and little limbs have sweet repose. then from the starry sphere above the angels come with peace and love. then slumber, children, slumber, for happy dreams are sent you through the hours you sleep. [_goes away._] _hänsel._ i'm sleepy. let us go to sleep. _gretel._ let us say our prayers first. _both._ when at night i go to sleep fourteen angels watch do keep: two my head are guarding, two my feet are guiding, two are on my right hand, two are on my left hand, two who warmly cover, two who o'er me hover, two to whom 'tis given to guide my steps to heaven. _gretel._ good night, dear brother. _hänsel._ good night, dear sister. don't be afraid. i'll take care of you. [_they sleep._] scene iii.--_in the wood--morning_ _hänsel._ wake up, dear little sister! the birds are singing and it is time to get up! _gretel._ i'm awake, dear brother. come, let us hurry home. _hänsel._ here is a path! oh, gretel, look at the pretty house! _gretel._ a cottage all made of chocolate creams! _hänsel._ the house seems to smile! _gretel._ it looks good enough to eat. _hänsel._ let's nibble it! [_a voice within the house._] nibble, nibble, manikin! who's nibbling at my housekin? _hänsel._ oh, did you hear? _gretel._ it's the wind! _hänsel._ never mind, let us eat the cake. i'm hungry. take a bite! isn't it good? _gretel._ yes, and look at the candy! what a funny fence this is! it looks like little boys and girls made of gingerbread with sugar trimmings. i wonder who lives in this house? [_the gingerbread woman comes out of the house and speaks._] [illustration] you've come to visit me, that is sweet, you charming children, so good to eat! _hänsel._ who are you, ugly one? let me go! _gretel._ take your arms away from me! _the gingerbread witch._ come into my house, little children! you may have sugarplums and peaches and cherries and candies and everything nice that little folks like! _hänsel._ no, i won't! i don't want to go into your house. i want to go home! _gretel._ i don't like you, mrs. gingerbread! you aren't nice like my mother. i want to go home to my own mother! _the gingerbread witch._ come, dear little gretel. you must go in with me. we'll leave hänsel in this little house outside. he must get fatter, so we will give him many good things to eat. get in, hänsel. i must lock you in! _hänsel._ what are you going to do with me? _the gingerbread witch._ i'll fatten you up nicely and then you will see! now i'll go inside for some sugarplums. you wait here, gretel, until i come back. hocus, pocus, malus locus! now you can't move! [_goes in._] _hänsel._ listen, gretel! watch the old witch and see everything she does to me. hush, she's coming back! _the gingerbread witch._ now, hans, eat this raisin. it will make you fat! now, gretel, you have stood still long enough. hocus, pocus, elder bush! rigid body loosen, hush! then, gretel, you must come with me, but hans cannot move until he gets nice and fat like you. run in, little daughter, and get some more nuts and raisins for him. i like plump little bodies like yours! [_gretel goes in._] _hänsel._ please let me out, mrs. gingerbread. _the gingerbread witch._ when you are fatter. now i must look to my fire. it is burning well, and the oven will soon be hot enough to bake my dinner. when i change my gingerbread i'll pop little gretel in and shut the door. [_gretel comes in very quietly and goes to hans._] _gretel._ hocus, pocus, elder bush! rigid body loosen, hush! _the gingerbread witch._ what are you saying? _gretel._ oh, nothing,--only,-- _the gingerbread witch._ only what? _gretel._ only, much good may it do to hans! _the gingerbread witch._ poor hans is too thin, but i hope the raisins and nuts will be good for him. but, you, my plump little gretel, are just fat enough--come, peep in the oven and see if the gingerbread is ready! _hänsel_ (_softly_). sister dear, have a care; she means to hurt you, so beware! _gretel_ (_shyly_). i don't understand what i am to do! _the gingerbread witch._ do? why, open the oven door! _hänsel._ sister dear, now take care! _gretel._ i'm such a goose, i don't understand. _the gingerbread witch._ do as i say, it's only play! this is the way. [_opens the door and looks in oven. hans and gretel run and push her in._] _children sing._ one little push, bang goes the door, clang! now, let us be happy, dancing so merrily. hurrah! hurrah! _hänsel._ why, see the children, gretel. the fence is moving! the gingerbread children are _real_ children, but their eyes are shut! _the children._ we are saved! we are saved! _gretel._ who are you? why do you keep your eyes shut? you're sleeping and yet you are talking! _the children._ o touch us, we pray, that we may awake! _hänsel._ the witch has changed them into gingerbread children. i know what to do. let us say what the witch said to you, and what you said to me! _hänsel and gretel._ hocus, pocus, elder bush! rigid body loosen, hush! _the children._ (_opening their eyes and running toward hänsel and gretel._) we thank you, we thank you both! _gretel._ oh, i am so glad! _the children._ the spell is broken and we are free. the witch can do us no more harm. come, let us shout for glee! _hänsel._ come, children all, and form a ring, join hands together, while we sing. _gretel._ oh, hänsel dear, i wish father and mother were here! _hänsel._ look, gretel! there they are! [_father and mother enter._] _father._ why, mother, the children are here! come, my dear hänsel and gretel! how glad i am we have found you safe and well! _hänsel._ oh, father, we must tell you all about the gingerbread witch! _mother._ my dear children, were you frightened? _gretel._ yes, mother, i was. but, mother, hänsel comforted me, and we said our prayers and went to sleep. _mother._ the good angels watched over you and brought you back! come, let us go to the village and take all these dear children to their mothers. won't they be surprised and happy to see their dear children again? _father._ come, children! [illustration] king alfred persons in the play--queen judith, ethelbald, ethelbert, ethelred, alfred, peasants, king's officers scene i.--_in the castle_ _ethelbald._ tell us a story, lady mother. _ethelbert._ yes, tell us a story. _ethelred._ i wish it would stop raining, so that we might take our hawks for a hunt! _queen._ i have something to show you, my princes. is not this a beautiful book? _alfred._ how lovely the red velvet, and see, the clasp is of gold! _ethelred._ and there are jewels in the clasp! _queen._ it is well bound, as so precious a volume should be; but the binding is the least valuable part of the book. shall we look within? _ethelbald._ pray show us, lady mother! _queen._ observe the forms of mighty warriors, fair ladies, and royal chiefs of the olden times in bright and glowing colors. _ethelbert._ how brave they look! who are they? tell us of them, dear mother. _queen._ these pictures are beautiful and appeal to the eye, but neither they nor the velvet and gold of the binding give the joy which is greatest. _alfred._ what do you mean, dear lady mother? _queen._ this is a book i greatly enjoy, for it is full of the tales of the mighty king arthur and his knights of the round table. you will like to hear me read these brave stories when you are tired with your day's work, or on rainy days when you can neither hunt nor ride. then you know not how to amuse yourselves and time is heavy on your hands, since you can neither read nor play upon the musical instruments that give us so much pleasure. _ethelred._ the book is so lovely. let me take it, lady mother! _queen._ i would that the children of my royal husband could read the book. _ethelbald._ our father does not think much of books and music. he likes to hunt and fight, and so do i. _ethelred._ and i love to hunt, but i love to hear the stories of great kings and warriors, too. _alfred._ to which of us wilt thou give the book, lady mother? _queen._ i will bestow it on him who shall first learn how to read it. _alfred._ will you really, dear mother? _queen._ yes, upon the faith of a queen, i will. i will not give it to one who cannot read it. books are meant for the learned and not for the ignorant. the sons of a king should cease to play with toys. _alfred._ may i take the book a little while? _queen._ yes, you may take the precious volume, alfred, for i know you will not injure it, and i hope you will soon learn how to make its wisdom your own. _alfred._ thank you, lady mother. i shall study the book and learn to read, for i wish to know all about the brave knights of arthur's court. scene ii.--_years later, when alfred is king_ king alfred, oscar the earl, odulph, the earl's son _alfred._ all the others have gone back to their homes. in no other way can ye serve me. wherefore do ye go about to weep and break my heart? _oscar._ we weep, royal alfred, because thou hast forbidden us to share thy fortunes; as if we were the swarm of summer flies, who follow only while the sun shineth. _alfred._ my valiant oscar, and you my faithful odulph, listen to me. i do not despair. the time is not ripe now for further war. our foes the danes have conquered us for a time. i trust that the time will come when we shall drive them from our land. but we must do that which seems best for the present and seek to be more successful in the future. we must not sit down and weep; no, this rather shall you do. go back to your own people and keep me in their memory. when the dane rules most cruelly, then rise up and cry aloud in the ears of the people, "alfred the king yet liveth!" then gather the soldiers and i shall come to lead them to victory. _oscar._ thou shalt be obeyed, my royal lord. i will return to my men and do as thou hast said. but let my son odulph stay with thee, if only as thy servant. _odulph._ well will i serve thee, my royal lord. it is not well for the king to fare alone. _alfred._ i am well content to serve myself, or even to be servant to others, until a happier time shall come. if odulph desires to serve me, it shall be by bringing good tidings of your success with my people. when the time comes that we may again fight for our country, let him bring me the welcome message. then we will free our country from the danish yoke. _oscar._ farewell, my royal master, since thou wilt have it so. _odulph._ and may the time soon come when i shall bring the message to thee! _alfred._ farewell, my loyal friends. all will be well. scene iii.--_in the peasant's home_ king alfred, peasant cudred, wife switha _alfred._ save you, good father! may a saxon stranger, whom the danish robbers have made homeless, share a lodging with thy master's cattle for the night? _cudred._ wilt thou swear to me that thou art not a dane in disguise? _alfred._ i say to thee, my friend, i am no dane, but a true saxon. _cudred._ then thou shalt share the calf's crib to-night. perchance thou art hungry, too? _alfred._ to say truth, father, i have not broken my fast to-day; neither have i had aught to drink save from these marshy streams. i shall be right thankful for some food, even a crust of coarsest rye bread. _cudred._ rye bread, forsooth! thou talkest of dainties indeed! thou wilt get nothing better than flat oaten cakes here. _alfred._ i have always wished to taste an oaten cake. _cudred._ follow me, then, and thou shalt have thy desire. switha, switha! _switha._ well, i hear thee! _cudred._ switha, i have brought thee home a guest who will be glad to partake of our supper. _switha._ a guest! and thinkest thou i've naught better to do than broil fish and bake cakes for all the vagabonds who roam the land? _cudred._ patience, good switha. i have not asked thee to cook for a vagabond. this is an honest saxon whom it will be charity to feed and shelter for the night. _switha._ let me hold the torch and see this saxon guest. thou lookest like a guest of fashion, sorry fellow! _cudred._ cease thy scolding talk, woman! i see by this light that our guest hath not been used to beg for charity from such as thou. why be so hard of heart and by thy rude taunts make bitter the food he must receive from our hands? _switha._ i have heard that charity begins at home, and i am sure we are poor enough. _cudred._ not poor enough to refuse food to the hungry, such as it is. here is fish, and here an oaten cake which you wish to taste. _alfred._ thanks for your goodness, kind host. indeed, i am hungry. _switha._ you eat like a hungry wolf. _alfred._ and now i am hungry no longer. i thank you both for a good supper, and i hope you will never be sorry you have given charity to a stranger. now, cudred, i shall be glad to sleep. _cudred._ this way, then, to the bed of straw. now, tell me truly, art thou not some mighty earl in disguise? _alfred._ i am alfred, thy king--i know from thy goodness to me when thou thoughtest me a beggar that thou art a good man, therefore i confide in thee. i know thou wilt not betray thy king. _cudred._ not all the gold of denmark should tempt me to commit so base a crime, but we must not let switha know who thou art, my royal master. _alfred._ i shall be careful. soon, i hope, my friends will bring me word that my army awaits me, when i shall again try to set my country free. scene iv.--_in the peasant's hut_ king alfred, switha _king alfred._ it rains so hard to-day that i cannot hunt, so will mend my bow and make some new arrows. may i sit by your fire, good dame switha? _switha._ yes, and as i have made a good batch of cakes you might watch them bake. _alfred._ gladly will i watch them. show me what i must do. _switha._ turn them often before the fire, thus, so that they will not burn. now i will go for more wood for the fire. _alfred._ how long, i wonder, must i remain in hiding. it is very hard to wait. if only i knew how my people were faring. will the time never come when i can rule over england and unite my people? so many plans have i for their happiness and progress. schools we must have. the bible must be translated for the people to read. roads must be built and the country made safe for all. how long must i sit in cudred's cottage mending arrows when my heart wishes to help my suffering people! _switha_ (_running in_). i thought i smelled them burning! oh, thou lazy, useless fellow! thou art ready enough to eat the cakes, but too lazy to keep them from burning. no wonder thou hast no home, idle as thou art. _alfred._ i pray thee, good dame, forgive me. i was lost in thought of happier days and forgot my duty. really i am sorry. _switha._ ay, ay, that is always the way with thee. that smooth tongue of thine is better to thee than silver or gold; for it obtains for thee food, lodging, and friends, and softens all the wrath thy faults provoke. however, i shall set by all the burnt cakes for thy portion of the week's bread, i promise thee; and thou shalt have no other till they are all eaten. _alfred._ my good mistress, here comes a pilgrim boy to ask thy charity. may i bestow one of these cakes on him? _switha._ thou mayest do what thou wilt with thine own, man! but do not presume to give away my property to idle fellows like thyself. _alfred._ but, mistress, may i not give him that which was to have been my portion for dinner? _switha._ no, indeed! i have enough to do with feeding one vagrant without adding all the lazy pilgrims who pass by. _alfred._ see, mistress, my amulet! i will give thee this jewel, switha, if thou wilt permit me to feed this poor pilgrim. _switha._ very well, then. give him thy portion while i go and hide the jewel. [_goes out as odulph enters._] _alfred._ welcome, odulph! tell me thy tidings. i hunger for good news. _odulph._ my tidings, royal alfred, are these: hubba, the dane, the terror of england, is slain, and his banner of the raven waves in my father's hall! _alfred._ what? is thy father's castle in the possession of the danes? _odulph._ not so, my royal master; but the banner of the danes, captured by your victorious saxons, hangs in his hall. we were pent up in the castle by the danes till our provisions failed. when the last loaf was eaten, and our archers had launched their last arrows, my valiant father led the garrison in an attack upon the foe. _alfred._ brave oscar! and you defeated them! _odulph._ yes, because of the carelessness of the danes. they believed they had us in their power, and they never dreamed we would leave the castle walls. few as we were, we fell upon them and slew their chiefs. the soldiers fled, and left our men victorious. then my father raised the cry, "alfred the king!" all the country is calling, "alfred the king!" _alfred._ the time is ripe. i thank you, odulph. your father is a noble man, and i shall know how to show a king's gratitude to you both. shall we go? _odulph._ lead on, king alfred, england is ready. soon you shall head your army shouting, "long live king alfred!" robin hood and the sad knight persons in the play--robin hood, little john, midge, will scarlet, the abbot, the knight, the prior, the lord chief justice, the lady scene i.--_in the greenwood._ [_robin hood and his men making arrows._] _robin hood._ this feather is too short. give me another, little john. this is a better one. _midge._ making arrows is not a simple thing, is it, my master? _robin hood._ indeed, no; if the feathers be too short, the arrows will not keep true to their course; and if the feathers be too long, the arrows will not fly swiftly. _little john._ if all men knew how to make arrows, their skill in shooting would seem greater. look to your arrows, say i, before you shoot. _will scarlet._ we should thank the gray goose for the even growth of her feathers, which carries our arrows straight to the mark. _robin hood._ first the strong bow that bends to our hand, then the straight arrow, tough and trim, and the feathers that wing it to its mark. but best of all the steady hand and keen eye that direct our winged shaft. but you have worked well this morning, my men, and now we may rest awhile. sing us a song, will scarlet, while we lie beneath the friendly oak. _will scarlet_ (_sings_). the hunt is up! the hunt is up! and it is well-nigh day; and harry our king has gone hunting to bring his deer to bay. the east is bright with morning light, and darkness, it is fled; and the merry horn wakes up the morn to leave his idle bed. awake, all men! i say again be merry as you may! for harry our king is gone hunting to bring the deer to bay. _little john._ this song is well enough in its way, but for me, i should much prefer a good dinner. the morning's work has given me a fine appetite and i long for food. _robin hood._ it is good to eat, but not before we find some rich traveler to pay the bill. ride out, my man, and find us a host. willing or unwilling, bid him come. _little john._ with right good will, my master; and may i soon meet with him! _robin hood._ remember well, no farmer shall you bring. he works for what he gets and shall live in peace. and the laborer who toils for wife and child you must not harm. only those who oppress the poor and weak, those who are selfish and unkind, who play while others weep, these shall you bring to me. _will scarlet._ but look, my master, what sorrowing knight rides there? his garments are rich and his horse gayly decked, but his countenance is sad and he rides slowly, careless of the way. _little john._ hail, gentle knight; my master awaits you and fain would have your company at dinner. _the knight._ at dinner,--in the wood! who is your master? _little john._ robin hood is he: and here he is to bid you welcome. _robin hood._ welcome, sir knight, thrice welcome art thou, for i have fasted beyond the dinner hour. pray you, dismount. _the knight._ god save you and all your company! _midge._ the dinner is served, my master. _robin hood._ will you join us, sir knight? here are pheasants and swans and meat of the deer. _the knight._ such a good dinner, with so many brave men, i have not eaten for many a day. if i come again to this country, i will make thee as good a dinner. but heaven knows when that will be! [illustration] _robin hood._ thanks for your kind offer. but in the greenwood our guests must pay for their food. a yeoman does not pay for a rich knight! _the knight._ sorry am i that you must call me poor. i would that i could pay you, but in my saddlebags are no more than ten shillings. _robin hood._ is that indeed the truth, sir knight? look carefully, little john; if the knight speaks truly, he shall keep the ten shillings, but if not-- _little john._ indeed, my master, the knight speaks truly, for this is all the money i can find. _robin hood._ how comes it, noble knight, that thou art so poor? come, tell me the story. mayhap i can help thee. _the knight._ i am sir richard of lea, and my ancestors have been knights for a hundred years. a year ago i had plenty of money to spend as i would. but now i have nothing for my wife and my children, who weep for my absence from them. _robin hood._ but how did you lose all your money? _the knight._ perhaps you will think i lost it in a foolish way. my son, whom i dearly love, is a manly youth. well can he shoot and joust fairly in the field. but once, in a quarrel, he slew a youth, and to save him, i pledged all my lands. unless i redeem them by all saints day i shall lose them all. _robin hood._ what is the sum you are bound to pay? _the knight._ four hundred pounds. the day is near and i have nothing. _robin hood._ but what canst thou do if thou losest thy land? what wilt thou do? _the knight._ i will sail far away over the seas. i cannot remain in england. _robin hood._ it is a small sum. hast thou no friends to help thee in thy need? _the knight._ many friends had i when i had money and lands. now when i need their help they turn away and know me not. _robin hood._ by my faith, gentle knight, thou shalt not want for a friend. little john, go to the chest and count out four hundred pounds. _will scarlet._ shall he not have cloth for a coat, gentle master? he is thinly clad. _robin hood._ well said, will scarlet; go, get three measures of every kind, that he may be warmly and gayly clad. _little john._ here is the money, robin hood, and good measure. _robin hood._ and what will you give, little john, who are so generous with my money? _little john._ a pair of golden spurs, that he may ride fast to his castle and redeem his lands. _the knight._ many thanks, little john, and to you, my good friend. tell me, robin hood, when shall i come to return the money you so kindly lend me? _robin hood._ this day twelvemonth; and a happy year may it be! we will meet under this trysting tree. till then, be merry! _the knight._ i shall be with you a year from to-day. farewell. scene ii.--_in the abbot's hall_ the abbot, the prior _the abbot._ this day a year ago sir richard lea borrowed four hundred pounds from me. he promised to pay in a year or lose his land. if he does not return to-day, the land will be mine. _the prior._ the day is now far spent. perhaps he will come yet. _the abbot._ i am sure i hope he will not. i trust he has left england. _the prior._ the land is worth much more than four hundred pounds. it were a pity if he did not redeem it. _the abbot._ thou art ever crossing me! speak no more about it! where is the lord justice? [illustration] _lord justice_ (_enters_). here i am. i have just come from london to do justice on that knight. where is he? _the abbot._ the knight has failed to come with the money and this is the day when the land falls to me. _lord justice._ i dare swear he will not come and thou shalt have his lands. i now declare that the knight, sir richard lea, has failed to keep his promise and his lands are-- _the knight_ (_entering and kneeling before the abbot_). rejoice with me, sir abbot. i am come to keep my day. _the abbot._ what dost thou say? hast brought the money? _the knight_ (_to try the abbot_). not a penny, but-- _the abbot._ what dost thou here without the money? _the knight._ to ask your kindness and patience, sir abbot, for a longer time. _lord justice._ the day has come. thou losest thy land, sir knight, since thou canst not pay. _the knight._ good lord justice, help me against my foes! i will surely pay, but must have more time. _lord justice._ i am sorry for thee, sir richard, but the law is plain. either pay your debt or lose your land. _the knight._ sir abbot, i pray thee, have pity. _the abbot._ get the land when thou canst, thou gettest no pity from me. _the knight._ by my faith, then, if i get not my land again, thou shalt pay dearly for it. _the abbot._ get thee gone, false knight! darest thou threaten me? _the knight._ false knight i am not, for i have fought well for my king. _lord justice._ sir abbot, the day is not yet gone. what wilt thou give the knight to hold his peace? _the abbot._ a hundred pounds. _lord justice._ make it two hundred. _the knight._ no, nor nine hundred. ye shall not have my land! here, sir abbot, are the four hundred pounds. had you been less covetous, i would have given interest. now, get you gone, all of you; and learn to deal more justly and kindly with those in need. [_they go out._] _lady lea_ (_entering_). oh, my dear husband! how glad i am to hear your voice again. _the knight._ happy am i to see you and to be at home again. i must tell you how kind robin hood has been to me. _lady lea._ robin hood your friend? is he not the outlaw of the forest? _the knight._ yes; but he is kind to all who are unhappy or oppressed. he saved me from leaving england and gave me money to redeem my land. _lady lea._ how i long to thank him for his goodness to you. _the knight._ in a year we will go to him and repay the four hundred pounds. _lady lea._ i shall be glad to see him and his merry men, and try to thank them all. william tell a story of switzerland. a.d. persons in the play--william tell; lewis, his son; albert, his son; annette, his wife; lalotte, his niece, gessler, soldiers scene i.--_at tell's home_ _albert._ lewis, doesn't the quail smell good? _lewis._ yes, i wish i could have some of it! _lalotte._ hush! the quail is for your father. _albert._ i know that, lalotte; but i am hungry, and i like quail. _lalotte._ your father will be cold and hungry, for he has been on a long journey. _albert._ but perhaps he will not come. mother, mother! may we have the quail if father is late? it is done now, and it will not be good if it is cooked any more. _lalotte._ hush, you greedy boy! if i were your mother, i would send you to bed for thinking of such a thing. _albert._ you are not the mistress. you are not the mistress, and i shall not go to bed because you say so! _william tell_ (_at door_). but you shall go to bed, young man, if your cousin lalotte tells you to do so. take them to bed, lalotte. _albert._ oh, father! we were only joking. _lewis._ please, father, don't send us to bed. _william tell._ i must, my boy, because it is late, and i have news for your mother. good night, my sons. _boys._ good night, dear father. [_they go out with lalotte._] _william tell._ thy father's news is not for young ears. _annette._ there is a sadness in thy voice, and trouble in thy face! tell me what has happened to thee! wilt thou not trust me? _william tell._ yes, my annette! thou hast ever been a good wife and faithful friend. why should i conceal my deeds from thee? _annette._ what hast thou done, my husband? _william tell._ perhaps thou wilt blame me. _annette._ nay, for thou art a good man, and whatever thou doest is right in my eyes. _william tell._ thou knowest how our foreign rulers oppress the good people of switzerland? _annette._ i do, but why should we poor peasants worry over the affairs of the nobles? _william tell._ but they are our troubles, too. so to-night i have met with three and thirty men, brave and loyal hearts, who have sworn to resist our oppressors and free our land from tyranny. _annette._ but how can three-and-thirty men think to conquer the armies of foreign tyrants? _william tell._ sometimes great events are brought about by small means. all the people in their hearts hate the false ruler of our poor country, and many of these will willingly die for her sake. _annette._ thou art brave, my husband, but what can so few do? _william tell._ think of it! the father of one of our band has just been put to a cruel death. no man knows where the tyrant will strike next. perhaps gessler will pick me out for the next victim. _annette._ thee! what charge could he bring against thee? _william tell._ he could say that i am the friend of my country, which in the tyrant gessler's mind is a crime. _annette._ but gessler will never hear of us, humble peasants. he is too far above us to care what we think. _william tell._ not so, my dear wife. gessler will not permit us to hold our thoughts in secret. he has a plan to discover our inmost thoughts. _annette._ what plan can he make to read our minds? _william tell._ a clever plan to tell a freeman from a slave. in altdorf, our capital city, he has set up a pole. upon the top of this pole he has put the cap of the austrian king and has ordered every man to take off his hat as he passes by, to show that he yields to the austrian rule. is not this a brave plan? he who obeys the tyrant is a slave. wouldst thou have thy husband doff his cap to his country's tyrant? _annette._ never! i should despise thee, couldst thou do it! _william tell._ that is my own brave wife! thou speakest as a free woman, the mother of free children, should speak. and our children shall be free! when i go to altdorf i shall refuse to obey the order of gessler and all switzerland shall know that william tell will not bow to a foreign tyrant. _annette._ but why go to altdorf, my husband? thou knowest the power of gessler and his cruelty! _william tell._ wouldst have me a coward? no, dear wife. when my business calls me to altdorf i shall go and in all ways act as a free man, loyal to my country and afraid of no one. _annette._ thou art a brave man, my husband, and i honor thee. scene ii.--_altdorf: the market place_ william tell, albert, soldiers, gessler _william tell._ come, my son, i have sold the chamois skins, and now i must buy the things your mother wished me to get for her. _albert._ and, father, please buy some toys for little lewis. _william tell._ you are a good boy, albert, to remember your little brother. we will go to the shop across the square and look there for toys. _soldier._ halt, man! salute yonder cap! _william tell._ why should i salute a cap of cloth? _soldier._ it is the cap of our emperor. if you do not honor the cap, you are a traitor. _william tell._ i am no traitor, and yet i will not bow down to an empty cap. i am a true swiss and love my country. _gessler._ ha, ha! then we have a traitor here who will not yield to our emperor! arrest him, my men; and we will teach him his manners. who is this man? _soldier._ his name is william tell, my lord. _gessler._ insolent traitor! bind him well. _albert._ oh, father, i am afraid. do not let the soldiers take me. _william tell._ be calm, my son. no harm will come to thee. _gessler._ indeed, and is this your son? has he come to mock the cap of our royal master, too? seize the boy and bind him to yonder tree. _william tell._ what will you do with the boy? does a captain war with a child? _gessler._ we shall see. i hear you are a famous shot, william tell, and handle well the bow and arrow. we shall soon know your skill. have you a good arrow in your quiver? perhaps you can shoot an apple from the head of your child. _soldier._ where shall i bind the boy, my captain? _gessler._ to yonder tree. if his father shoots the apple from his child's head, he shall go free. if he fails he must die. are you ready? _william tell._ rather would i die than risk killing my eldest son. let him go, and take my life. _gessler._ that i shall not do. you must both die unless you save your lives as i have said. will you try the shot or are you afraid? [illustration] _william tell._ bind the boy's eyes, i beg. he might move if he saw the arrow coming, and my skill would be in vain. _gessler._ i am willing, for well i know you cannot cleave the apple at that distance. _william tell._ tyrant! i cannot fail now, when my son's life depends upon me. stand perfectly still, my brave boy, and father will not hurt you. now i pray for strength--my trusty arrow must not fail me! there! [_he shoots._] _soldier._ see, my captain! the apple is split! that was a fine shot! _gessler._ yes, it was a good shot, and i did not believe anyone could make it. i suppose i must set you free. but why have you that other arrow in your hand? _william tell._ to shoot you with it had i killed my darling boy. _gessler._ seize him, my men! _william tell._ never! come, albert! this arrow for him who stops me! _soldiers._ he has escaped! time and the seasons _father time._ i must call my children together and give them orders for the new year. open the door, my servants, and let the seasons appear. _spring_ (_entering_). here i am, father time. what are your commands for your youngest daughter? _father time._ welcome, my dainty spring! it is your duty to call the gentle rains to fall upon the thirsting ground. yours is the pleasant task to paint the blades of young grass a delicate green. you call the birds back from the south and rouse all nature from her winter sleep. the winds blow freshly over the earth; the clouds move here and there, bringing the rain; and the bulbs, hidden under the soil, slowly push their leaves into the sunlight. what flowers will you bring to deck the earth? [illustration: time and the seasons] _spring._ o father time! look here upon my pretty flowers! here is the snowdrop, so white and brave. it pushes its head up through the snow, which is no whiter than its own petals. and here i have a bunch of crocuses, blue, yellow, white, and of many colors. aren't they pretty amid the grass? then the gorgeous tulips, holding their heads so high, making the earth brilliant with their gay, bright colors. i think the golden daffodils and sweet narcissus are my favorite flowers, though i am very fond of what the children call spring beauty. _father time._ i see, my daughter, that you love all your flower children, and that is right. all are beautiful, each in its own way. and now tell me what joys do you bring to the little children of the earth? _spring._ all the children love me. they hunt for the first flowers, they welcome the first birds returning from the south, and they prepare the garden for the seeds of flowers and vegetables. the boys play marbles everywhere, and run and laugh, filling their lungs with my life-giving air. the organ grinder plays for the children and they dance on the sidewalks, singing and calling out in delight. the trees put forth their tender leaves. the sun fills the air with golden warmth, and the world seems full of promise. _father time._ well done, my daughter. and now, my daughter summer, tell me your plans for the year. _summer._ dear father, i delay my coming until spring has prepared the way. the air must be soft and warm to please me, and the earth must be prepared by the rains and the warm rays of the sun. the colors of my flowers are deeper and richer than those of sister spring. i bring the lilies, the peonies, and the poppies. best of all, the glowing roses open at my call, and fill the air with perfume. _father time._ and the children, my fair daughter, what do you bring to them? _summer._ the dear children! i think they all like my sunny days and the long time for play. for july and august in many countries are given to the school children for their play time. then they go to the seashore and play in the water and the sand; or to the country, where the green grass, the farmyard animals, and all the country games delight them. _father time._ children are so fond of play and the long summer days out-of-doors that i wonder what they think of you, my older daughter, autumn? _autumn._ children do like to play and i am glad they get so well and strong with the vacation my sister, summer, gives them. yet all children like to learn, too. we must not forget that. what joy it is to read the beautiful stories that great men and women have written for them. what delight they have in learning to write, to sing, to draw, and to make pretty objects of paper, clay, and wood. _father time._ yes, that is true, but have you no pleasures out-of-doors for them? _autumn._ some people say my days are the most pleasant of the year. the gardens have many beautiful flowers, and the fruits are ripening in the orchards and vineyards. the apples hang red on the boughs, and children like to pick them and eat them, too! i have the harvest moon, the time when the farmers bring home the crops ripened by august suns, and the earth seems to gather the results of the year's work, the riches of field, orchard, and meadow. the squirrels gather their hoard of nuts and hide them away for their winter's food. gay voices of nutting parties are heard in the woods, and all the air is filled with songs of praise and thanksgiving for the bounty of the year. _father time._ your work is surely one of worth and i rejoice with you, my daughter, in your happiness. you are a true friend of men, showing them that honest effort and its work will always bring proper reward. now, my merry laughing child, what have you to tell us? _winter._ some people think i am your oldest daughter, father time, but they forget that two of my months are always in the new year. although my hair and garments are white, the cold is only outside; my heart is warm. have i not jolly st. nicholas who never grows old? i cover the earth with my warmest blanket of softest snow, softer and whiter than ermine, and all the tender flowers sleep cozily and warm until sweet spring awakes them. the children get out their sleds and skates, and the merry sleigh bells ring. what fun it is to build the snow man, and even if the hands get cold, the eyes shine brighter than in warm days and the cheeks are rosy as the reddest flower. "hurrah for winter!" shout the boys. the merriest holidays i have when all hearts are gay and filled with loving care for others. i would not change, dear father time, with any of my sisters. i say good-by to the passing year and welcome the new year. if the old year has had troubles and sorrows, all the people turn with hope to the new, and call to one another the wish, "a happy new year to all!" _father time._ i am glad you are contented with the work you have to do. and now, my daughters, i must send you out upon your travels all over the world. may your coming bring peace; joy, and prosperity to all mankind! the gingerbread man persons in the play--the little old woman, the gingerbread man, the boy, the fox, children, men, the farmer scene.--_home of little old woman_ _little old woman._ now all my housework is done i think i will make some gingerbread. there is nothing quite so good for lunch as warm gingerbread and a glass of milk, or a cup of hot tea. i can make pretty good gingerbread, too, all of my friends say. here is the flour and butter and molasses and milk. now it is all ready to put into the pan. but i made too much this time. what shall i do with it? nothing must be wasted in a good cook's kitchen. oh, i know! i'll make a cunning gingerbread man for the little boy who lives next door. where is my knife? now roll the dough very thin, cut out the round little head, then the neck, now the two arms, now the little fat body, and last the legs with high heels on the shoes. well, this certainly is a fine little gingerbread man. i think i'll make a little hat with a wide brim. now i'll put two currants for his eyes, two for his nose, three for his cute little mouth, and six for the buttons on his coat. then i'll sprinkle sugar and cinnamon over him and put him in the oven to bake. let me look at the clock. it is half past eleven. at twelve the gingerbread man will be baked, ready for the little boy when he comes home from school. well, i've washed the dishes, and set the table for my lunch, and it is now just twelve o'clock. i'll open the oven door and see if my gingerbread man is ready. oh! what was that! why, it is the gingerbread man! _gingerbread man._ yes, it is the gingerbread man, and now i'll go and see the world. _little old woman._ go! you mustn't go! you belong to me. _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ha! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man! _little old woman._ there he goes, out of the door, just as if he were really a little boy, and not made of something good to eat! come back; come back! _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ha! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man! _little old woman._ i know i can't run as fast as he can. there he goes out of the gate. there are some men who are working in the street. i'll ask them to catch him. help! help me catch the gingerbread man! _men._ yes, ma'am. where is he? oh, there he is, the little rascal! we'll catch him. _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ha! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man! _men._ well, there he goes and he does run fast! come, let us run after him! _little old woman._ oh, i know the men can't run as fast as he can, and they will never catch my gingerbread man! here are the children coming from school. i'll call them. children, children! _children._ yes, little old woman, here we are. what did you call us for? _little old woman._ oh, my dear children, see the gingerbread man i made for the little boy next door! there he goes running as fast as he can, and i can't catch him! _boy._ and the men are running after him, and they can't catch him either. just watch me, little woman, i'll catch him for you. _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ha! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man. _girl._ i have my roller skates on. perhaps i can catch him! _little old woman._ i'm sure you can, my child. _girl._ i'll try. look out, mr. gingerbread man! _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ha! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man! _little old woman._ there he goes, and none of them can catch him. now he is near some farmers. i'll call on them to help me. farmer, farmer, will you please help me catch the gingerbread man? there he goes over your wheat field. _farmer._ yes, indeed, we'll help you. here, you gingerbread man, keep out of my wheat field! come, men; run after him and catch him. _men._ we'll catch him before he gets to the fence. [illustration] _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ah! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man! _little old woman._ oh, dear! oh, dear! there he goes into the wood, and no one can run fast enough to catch him. _farmer._ i'm sorry, madam, but we must go back to our work on the farm. _boy._ hark! listen! don't you hear the little gingerbread man calling? _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ha! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm the gingerbread man! _little old woman._ yes, he is calling to us from the wood. i thank you, children, and now we will go home. _gingerbread man_ (_in the wood_). ah, ha! and they didn't catch me! and now i am free to play in the wood. what a pleasant place! _mr. fox._ well, what sort of a funny little man is this? _gingerbread man._ ah, ha! ah, ha! catch me, if you can! you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man! _mr. fox._ can't i? well, i _have_ caught you; and now let me see if you are good to eat. first, i'll try one of your arms. that tastes good! _gingerbread man._ i'm going! _mr. fox._ and now the other arm! _gingerbread man._ i'm going! _mr. fox._ now for the leg. _gingerbread man._ i'm going! _mr. fox._ really, mr. gingerbread man, i think you are very good eating for a hungry fox. now i'll taste the other leg. _gingerbread man._ i'm going! _mr. fox._ now for your round little body. _gingerbread man._ i'm going! _mr. fox._ there is not very much left. just your head for the last mouthful. _gingerbread man._ i'm gone! _mr. fox._ yes, you're gone; and a very nice meal, mr. gingerbread man. the good fairy scene i.--_in the wood_ _the good fairy._ at last i am in this wood where i must save the lady alice from danger. how dark it seems here after the bright light of my skyey home. surely i shall be glad to return to the courts of fairyland. yet it is pleasant to be of service to the young and innocent, to those who are good and true. some there are on earth who do not love the truth, who do not do the things that are honest and kind, and they must be punished. kind and gentle deeds must be rewarded with our help. here in this dark grove dwells comus, an evil spirit, who loves not the good. here he finds the unlucky traveler and takes him to his court. there he offers him food and a pleasant drink. but in the glass is a potion which drives memory from the mind and makes one forget home and friends. then the unhappy traveler loses his human head and must have the head of some animal or bird. comus enjoys seeing his victims act like wild and foolish animals or the forest. in this dangerous wood the lady alice and her brothers are wandering, and my duty it is to protect them from the evil comus. hark! i think i hear the noisy band. here will i hide and listen. [_comus and his crew enter; men and women with animal heads._] _comus._ now the sun has gone from the western heavens and the star of night shines over us. this is the hour we love the best. all the serious, wise old people who love the day and its work are weary now and have gone to bed. we who love fun and a merry dance, we wake when the sky is flecked with golden stars. now the moon calls the fairies from brook and fountain to play their merry games and sing. these are the joys of night in our dark and secret grove. come, make a merry ring and dance. no care have we nor fear. we will dance and sing until the first ray of light is seen in the east. [_they dance until comus speaks._] _comus._ break off! break off! i hear a footstep not our own approaching this place. run to your places lest you frighten the traveler whoever it may be. [_they disappear._] i believe some maiden approaches. i will weave my spells and appear to her in the dress of a shepherd and she will not be afraid. here she comes. i will step aside and learn how she happens to be alone in my grove. [_comus hides._] _lady alice_ (_entering_). i thought i heard the sound of noisy merrymaking,--with music as if many were dancing. here was the sound, but here i see no one. alas! i should be sorry to meet rude youths, but where can i go, what can i do, left alone in this dark and gloomy wood? o my brothers, where are you? when they saw me wearied, unable to go farther, they left to find me nourishment and shelter, promising soon to return. truly they must be lost in this vast forest. o dark night, why have you stolen the way from them and left me alone and helpless? helpless? no, not helpless, for the good mind has helpers ever present in pure-eyed faith and white-handed hope. i will pray to god, who will send me a guardian to guide me to my home. what is that light i see? my brothers seek me and i will sing to them. perhaps they are not far away and will hear my voice. sweet echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen within thy airy shell, canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair that likest thy narcissus are? o if thou have hid them in some flowery cave, tell me but where, sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere! _comus_ (_to himself_). what sweet song is this? can any mortal sing with such charm and beauty? such sacred and home-felt delight i never heard till now. i'll speak to her, and she shall be my queen. _comus_ (_dressed as a shepherd_). hail, fair goddess! for you must be more than mortal, to sing such sweet and wondrous strain. _lady alice._ nay, gentle shepherd. i sang not as loving my own voice, and praise is lost that falls on unattending ears. stern necessity compelled my song. _comus._ how comes it, lady, that you are thus alone? _lady alice._ my brothers left me upon a grassy turf. darkness came upon the grove, and i fear they are lost. [illustration] _comus._ were they men full grown or still young? _lady alice._ young and fair my brothers are. _comus._ two such i saw, so lovely in their youthful grace i thought i looked upon some fairy scene. if these are the lads you seek, we can easily find them. _lady alice._ gentle villager, quickly tell me the shortest way to them! _comus._ due west it lies. _lady alice._ to find it out, good shepherd, would be too difficult in this darkness to a stranger. _comus._ i know every step, fair lady, for i live close by and daily tread the path in caring for my sheep. gladly will i conduct you and find your brothers if they are still in this grove. till daybreak you can rest in a cottage near by, where you will be safe until you wish to travel on. _lady alice._ kind shepherd, i take your word, and gladly go to the shelter you mention. kindness is often found in lowly homes. lead on, and i will follow. _comus._ this way, fair lady! scene ii.--_another place in the forest_ _elder brother._ how our steps are stayed by the darkness of the night and of the forest. would that the moon and stars would pierce the clouds! if only we could see some faint glimmer of a candle in some lowly hut that would guide us on our way. _second brother._ or hear the folded flocks, or sound of village flute or song, or if the cock would crow the watches of the night! where can our dear sister be now? does she wander in the deep grove, or against the rugged bark of some broad elm lean her head in fear? perhaps even while we speak she is the prey of some savage beast! _elder brother._ cease, brother, to dream of evils that may not be. no good can come from false alarms. i do not believe my good sister has lost herself in fear. her faith will keep her calm. _second brother._ i do not fear the darkness and the fact that she is alone. but i do fear some harm may come to her from rude wanderers in the wood. _elder brother._ yet i believe she is so good and true that evil has no power to harm her. all powers of good surround her and drive evil away. but list! some faint call sounds on my ear. _second brother._ yes, i hear it now. what should it be? _elder brother._ either some one lost in this wood, like ourselves, or else some roving woodman, or perhaps some robber calling to his fellows! _second brother._ god save my sister! _elder brother._ who comes here? speak! advance no further! _spirit_ (_as a shepherd_). what voice is that? speak once again. _second brother._ o brother! 'tis my father's shepherd, sure. _elder brother._ are you thyrsis? how could you find this dark, secluded spot? why did you come? _spirit._ to find out you. but where is your lovely sister? why is she not with you? _elder brother._ without our fault we lost her as we came. _spirit._ alas, then my fears are true! _elder brother._ what fears, good thyrsis? _spirit._ i have long known that this wood was held in the power of an evil spirit, and this evening as i sat me down upon a bank i heard most lovely strains as if an angel sang. listening, i knew it was your sister's voice. i hastened to her and heard her tell comus of you whom she had lost. to you i came that we may save her from the evil spirit of the wood. _elder brother._ let us hasten to attack him with our swords. _spirit._ alas! your bravery i praise, but it is vain. the evil charm of comus can be broken only by a wondrous plant. see, i have it here. with this will we overcome his fairy spells. _elder brother._ thyrsis, lead on! and some good angel bear a shield before us! scene iii.--_the palace of comus_ _comus._ drink, lady, of the wine. you are faint and weary, and this will refresh you. do not refuse! _lady alice._ never will i drink the potion in that glass. you may control the body, but my free mind you can never bind. _comus._ why are you angry, lady? here is a place filled with all delight. _lady alice._ is this the cottage you told me of, the place of safety where i could rest. none but good men can offer good things. i will never drink what you offer. what monsters are these? i pray heaven guard me! [illustration] _comus._ dear lady, stay with me and be my queen. here may you reign over all my kingdom. see what royal robes are mine, what jewels, what costly tables and shining gold and silver. no sorrow shall you know, but only joy and pleasure. _lady alice._ cease your words. you cannot move the mind guided by honesty and truth. you cannot frighten me, for well i know goodness is stronger than evil, truth is more powerful than falsehood. the pure heart cannot be harmed. _comus._ cease, cease! all this is foolishness. be wise and taste. all trouble will be forgotten. come, i insist! [_the brothers rush in and drive comus and his crew away. but lady alice is entranced and cannot move._] _spirit._ have you let him escape? you should have seized his wand. without that he has no power, but now we must have help to release your sister from his wicked power. the goddess of our river severn, the lovely sabrina, has power over all the enchantments of comus. her will i call. sabrina fair, listen, where thou art sitting, goddess of the silver lake, listen and save. come from your home in the coral caves of the sea and help this lovely maiden in distress. _sabrina_ (_entering_). from off the waters fleet, thus i set my printless feet o'er the cowslip's velvet head that bends not as i tread; gentle swain, at thy request i am here! _spirit._ dear goddess, we implore your powerful aid to undo the charm wrought by the enchanter on this maiden. _sabrina._ 'tis my greatest joy to help the pure and good. gentle lady, look on me. thrice upon thy finger tips, thrice upon thy lips, i sprinkle drops from my pure fountain. then i touch this marble seat and break the spell. all is well. farewell. _spirit._ fair sabrina, for this aid i pray that all the pretty rills will never cease to flow into your broad river. may your banks ever be fair with groves and meadows sweet, while all men shall praise you for your gentle deeds. farewell. now, lady, let us hasten from this grove. your parents await their dear children, and we must hasten ere they become alarmed over your delay. thanks to your pure heart and the aid of the fair sabrina, you have come safely through the enchanter's wood. * * * * * transcriber's note the following change has been made to the text: page : "dolly" changed to "dollie". the christmas dinner by shepherd knapp the heidelberg press publishers for discriminators fifteenth and race streets, philadelphia to those who first acted in this play to those who with so much skill and patience trained the participants and to the friendly audiences of boys and girls who encourage us by their applause it is dedicated preface this play is intended, not only for acting, but also for reading. it is so arranged that boys and girls can read it to themselves, just as they would read any other story. even the stage directions and the descriptions of scenery are presented as a part of the narrative. at the same time, by the use of different styles of type, the speeches of the characters are clearly distinguished from the rest of the text, an arrangement which will be found convenient when parts are being memorized for acting. the play has been acted more than once, and by different groups of people; sometimes on a stage equipped with footlights, curtain, and scenery; sometimes with barely any of these aids. practical suggestions as to costumes, scenery, and some simple scenic effects will be found at the end of the play. what sort of a christmas play do the boys and girls like, and in what sort do we like to see them take part? it should be a play, surely, in which the dialogue is simple and natural, not stilted and artificial; one that seems like a bit of real life, and yet has plenty of fancy and imagination in it; one that suggests and helps to perpetuate some of the happy and wholesome customs of christmas; above all, one that is pervaded by the christmas spirit. i hope that this play does not entirely fail to meet these requirements. worcester, mass. shepherd knapp. introduction before the play begins, mother goose comes out in front of the curtain, and this is what she says: well, well, well, well, well, here we all are again. and what's more important, christmas is here again, too. aren't you glad? now i want to tell you children something. do you know what i enjoy most at christmas time? it's to come in here and see all you children sitting in rows and rows, all your faces looking up at me, and a smile on every one of them. why, even some of those great big men and women back there are smiling, too. and i think i know why you are all smiling. there are two reasons for it, i believe. one is that you think old mother goose is a good friend of yours, and loves you all very much. and you're quite right about that, for i declare, i love every one of you as much as i love--plum pudding. and the second reason why you are all smiling, i guess, is because you think i am going to show you a christmas play. and you're right about that, too. i have a play all ready for you, there behind the curtain, and the name of it is "the christmas dinner." doesn't the very name of it make you hungry? well, you just wait. now when the curtain opens, you'll see the warm cozy kitchen of a farm house, where six people live. two of them are quite young, because they are just a boy and a girl, and their names are walter and gertrude. and two of them are older, and yet not so very old either: they are the father and mother of the two children. and the last two are the oldest of all, and they are really old, for they are the children's grandfather and grandmother. it is late in the afternoon of the day before christmas, the hour when it has begun to get dark. the father is out cutting some good big sticks of wood for the christmas fire, and the two children are playing outside of the house. so you'll not see them at first. but you will see the mother, who is just finishing the day's work, and the old grandfather and grandmother, who are sitting by the fire. are you ready, all of you? be quiet, then, for now it is going to begin. the christmas dinner the first scene now the curtain opens, and you see a farmhouse kitchen, just as mother goose promised. at the back, opposite to you, is a fire-place, with a mantel shelf over it. a bright fire is burning. on the mantel is a lamp, lighted, and an unlighted candle; also some other things that you'll hear about later. there is a cupboard against the back wall. at one side of the room is the door leading out of doors; beside it is a large wood box, where the fire-wood is kept; and nearby are a broom, leaning against the wall, and a dustpan. on the other side of the room is another door, which leads to the rest of the house; beside that is a big clothes basket, where the soiled clothes are kept. close to the fire, one on each side, the grandfather and the grandmother are sitting in comfortable chairs. near the front and a little at one side are a table and a chair. on the table is a dishpan and a number of dishes, which the mother is washing when the curtain opens. the first one to speak is the grandmother, and this is what she says: haven't you nearly finished, mary? yes, almost, answers mother: only a few more things to be washed, and then i can sit down and rest. grandmother asks, is everything ready for the christmas dinner tomorrow? every single thing, mother answers. the goose is ready to go on the fire; the apple sauce is made; the bread and the pies are baked; and the plum pudding--well, you saw the pudding yourself, so that i don't need to tell you about that. it's a beauty, if i do say so. at this moment the outside door opens, and the two children, walter and gertrude, run in. their coats and mittens show that they have been playing in the snow. oh, mother, says walter, it's getting dark outside. may we come in now? is your work all done? not quite yet, dears, his mother answers. run out, both of you, for ten minutes more, and then i'll have everything cleared away. it makes me nervous to have you about while things are in a mess. all right, mother, says gertrude. come on, walter, i'll race you to the gate. and both the children go out-of-doors again, running. gertrude was nearer the door, and gets out first. such energy as those children have! exclaims mother, with a sigh, as she goes on with her work. sometimes it makes me tired to watch them. there, every last thing is washed, and now, when i've dried them, i can sit down. she goes on talking while she dries. there's one thing i haven't had time to do--those paper caps. i suppose the children will be disappointed, but i simply couldn't find time to make them. the colored paper and paste and scissors are all on the mantel shelf and i suppose i ought to sit right down now and go to work on them, but i declare, i'm too tired. getting ready for christmas seems to take all the strength i have. i think i must be getting old. you getting old! exclaims grandmother. nonsense! wait till you get to be our age; then you might talk of getting old and feeling tired. isn't that so, john? john is grandfather's first name. yes, grandfather answers, when you get to be as old as we are, then you'll know what it is to be tired, christmas or another day. i tried to help james shut the gate this morning, where the snow had drifted against it, and it tired me so, i haven't stirred out of this chair since. now the outside door opens a second time, and the children come in again, gertrude first. isn't it time now, mother? asks gertrude. yes, answers mother, i've just finished. take off your coats, and try to quiet down. she puts the clean dishes away in the cupboard and carries the dish pan away into the next room. the children take of their coats and caps. walter goes over by his grandfather and leans against his chair. gertrude sits down on a low stool beside her grandmother. what have you children been doing all the afternoon? asks grandfather. oh, we've had the greatest fun, cries gertrude. first we went skating down on the mill pond. and then we built a snow fort, walter chimes in, and the indians attacked it, and we drove them off with snow-balls. and then we played tag out by the barn, adds gertrude. no, walter corrects her, that was afterwards; don't you remember, gertrude? before that, we raced down to the crossroads to see if the postman had brought any mail. oh, yes, gertrude agrees, and you tripped and fell down in the snow drift, and oh, grandfather, you ought to have seen him when he got up; he was a sight. but it all brushed off. and don't you feel tired after doing all that? grandmother asks. no, says gertrude, i'm not a bit tired; are you, walter? not a bit, says walter. well, that's the beauty of being young, grandmother says, in a tired sort of voice. i suppose that when i was your age, i was just the same as you children are now. how long is it since you were our age? walter asks. so many years, says grandmother, that i haven't time to count them up. but i can remember it all clearly enough, even if it was so long ago. everything about it was very different then from the way it is now. how was it different, grandmother? asks gertrude. why, in all sorts of ways, grandmother answers. for one thing, the days seemed ever so much shorter when i was a little girl. and the nights, adds grandfather. nowadays the nights are sometimes quite long, but when i was a boy they were so short, that it almost seemed as though there weren't any nights at all. and food used to taste quite different then, says grandmother. i used to care a lot more for breakfast and dinner and supper then than i do now. grandfather, asks walter, do you wish that you could have stayed on being a little boy, always? well, i don't know, walter, grandfather replies thoughtfully; there are two sides to that. i'll tell you what i would like, though. i'd like to be a little boy now and then, just for a short time, to see once more how it would feel to run and shout and play and eat and laugh, the way i used to. but then i think i'd pretty soon want to be myself again, old as i am, because there are some grand things about old age that i think i'd miss if i had to be a little boy for good and all. a good many wonderful things happen to you when you grow old, and even if my old body does get pretty tired sometimes, and you children think perhaps that grandfather looks very stupid, sitting so quiet by the fire-side here, i'm often thinking, inside, of splendid things that little boys and girls don't know anything about. but, grandfather, says gertrude, tell us some more things that were different when you were a boy. well, let me see, grandfather says, and stops for a moment to think. then he goes on. there were the brownies. i haven't said anything about them, have i? the brownies? exclaims walter, his eyes big with interest. what about the brownies? only that when i was a little boy, answers grandfather, i used to see the brownies sometimes. but now i never see them. it's many a long year since i caught sight of a single one. where did you used to see them? asks walter, still excited. right here in this room, answers grandfather. there used to be two of them, when i was a boy; and often i would see them, though none of the grown-up people could see them at all. during the daytime they used often to hide in the wood-box over there: and then at night, they used to come out and play. and sometimes they worked, too, for i can remember my father saying sometimes in the morning, "the floor looks so clean that i think the brownies must have swept it last night." but, grandfather, says walter, for there is one thing about this that puzzles him, i'm a little boy, and i've never seen the brownies. no, not yet, grandfather admits, but i think you're likely to any time now. you see, they don't show themselves to very little boys, for fear of frightening them. gertrude, who has been listening carefully to all of this, has a question to ask. grandmother, she says, did you see the brownies, too, when you were a little girl? no, indeed, answers grandmother. the brownies never wanted any girls to see them. but i used to see the house-fairies often, and they always hid away from the boys, so that only we girls ever saw them. how many house-fairies were there, grandmother, asks gertrude eagerly, and where did you see them, and what did they do? my, what a lot of questions! grandmother says, smiling at gertrude's excitement. there were two of them at our house, and they lived in the kitchen just as the brownies did here. they used to hide in a big clothes basket very much like that one over there. at night, like the brownies, they used to do some of the house-work to help mother; and how pleased she used to be, when she found in the morning that some of the work had been done for her while she was asleep. do you suppose, says walter, that if i woke up some night, and came and looked in here, i'd see the brownies working or playing? very likely, answers grandfather. oh, i'd like to try it, cries walter. can i do it tonight? but grandmother says: no, indeed, walter. what is your grandfather thinking of to put such a notion into your head. and as for tonight--well, of all nights in the year!--the very night when we expect santa claus to come and fill the stockings. and you know how displeased he would be to find the children awake and watching him. why, he very likely would go away without leaving a single present. to be sure, says grandfather. no, it wouldn't do at all. and, besides, think how tired you'd be for tomorrow. and then you'd be sorry with all the goings-on. by dinner time, you'd probably be falling asleep, and we'd have to eat all the goose and the pudding without you. we wouldn't want to miss that, says gertrude, shaking her head decisively. i saw the pudding out in the store closet, and i tell you, it smelt good. i bet you tasted it, exclaims walter. indeed i did not, answers gertrude in a hurt tone; not even the eentiest teentiest bit of it. what time will the dinner begin, grandfather? asks walter. about twelve o'clock noon, i expect, grandfather answers. and i suppose, says walter in a sorrowful voice, that the pudding will be the last thing of all. yes, i suppose so, grandfather admits. it will be an awfully long time to wait, says walter. and then when mother begins to help it, gertrude and i will have to wait and wait while all the rest of you are helped. it's pretty tiresome waiting sometimes. but have you forgotten, walter? grandmother says, reminding him, you won't have to wait as long as that tomorrow. for tomorrow is christmas, and don't you remember, that one of the ways in which christmas is different from all the other days in the year, is the way in which the food is helped out at the christmas dinner? on other days the oldest people are helped first, and the youngest ones have to wait: but at christmas dinner, the first one to be helped to each thing is the very youngest one of all, and then comes the next youngest, and so on all the way round, and the oldest one has to wait till the very last. oh, i remember, exclaims gertrude. that was the way we did last year. don't you remember, walter? walter nods. and last year, gertrude goes on, i was the youngest and i was helped first to every single thing. grandmother, who is the youngest this year? why, you are the youngest, answers grandmother, just as you were last christmas. but i'm a whole year older than i was then, says gertrude, looking puzzled. and so is everybody else, grandmother explains. really? says gertrude, not quite convinced. so i'm the youngest still? will i be helped first to the goose and the apple sauce? yes, answers grandmother. and will she be helped first to the pudding, too? asks walter anxiously. yes, answers grandmother. oh, i'm so glad, cries gertrude. isn't it nice to be the youngest? am i the next youngest? asks walter. yes, grandmother answers, and the second helping of everything will go to you. oh, well, that's all right, says walter, a good deal relieved. there's sure to be plenty left. gertrude couldn't eat it all. now there is the sound of someone outside the door, stamping to shake the snow from his boots. there's father, cries gertrude. she and walter go to the door and open it. their father comes in, carrying several good-sized pieces fire-wood. how late you are, james, says grandfather, and how tired you look. i am tired, answers father. he lifts the lid of the wood-box, and throws in the wood with a great clatter. then, while he takes off his cap and gloves and muffler, he says: the snow is so deep that it's hard to walk in it, especially carrying a load as heavy as that wood was. he sits down. children, says grandmother, go, tell your mother that father is here. she'll want to give us supper at once and hurry you both off to bed. but when are we to hang up our stockings? asks walter. we'll do that right after supper, answers father. run along now, and tell mother that i'm here. the children go, and father continues speaking. is everything all ready for tomorrow? he asks. yes, answers grandmother, mary finished everything quite a while ago. or almost everything. she didn't get the paper caps made for the children, but she was just too tired to do it after all the other work. i don't wonder, says father. when there is so much to be done, some things simply have to be left. perhaps there will be time tomorrow morning. i'm leaving some things for tomorrow myself. for instance, i promised mary i'd sweep out the kitchen here, after i'd brought in the wood; and it needs it, sure enough, for i see i've tracked in a lot of dirt. but i'm going to beg off for tonight. i'll do it first thing in the morning. i only hope that santa claus won't notice it, and think we're an untidy household. but we leave such a dim light in the kitchen at night, that i don't believe he'll be able to tell whether the room is broom-clean or not. and any way, i guess he must get tired himself sometimes. so he'll know how it is, and won't lay it up against us. and that is the end of the first scene. the interlude again before the second scene begins, mother goose comes out in front of the curtain, and this is what she says: children, do you want to know what has happened in that kitchen since the curtain closed? well, i've come to tell you all about it. the first thing was that they all had supper; not a very hearty supper, because they all wanted to save up their appetites for the christmas dinner the next day. but they had as much as they needed. and then the two children went and got their stockings, one for each member of the family, and then they all hung up their own stockings. gertrude hung up her stocking, and walter hung up his stocking, and mother hung up her stocking, and father hung up his stocking, and grandmother hung up her stocking, and--and--and--now, i declare, i've left somebody out. who can it be, i wonder? why, to be sure--grandfather. yes, grandfather hung up his stocking; and there they were, all six stockings hanging in a row. you look for them there, when the curtain opens. i think you'll see them. well, then of course the children went to bed, and by this time i think they are both asleep. and now the rest of the family are beginning to feel sleepy, and in just a moment, i think one of them is going to say, "it's time we all went to bed." what happens after that you can see for yourselves, for now it's going to begin. the second scene when the curtain opens, you see the kitchen again just as before, except that now the six stockings are hanging from the mantel shelf over the fire-place. father is sitting beside the table reading the newspaper. the two grandparents are still sitting close to the fire, one on each side. grandfather has fallen asleep, and grandmother is drowsy, so that her head nods. then she wakes up, and tries to stay awake; but in a minute her head goes nodding again. father yawns, puts down his newspaper; yawns once more and stretches; then goes on reading. mother comes in and says, the children are sound asleep. it's time we all went to bed, says father, putting down the newspaper. i know i'm ready for it. he yawns. besides, adds mother, the fire is almost out; and indeed it ought soon to be put out entirely, so as to cool the chimney for old santa claus, when he comes. that's right, too, father agrees. he gets up and goes to grandfather, laying his hand on his shoulder. father, he says, speaking loud so as to waken him. it's time to go to bed. what? says grandfather, waking up with a start; and then he says, why, i must have been dozing. where are the children? they went to bed long ago, says mother. don't you remember? and now it's bed time for all of us. are you ready, mother? yes, i'm more than ready, answers grandmother. she rises and grandfather, also, and with feeble steps, they go toward the door. good-night, grandmother says. good-night, father and mother answer her, and father continues, good-night, father. pleasant dreams. good-night, answers grandfather, and he and grandmother go out. i'll be off too, james, says mother, if you'll look after the fire and the light. yes, i'll attend to all that, answers father. then mother goes out, and father deadens the fire, using the tongs and shovel. he takes the chair, in which he has been sitting, and sets it against the wall beside the clothes basket. then he lights the candle on the mantel shelf, blows out the lamp, leaving the room in a dim light, and goes out. for a little while everything is quiet. then there is a noise from the direction of the wood box. the cover rises, and the head of a brownie appears, inside the box. he climbs out, followed by another. they caper about the room, looking at everything, listening at the doors, looking up the chimney. then they go to the clothes basket and raise the lid. up come four arms, and then two house-fairies stand up in the basket, and get out with the help of the chair. they, also, flit about the room, looking at things. meanwhile the brownies have taken the broom and dust pan, and begun to sweep, especially over by the outside door and by the wood box. the fairies take a chair, and climb up by the mantel shelf. they take down the colored paper, paste and scissors, and, carrying them to the table, set to work, making paper caps. in a few moments they hold up two, complete. they leave them on the table. now sleigh bells are heard approaching. the brownies and fairies leave their work, and clapping their hands, run to the fire-place, and stand in a group, facing it, looking in. now the sleigh bells have come very near: and now they are still. and now santa claus is heard scrambling down the chimney. as he comes out from the fire-place, the brownies and fairies separate to let him through. he sets down his pack. then the brownies, on one side, and the fairies, on the other, take hold of his hands and draw him toward the front of the stage. santa claus smiles down at them, and, shaking the hands that hold his, says, how are you all? merry as crickets? they nod, and dance up and down, still holding his hands. and what have you been doing with yourselves? he asks them. playing? they all nod. and working? he asks. they nod again. then the brownies draw him over to the their side, and show him how clean the floor is. good! says santa claus. then the brownies let go his hand, and the fairies draw him over to their side, and show him the caps they have made. fine! says santa claus. then the fairies let go his other hand, and he goes on talking. how are gertrude and walter? have they been good? they all nod. as for the older people, he says, i don't need to ask you about them. do you want to know why? they nod. it's because i've heard all about them already, santa claus continues. there's a little bird that lives up in the eaves of the house and often he flies down and listens at the window, and then he tells me all he hears. tonight he flew way up to the pine woods on the hill, to meet me, and he told me some things about all the older people in this house which made me feel quite upset. shall i tell you what it was? they nod. he says that they all of them seem to think that they are growing old, not only the grandfather and grandmother, but the father and mother, too. they are all the time talking about feeling tired, and saying how different it all was when they were children, and how long ago that seems. now isn't that a shame? i don't blame them altogether, because i know myself how that sort of thing sometimes happens. two or three years ago i was sick for awhile, and i declare that even i began to feel old and tired. but all the same i don't believe in letting that sort of thing go on too long; and do you want to know what i am going to do about it? they nod eagerly. it's the best scheme you ever heard of, and i want you to help me with it. well, i'm going to use some magic to make them all little boys and girls again for half an hour. and the way i'm going to do it is this. i've got here a bag of magic hazel nuts. he takes the bag out of his pocket. i always keep them in my pocket, because you never know when a thing of that sort will come in handy. now, i want you to take these nuts and stick them into the plum pudding, which they are all going to eat tomorrow for their christmas dinner. you must stick them in all around in different places, so that each of the older people will be sure to get one; and it won't do the children a bit of harm if they get some, too. in fact they are so young that this kind of magic won't have any effect on them at all. but with all the older folks, as soon as the nuts have been eaten, the magic will begin to work; and what do you suppose will be the first thing they will all want to do? do you want to know? they all nod. they will all want to get down on their hands and knees, grandfather and grandmother and all, and crawl under the table. won't that be funny? they all clap their hands and dance up and down. that's what the magic hazel nuts will make them do, says santa claus. and when they have crawled under the table--you see, it's a table that has a christmas dinner on it, and that makes a difference, of course--well, when they have crawled under the table, then--. no. i believe i won't tell you about what will happen then. i'll keep it for a surprise and it's something worth seeing you may be sure. so that's the plan. will you help me? they all nod most emphatically. here are the nuts, then, he says. run and stick them into the pudding, while i fill the stockings. they take the bag and all run out through the door. santa claus goes to the fire-place, and from his pack fills all six stockings. then, as he finishes and takes up his pack, the brownies and fairies return, and gather round him as he stands in front of the fire-place. santa claus says to them, did you stick them in? they nod. all around? they nod again. that's right. well, i'm off. and, tomorrow, if i can manage it, i'm going to come back here at about the time when the nuts begin to work, for i'd like to see the fun myself. good-bye. they all shake him by the hand. then he disappears into the fire-place. they stand in front of it for a moment, and one of the brownies kneels down and looks up the chimney after him. then sleigh bells are heard on the roof, as the sleigh starts. the brownies and fairies turn around then, and come away from the fire-place. the brownies run to the wood box, climb in, and pull the lid down over them. at the same time the fairies carry the chair over to the clothes basket, climb onto the chair, step over into the basket, and pull the lid down over them. then everything is quiet again. and that is the end of the second scene. the interlude again before the third scene begins, mother goose comes out in front of the curtain, and this is what she says: children, i've got a lot to tell you about what has happened to walter and gertrude since the curtain closed. for quite a while they went on sleeping, because it was still night, you know. and then morning came, and it didn't take them long to wake up after that, i can tell you. as soon as it was really light, they put on their wrappers, and woke their father and mother, and then they went for the stockings. they took them into their grandparents' room, and grandmother and grandfather sat up in bed with shawls over their shoulders, and the rest sat on the edge of the bed. then they all opened their stockings, and i couldn't begin to tell you what fine presents they found in them, nor how happy they all were. after breakfast they all sat down by the kitchen fire, and father got the big family bible, and laid it on grandfather's lap, and grandfather polished up his spectacles till they shone, and put them on his nose, and then he read about the story of the first christmas long ago in bethlehem. and it was all so quiet while he was reading that you could almost hear the snow flakes falling outside, for it had begun to snow. then, when grandfather had finished reading, and closed the bible, they all sang a christmas carol, which they always sings together every christmas in that house; and they sang it out so clear and strong, that a traveler in a sleigh, way down at the cross-roads, heard it, and it sounded so good that he stopped his horse in spite of the storm, and listened till it was over. well, i can't tell you everything else they did that morning except that father found the floor all swept, and knew it must have been done by the brownies; and then mother found the paper caps that the house-fairies had made. she was ever so glad; and so were the children when they opened them up and put them on. you'll see how they look on the children's heads when the curtain opens. then about the dinner. father had brought in the big table, and set it up in the kitchen in front of the fire-place, and mother put on the plates and the forks and the knives and the spoons and all the rest. then the goose was roasted, and, oh, how good it smelt when it was cooking. at last everything was ready and twelve o'clock came, and they all sat down at the table. and do you know, i believe they are still sitting there behind the curtain. but they have finished the goose and the apple sauce and all the good things that went with them, and now they are just going to begin on the pudding. they don't know a thing about the magic nuts, because the brownies and the fairies stuck them in so neatly, that not one of them shows. mother is just starting to put the pudding on the saucers. i wonder if she will remember about giving it to the youngest first. that's gertrude, you know. do you want to see for yourselves whether she remembers? well, be very quiet then, for now it is going to begin. the third scene when the curtain opens, you again see the kitchen, but it looks a good deal different, because the chairs that grandmother and grandfather used to sit in have been moved out; so has the small table on which mother washed the dishes in the first scene; and now in front of the fire-place is the great big table that mother goose told you about. the table cloth on it is so big that it hangs all the way down to the floor. at one end of the table sits father; then next to him, back of the table facing you, is grandfather, then gertrude, then walter, then grandmother and at the other end of the table, next to grandmother, mother is seated. the children have on those bright-colored paper caps that the house-fairies made. mother, who is helping the pudding, is the first to speak and this is what she says: there's the first plateful of our christmas pudding, and that goes to gertrude, of course. she hands it to grandmother, who passes it on to walter. um! says walter, holding it for a moment under his nose. that smells good! he passes it to gertrude. gertrude asks, shall i wait till everybody else is served, before i begin? no, not today, says father. begin at once. we all want to know how it tastes. gertrude tastes it. oh, it is good, she says. mother meanwhile has helped another plateful, and passed it to grandmother, who says, walter, here is yours. and she hands it to him. he tastes it. is it good, walter? asks grandfather. walter with his mouth very full can only say, um! pass this down to father, says mother, and she starts to hand another plateful of pudding to grandmother. oh, mother, exclaims gertrude, aren't you younger than father? yes, just by two months, answers mother, keeping the plateful of pudding in her hand. you think i ought to be helped next? all right; we'll keep strictly to the rules, and i'll set this aside for myself, while i help the others. she helps another plateful. this is for you james, she says to father, and passes it along. and grandmother, she says, this is for you. she hands a plateful of pudding to grandmother. grandfather, here is yours last of all, because you are the oldest of us, mother says, and starts the last plateful of pudding on its way to grandfather. suddenly father, who has been eating some of his pudding, exclaims, here's something new. you never put nuts in the plum pudding before, mary. nuts? says mother, very much surprised, there aren't any nuts in the pudding. but, indeed there are, father insists, i've just eaten one. and so have i, adds grandmother. and here is another one, declares grandfather, and he holds it up in his spoon. it's a hazel nut, he says, and puts it into his mouth. why, i don't understand it all, exclaims mother. i didn't put any hazel nuts in the plum pudding. who ever heard of such a thing! children, have you found any in yours? yes, says gertrude. i've had two, says walter. mother has been looking carefully at the pudding on her plate. i declare, you're right, she says. here's one in mine. she eats it. they are very good nuts, too; but how they ever got into the pudding is a mystery. during this last speech the lid of the wood box has been pushed up, showing the two brownies, sitting up in the box, and also the top of the clothes basket, showing the fairies, looking out from the basket. walter happens to catch sight of the brownies in the wood box. he starts up from his chair, and, pointing toward the wood box, cries, there they are! what? asks father, looking in the direction to which walter points. the brownies, cries walter. see! in the wood box. i don't see anything, says father, except that someone has left the lid of the wood box open. oh, and the fairies, cries gertrude, pointing toward the clothes basket. there they are. i see them. mother turns around to look, and then says to gertrude. there's nothing there, my dear. oh, but there is, gertrude declares. they are in the basket. everybody stands up. gertrude and walter come around from behind the table, and look at the fairies and brownies, but they don't go very close to them, because they are just a little bit scared. at the same time, father begins to act rather queerly, looking down at the floor, and keeping himself up by holding onto the table. now he goes down on his hands and knees near the end of the table. why, james, exclaims mother, what are you doing? how queerly you are acting. father gets up again, as though by a great effort. i don't know what is the matter, he says: but i have the funniest sort of feeling. it seems as though i should just have to get down on the floor and crawl under the table. well, that's queer, says mother. do you know, i begin to feel the same way myself. so do i, says grandmother. so do i, says grandfather. it's perfectly absurd the way i seem to want to crawl under the table, father says, and his knees keep bending under him. but you're surely not going to do it, cries mother. oh, no father answers, i'm not going to do it. but all the same he goes down on his knees again. but you are doing it, cries mother. well, i can't help it, shouts father. here goes. watch me come out at the other end. if he goes, i've got to follow, says mother, and she gets down on her hands and knees behind him. so have i, says grandfather, and he kneels down behind mother. and i, says grandmother, and she kneels behind grandfather. then, close behind one another, they go under the table, and when they come out at the other end, father and grandfather have turned into little boys, and mother and grandmother have turned into little girls. while this is happening the brownies and fairies come out of the box and basket. oh, jolly! cries walter. is this you, grandfather? he takes hold of hands with the little boy that grandfather has turned into, and swings him around in a circle. oh, mother, cries gertrude to one of the little girls, hugging her, how darling you are. isn't this fun? let's all play some game together, proposes walter. "london bridge," shall we play that? gertrude suggests. the others all clap their hands; so she goes on. she says, walter, you and i will be the bridge. what shall we choose? they whisper together. then the game is played in the usual way. each captive is offered a choice between "plum pudding" (that is gertrude's side) and "ice cream" (that is walter's side). at the very moment when the tug-of-war is about to begin, the outside door opens, and in comes santa claus. at once, they all leave their games, and gather around him. oh, santa claus, cries walter, have you come to play with us? how can i play with you? answers santa claus. i'm far too big, and far, far too old. one of the fairies has gone to the table, and gotten a plate of plum pudding, which she now offers to santa claus. what's this? he asks. plum pudding? well, i never could resist that. he begins to eat it. this surely is a first-class pudding. he takes another spoonful. why, what's this? a nut in the pudding? a hazel-nut! he stops short, and holds the plate away from him. a hazel nut! he exclaims again. i declare, i'd clean forgotten all about that. and now i've gone and eaten one. goodness! is it going to work, i wonder. he puts the plate down on the table. yes, i feel it coming. yes, it's come. i've just got to crawl under that table. get out of the way there. i've got to do it. it's no use trying not to. the children, the brownies, and the fairies are all delighted, and laugh, and dance up and down, and clap their hands. walter cries out, go on, santa. you'll make a jolly boy. down goes santa claus on his hands and knees, and crawls under the table. when he comes out on the other end, he is a little roley poley boy, smaller and fatter than any of the others, and dressed in white with red trimmings. all the others join hands with him in a circle, and they swing around gleefully. now for a game of "follow my leader," shouts walter. i'll be leader; come after me. off walter starts around the room, the others following, first gertrude, then the brownies and the fairies, then the others, with santa claus bringing up the rear. they go over the wood box, onto a chair and down again, and at last walter dives under the table, in the opposite direction to that in which the magic change was made. the children, the brownies, and the fairies go through without any change, of course, but the other five all come out in their original form. they stand up straightening their clothes, mother and grandmother setting their hair to rights. meantime, while the children are occupied watching the transformations of their parents and grandparents, the brownies and fairies go back into the box and basket, and pull the lids down after them. i'm all out of breath, exclaims father, panting. so am i, says grandmother; but what fun it was. i wouldn't have missed it for a thousand dollars, mother declares. nor i, echoes grandfather. even now, although i've got my old body back again, i declare i feel as young as a boy inside. oh, santa claus, cries gertrude, you were the dearest, funniest little boy i ever saw. it just made me laugh to look at you. hush! says santa claus, looking cautiously over his shoulder, i hope you won't let any one know how foolish i looked and acted. what would people say, if they heard that a man hundreds of years old like me, has been romping around that way? why, santa claus, says walter, everybody would think it was fine. do you think so? asks santa claus, looking around from one to the other. of course, they would, answers father. the fact is they'd love you all the more for it, if that's possible. dear santa claus, you don't mind my laughing at you, do you? says gertrude; because you were funny, you know. well--no--i guess i don't mind much, santa claus answers. in fact, the more i think of it, the more i think myself that it was funny. ho! ho! ho! only so high (he measures the height with his hand) and as fat as butter. ho! ho! ho! he goes off into a roar of laughter, and everybody else begins laughing, and they laugh more and more, until they have to lean up against the wall and the table, and wipe their eyes. when the laughing has stopped, santa claus says, there's only one person i don't believe i can quite forgive, and that's the sly puss of a fairy, who gave me the plum pudding. she knew what would happen well enough. where is she? he looks around for her. why, she's gone. so she has, says gertrude, looking around. they've both gone. and the brownies, too, says walter. and i must be going this very minute, exclaims santa claus. goodness knows how late it is. he goes toward the door. good-bye, everybody. good-bye till next christmas. just at the door he turns, and says, by the way, i've got some more of those hazel nuts at home. what do you think i'd better do with them? santa claus, says grandmother, bring them with you next christmas, and let's do it all over again. shall i? asks santa claus, looking around at them all. yes, yes, they all cry. it's a bargain, says santa claus. don't forget. next christmas. good-bye. he opens the door to go out. good-bye till next christmas, they all call after him, and they wave their hands to him as the curtain closes. and this is the end of the play. characters and costumes speaking parts mother goose--the conventional costume; full skirt, peaked hat, cane, spectacles, mitts. it is effective for her to draw her lips tight over her teeth so that her speech is that of a toothless old woman. grandfather--} simple indoor clothes grandmother--} suitable for farmer folk. father--at first in working clothes; afterwards a bit spruced up; cap and gloves for first entrance. mother--at first in working clothes and apron; better clothes for the third scene. walter--a boy; at first outdoor clothes; indoor clothes underneath. gertrude--a girl, a little younger than walter; at first outdoor clothes; indoor clothes underneath, different in the third scene. silent parts brownies--two little boys; dressed all in brown. house fairies--two little girls; conventional fairy costumes, with gauze wings. transformed grown-ups--three boys and two girls: the smallest and fattest boy, representing santa claus, should be dressed in white with red bow necktie and red stockings, the others in ordinary children's clothes. scenery and scenic effects the same scene continues throughout the play, with slight changes in the furnishings. the fire-place must be an imitation one as the transformation in the last scene requires this means of exit and entrance, from under the table. a very effective fire for the first scene can be produced by means of an electric fan pointed upward and strips of bright red and yellow paper fastened to the back of a log set on the andirons: and it can, of course, be made to die down at will. in the second scene an electric light behind red paper will give the glow of a dying fire. there should be two doors, one on each side of the stage. the wood box and the clothes basket stand close against the wall, one on each side of the stage near the front. the back of each is open, and the sections of scenery back of them have corresponding holes, so that the brownies and fairies freely make their entrance and exits from behind. in the basket should be a stool to aid the fairies in getting in and out. for safety, the lamp should be lighted by electricity, and the candle likewise would better be an electric one, run by a dry battery. in the last scene the table should be set well back near the fire-place, and when the people rise from the table one of them, without attracting attention, should fasten a piece of dark cloth (already fast at one end) between the table and the top of the entrance to the fire-place. there will then be no danger that in passing in and out by that route any of the actors will show their heads above the table and betray the secret of the change. when the old folks go under the table they turn and pass out through the fire-place, their young substitutes entering there and appearing at the other end of the table. with a little practice, it can be made to seem as though the progress had been directly from one end of the table to the other. if gifts or candies are to be distributed mother goose may make a final appearance immediately after the final curtain, and speak substantially as follows: well, children, did you like it? do you know, i rather wished i could try one of those magic nuts myself. i think i'd made a real cunning little girl, don't you? but there is no use wishing for what you can't have, and besides, there's something more important to be attended to. i notice that santa claus is a great one to give everybody presents, and sure enough he's done it again this time just as usual. he's brought boxes of candy for all you boys and girls. he left them outside on the door step, and i was almost afraid the snow might have spoiled them. but it was such dry snow, it didn't do them any harm at all, and in a minute, when the curtains open, they'll be brought indoors and handed out to you. well, i guess that's all for this year, except for old mother goose to wish you (or, to hope that you've all had) a very merry christmas, and (to wish you all) a happy new year. children's classics in dramatic form book two by augusta stevenson formerly a teacher in the indianapolis public schools [illustration] foreword this series of books aims to serve three distinct purposes: first, to arouse a greater interest in oral reading; second, to develop an expressive voice--sadly lacking in the case of most americans; and third, to give freedom and grace in the bodily attitudes and movements which are involved in reading and speaking. the stories given are for the most part adaptations of favorite tales from folklore,--andersen, grimm, Æsop, and the arabian nights having been freely drawn upon. children are dramatic by nature. they _are_ for the time the kings, the fairies, and the heroes that they picture in their imaginations. they _are_ these characters with such abandon and with such intense pleasure that the on-looker must believe that nature intended that they should give play to this dramatic instinct, not so much formally, with all the trappings of the man-made stage, but spontaneously and naturally, as they talk and read. if this expressive instinct can be utilized in the teaching of reading, we shall be able both to add greatly to the child's enjoyment and to improve the quality of his oral reading. in these days when so many books are hastily read in school, there is a tendency to sacrifice expression to the mechanics and interpretation of reading. those acquainted with school work know too well the resulting monotonous, indistinct speech and the self-conscious, listless attitude which characterize so much of the reading of pupils in grades above the third. it is believed that these readers will aid in overcoming these serious faults in reading, which all teachers and parents deplore. the dramatic appeal of the stories will cause the child to lose himself in the character he is impersonating and read with a naturalness and expressiveness unknown to him before, and this improvement will be evident in all his oral reading, and even in his speech. the use of the books permits the whole range of expression, from merely reading the stories effectively, to "acting them out" with as little, or as much, stage-setting or costuming as a parent or teacher may desire. the stories are especially designed to be read as a part of the regular reading work. many different plans for using the books will suggest themselves to the teacher. after a preliminary reading of a story during the study period, the teacher may assign different parts to various children, she herself reading the stage directions and the other brief descriptions unclosed in brackets. the italicized explanations in parentheses are not intended to be read aloud; they will aid in giving the child the cue as to the way the part should be rendered. after the story has been read in this way, if thought advisable it can be played informally and simply, with no attempt at costuming or theatric effects. it will often add to the interest of the play to have some of the children represent certain of the inanimate objects of the scene, as the forest, the town gate, a door, etc. occasionally, for the "open day," or as a special exercise, a favorite play may be given by the children with the simplest kind of costuming and stage-setting. these can well be made in the school as a part of the manual training and sewing work. in giving the play, it will generally be better not to have pupils memorize the exact words of the book, but to depend upon the impromptu rendering of their parts. this method will contribute more largely to the training in english. the best results will usually be obtained by using this book in the third grade. in some schools, however, it may profitably be used in the second grade. a.s. contents the clever kid _suggested by Æsop's the wolf and the goat._ the wolf and the horse _suggested by Æsop's the wolf and the horse._ the wise crow _suggested by Æsop's the crow and the pitcher._ the wolf and the lamb _suggested by Æsop's the wolf and the lamb._ the selfish woman _suggested by the folk-story, the red-headed woodpecker._ the blind men and the elephant _from the folk-story, the blind men._ the stag and the fawn _suggested by Æsop's the stag at the pool._ the shepherd-boy who called wolf _suggested by Æsop's the shepherd-boy and the wolf._ the wish-bird _suggested by a german folk-story._ lazy kate _suggested by the german folk-story, lazy lizette._ the proud ring-finger _suggested by the german folk-story, the proud ringfinger._ the two millers _suggested by the german folk-story, the two millers._ the vain jackdaw _suggested by Æsop's the vain jackdaw._ the little jackal and the camel _suggested by the oriental legend. the jackal and the camel._ the endless tale _suggested by the folk-story, the endless tale._ the hole in the dike _suggested by the legend, the hole in the dike._ the pot of gold _suggested by Æsop's the farmer and his sons._ the hare and the hedgehog _suggested by grimm's the hare and the hedgehog._ fishing on dry land _suggested by grimm's the peasant's clever daughter._ the wise men of gotham _suggested by the folk-story, the wise men of gotham._ the two questions _suggested by the folk-story, the two questions._ pocahontas and captain smith pocahontas saves jamestown king alfred and the cakes illustrations the endless tale the clever kid "as i live, you speak the truth!" the wise crow the wolf and the lamb "will you give me a cake?" the blind men and the elephant the stag and the fawn the shepherd boy who called wolf "i am tired of my rabbits" "good-morning, teacher. here is lazy kate" the proud ring-finger the two millers the vain jackdaw the little jackal and the camel "there is water on the sand here" the pot of gold the hare and the hedgehog fishing on dry land "quick, now--before the king comes" the two questions "i will not shoot at deer" pocahontas saves jamestown "not one of them fit to eat!" the clever kid time: _this morning._ place: _a pasture._ * * * * * gray wolf. white wolf. kid. * * * * * [_the_ gray wolf _and the_ white wolf _are standing at the foot of a hill; at the top of the hill is a_ kid.][footnote: the explanations in brackets may be read aloud by the teacher.] gray wolf. look, brother, there is a kid! white wolf. where? where? gray wolf. on that hill to the south. white wolf. i do not see her. gray wolf. she is on the very top. white wolf. ah, now i see her! gray wolf. i wish we could get at her. [illustration:] white wolf. she would make a fine dinner. gray wolf. she would, my brother. white wolf. she is so young! gray wolf. she is so tender! white wolf. well, we cannot get her. the hill is too steep. gray wolf. we must make her come to us. white wolf. yes, yes! that will be fine! gray wolf. o little kid! dear little kid! white wolf. o little kid! sweet little kid! kid. what is it, sirs? gray wolf. the grass down here is sweeter! white wolf. and greener! gray wolf. and fresher! white wolf. and younger! gray wolf. come down and eat your dinner here! kid. do you speak of my dinner, sirs? wolves. o yes, yes, yes! kid. you _speak_ of my dinner, but you _think_ of your own. i will stay where i am, sirs. the wolf and the horse time: _last summer._ place: _a field of oats._ * * * * * wolf. horse. master. maid. boy. neighbors. * * * * * [_the_ wolf _enters from the forest._] wolf. ah, if i could only eat oats! what a dinner i should have! i would tell no one! no one would know, and the whole field would be mine. (_enter the_ horse _from the forest._) ah, good friend, such news as i can tell you! horse. i will not promise to believe you. wolf. well, then, believe your own eyes. there lies a field of ripe oats! horse. as i live, you speak the truth! wolf. i have not tasted one! i have kept them all for you. [illustration: "as i live, you speak the truth!"] horse (_calling_) master! master! [note: the words in parentheses are not intended to be read aloud; they will give the child the cue as to how the part should be rendered and thus stimulate better expression.] wolf. your master knows the oats are there. you do not need to tell him. horse. maid! maid! wolf. the maid knows the oats are there. you do not need to call her. horse. boy! boy! wolf. stop your calling! you will have them all at me with clubs. horse. neighbors! neighbors! [_enter the_ master, maid, boy, _and_ neighbors _with clubs. they surround the wolf._] master. aha! i have caught you at last! wolf (_to horse_). this is the thanks i get for showing you-- horse. something you did not want yourself. i owe you nothing, sir. the wise crow time: _last summer._ place: _a meadow._ * * * * * the crow. the sparrow. * * * * * [_the_ crow _and the_ sparrow _meet at a spring._] sparrow. ah me, the spring is dry! crow. all the springs are dry! sparrow. there may be water in the brook. crow. no, the brook is dry. sparrow. what shall we do? crow. there may be water in this pitcher. i will see. aha! here is water! come and drink. sparrow. i cannot reach it. it is too low. crow. stretch your neck! sparrow. i stretch and stretch--i cannot reach it. crow. why, neither can i! stretch as i will, i cannot reach it. sparrow. what shall we do? crow. we will break the pitcher. come, now! sparrow. i strike and strike. crow. i strike and strike. sparrow. we cannot break it. crow. no, we cannot break it. sparrow. what shall we do? crow. let us try to overturn it. come, now! sparrow. i push and push. crow. i push and push. sparrow. we cannot overturn it. crow. no, we cannot overturn it. sparrow. we must have water! what shall we do? crow. ah, i know the way to get the water! (_he drops pebbles in the pitcher._) sparrow. why do you drop pebbles in the pitcher? (_he drops in more pebbles; the water rises._) please tell me why you do that. [illustration] crow. now come and drink, miss sparrow! sparrow. why, i can reach the water how queer! how very queer! the wolf and the lamb time: _last spring._ place: _a pasture._ * * * * * the lamb. the wolf. * * * * * [_the_ lamb _is drinking from the brook. the_ wolf _enters._] wolf. aha! there is my dinner. now i'll make it seem that i ought to eat her. lamb, lamb, how dare you? how dare you? lamb. what do you mean, sir? wolf. how dare you muddle the water? lamb. the water is clear where you stand, sir. wolf. the water is muddled where i stand, miss. lamb. how can that be, sir? wolf. i say the water here is muddled. lamb. but, sir, the water runs from you to me. wolf. oh, well, we will say no more about the water. now just one year ago you called me names. [illustration] lamb. how could that be, sir? wolf. i say you called me names, miss. lamb. but, sir, one year ago i was not born. wolf. well, then, it was your father. it is all the same to me. i mean to eat you anyway. the selfish woman time: _yesterday._ place: _the village._ * * * * * woman. beggar. * * * * * [_the_ selfish woman _is taking cakes from her oven. there is a knock at the door._] woman. enter! [_the_ beggar _enters. she wears a long cloak._] beggar. i am hungry, good woman. will you give me a cake? woman. the cakes are too large to give away. i will make a cake for you. [_she makes a very small cake and puts it in the oven._] beggar. i thank you, good woman. [_the woman takes the cake from the oven._] woman. this cake is too large to give away. i will make another cake for you. [_she makes a very, very small cake and puts it in the oven._] beggar. i thank you, good woman. [_the woman takes the cake from the oven._] woman. this cake is too large to give away. i will give you a slice of bread. [_she cuts a slice from a loaf of bread._] beggar. i thank you-- woman. a slice is too much to give away. here is a crust for you. [_the beggar shakes her head._] beggar. may you never taste cake again! may the very cake in your mouth seem to be crust! if you will not give, you shall not have! woman. go, go! [_the beggar throws off her cloak; a_ fairy _is seen._] woman. a fairy! you are a fairy? fairy. i am the fairy of good deeds. you would not give--you shall not have! [_the fairy goes._] woman. as if cake could ever taste like bread! 'tis impossible--impossible! (_she eats a cake._) what is this? i seem to be eating crust, dry crust. i'll try another cake. [illustration: "will you give me a cake?"] (_she eats another cake._) why, this too changes to crust! ah me! the fairy's words were true. i would not give, i cannot have. ah me! ah me! the blind men and the elephant time: _a year ago._ place: _india._ * * * * * the driver. the six blind men. * * * * * [_the_ six blind men _stand by the roadside, begging. the_ driver _comes with his elephant._] blind men. a penny, sir! a penny! driver (_throwing pennies_). there, and there, and there! now out of the way with you! i must take my elephant by. first blind man. i have never seen an elephant, sir. other blind men. nor i! nor i! driver. do you know what he is like? blind men. no, sir! no, sir! driver. would you like to touch him? blind men. yes! yes! driver. come, then, and stand by him. first blind man (_placing hand on elephant's side_). well, well! now i know all about him! he is exactly like a wall! second blind man (_feeling the tusk_). he is not like a wall! he is round and smooth and sharp. he is like a spear. third blind man (_feeling the trunk_). both of you are wrong. he is like a snake. fourth blind man (_feeling a leg_). oh, how blind you are! he is round and tall like a tree! fifth blind man (_feeling an ear_). why, he is exactly like a great fan! sixth blind man (_feeling the tail_). this elephant is not like a wall, or a spear, or a snake, or a tree, or a fan. he is exactly like a rope. driver. ha, ha, ha! [_he goes, driving elephant and laughing._] first blind man. ha, ha, ha! hear how he laughs at you! second blind man. he laughs at you and the others. third blind man. he does not laugh at me! fourth blind man. i say he laughs at you and the others. [illustration: the blind men and the elephant] fifth blind man. you cannot say he laughs at me! sixth blind man. he laughs at all of you! he knows i spoke the truth. [_he goes._] other blind men. hear him! hear him! [_they go their different ways, shaking their fingers angrily at each other._] the stag and the fawn scene i time: _last autumn._ place: _the forest._ * * * * * the stag. the fawn. * * * * * [_the_ stag _and_ fawn _enter the forest._] fawn. here is a pool! stag. we will stop and drink. fawn. i see your horns in the water, father. stag. ah, yes! fawn. they look like a strong tree down there. stag. they are strong! and are they not beautiful, child? fawn. they make you very grand, dear father! stag. no king with his crown looks grander! fawn. i see your feet in the water, father. stag. do not speak of my feet, child! fawn. why not? they are small and slender. [illustration] stag. but they look so weak. i do not like my feet at all. i wish they were different. (_a hunter's horn is heard._) come, child, come! scene ii time: _an hour later._ place: _another part of the forest._ * * * * * the stag. the fawn. the hunter. * * * * * [_the_ stag _is caught in a thicket by his horns. the_ fawn _looks at him pityingly._] fawn. a man is near! i hear him running! stag. i cannot free myself! fawn. ah, if you only had no horns! stag. or if they were only not so strong and not so grand! fawn. your feet could save you then, dear father. stag. go, child, and let your feet save you. fawn. i cannot bear to leave you, father! stag. go save yourself! go, go! [_the faun goes. the_ hunter _enters._] hunter. aha! i have you now! the shepherd boy who called wolf scene i time: _middle of the afternoon._ place: _a hillside near the village._ * * * * * shepherd boy. master. pastor. merchant. baker. butcher. * * * * * [_the_ shepherd boy _watches a flock of sheep._] boy. i am tired of watching sheep! i will play a joke on some one! i will play a joke on every one! (_he calls in a loud voice._) wolf! wolf! wolf! wolf! [_enter the_ villagers _with clubs._] master. where is the wolf? boy. ha, ha, ha! there is no wolf! pastor. i do not like to leave my church! [illustration] merchant. i do not like to leave my store! baker. i do not like to leave my dough! butcher. i do not like to leave my ox! boy. ha, ha, ha! there is no wolf! ha, ha, ha! master. you must not play that joke again! do you hear? you must never play that joke again! scene ii time: _a week later._ place: _same as in scene i._ * * * * * boy. villagers. * * * * * [_the_ boy _watches his sheep._] boy. i will play that joke again. i like to see them come running. (_he calls in a loud voice._) wolf! wolf! wolf! wolf! [_the_ villagers _come with clubs._] master. where is the wolf? boy. ha, ha, ha! there is no wolf! pastor. i do not like to leave my church! merchant. i do not like to leave my store! baker. i do not like to leave my dough! butcher. i do not like to leave my ox! boy. ha, ha, ha! there is no wolf! ha, ha, ha! master. boy, boy, you must not joke about a wolf! do you hear? you must never joke about a wolf! scene iii time: _a week later._ place: _same as scene ii._ * * * * * boy. * * * * * [_the_ boy _watches the sheep. a wolf comes and begins to kill the sheep._] boy. wolf! wolf! wolf! (_no one comes or answers._) master! pastor! merchant! baker! butcher! come! come! wolf! wolf! wolf! wolf! (_no one comes or answers._) what shall i do? they think i am playing a joke again. what shall i do? i cannot save my sheep! i must run to save myself! the wish-bird time: _a few years ago._ place: _the palace gardens._ * * * * * bird. prince. nurse. * * * * * [_the_ prince _and his_ nurse _walk in the palace gardens. the_ wish-bird _is flying among the trees._] prince. i am tired of the gardens, nurse. nurse. look at your pretty flowers, dear prince. prince. i am tired of the flowers. nurse. look at your pretty doves, dear prince. prince. i am tired of my doves. nurse. then look at your white, white rabbits, prince. prince. i am tired of my rabbits. nurse. dear me! dear me! prince. what shall i look at, nurse? [illustration: 'i am tired of my rabbits'] nurse. i do not know, dear prince. prince. you must tell me what to look at. nurse. dear me! dear me! prince. i will send you to the king. nurse. do not send me to the king, dear prince! prince. then tell me what to look at. bird. look at me, prince! look at me! prince. where are you? bird. i am in the cedar tree. nurse. it is the wish-bird, prince! bird. make a wish, prince. i will give you what you ask for. but do not ask too much! prince. i wish these flowers were feathers! bird. flowers, flowers, to feathers change! prince. look, nurse, look! the flowers have changed to feathers! let me wish again, wish-bird! bird. make a wish. i will give you what you ask for. but do not ask too much! prince. i wish my rabbits with wings could fly! bird. rabbits, rabbits, fly with wings! prince. ha, ha! my rabbits now have wings! let me wish again, wish-bird! bird. make a wish. i will give you what you ask for. but do not ask too much! prince. i wish to have the moon, i do! bird. do not ask too much, prince! prince. i wish to have the moon, i say! do you hear, wish-bird? i wish to have the moon! bird. you ask too much! feathers, feathers, fly away! nurse. prince, prince, your feather flowers are flying away! bird. rabbits, rabbits, fly away! nurse. prince, prince, your pretty rabbits are flying away! prince. i want my pretty flowers, i do! i want my pretty rabbits, too! bird. you asked too much, prince! you asked too much! prince. what will the king say? nurse. dear me! dear me! the king loved the flowers and white, white rabbits. prince. what shall i do, wish-bird? bird. go plant flower seeds and care for them until they grow to flowers. go feed your doves and care for them. go work and work and work and never ask too much. then some day i will come to you and you may wish again. [_the wish-bird flies away._] lazy kate scene i time: _early in the morning._ place: _kate's bedroom._ * * * * * kate. mother. bed. * * * * * [kate _is in bed. her_ mother _comes._] mother. kate, kate, get up! kate. by and by, mother. mother. it is time to go to school. get up! kate. by and by, mother, by and by. mother. you will be late to school, i fear. [_the mother goes._] bed. dear me! dear me! kate will not get up. well, she shall not be late to school. i will see to that. [_the bed walks from the room into the street. kate is frightened._] kate. bed, bed, where are you going? bed. to school, you lazy child. scene ii time: _five minutes later._ place: _the schoolroom._ * * * * * kate. teacher. bed. boys and girls. * * * * * [_the_ bed _enters the schoolroom. kate tries to hide under the covers._] bed. good-morning, teacher. here is lazy kate. teacher. ha, ha, ha! bed. good-morning, boys. here is lazy kate. boys. ha, ha, ha! bed. good-morning, girls. here is lazy kate. girls. ha, ha, ha! kate. take me home, bed! please take me home! bed. will you get up early? kate. o yes, yes, yes! bed. every morning? kate. every morning, bed! every morning! [illustration: "good-morning, teacher. here is lazy kate"] bed. then i will take you home. good-by, teacher! teacher. ha, ha, ha! bed. good-by, children! children. ha, ha, ha! [_the bed goes with kate, who still tries to hide under the covers._] scene iii time: _two minutes later._ place: _kate's bedroom._ * * * * * kate. mother. * * * * * [kate _is asleep. her_ mother _comes._] mother. kate, kate! you are asleep again! get up and go to school! kate. i have been to school. mother. what is this? kate. i have been to school. the bed took me. mother. you have been dreaming, child. kate. no, no! the bed took me to school. the children laughed at me. mother. it was a dream, my dear. kate. well, i promised the bed to get up early. i know that was not a dream. [_she jumps out of bed._] mother. oh, that is fine! kate. i must not be late to school. i promised the bed. the proud ring-finger time: _this morning._ place: _mary's bedroom._ * * * * * mary. mother. father. brother. sister. pointing-finger. middle-finger. ring-finger. little-finger. thumb. * * * * * [mary _lies in bed asleep. her_ father, mother, brother, _and_ sister _enter softly. they carry birthday presents for mary._] mother. sh! we must not wake her! father. i will put the gold pen on the table. brother. i will lay the apple by the pen. sister. i will place the rose by the apple. father. how pretty they look! mother. what shall i do with the ring? father. why not put it on her finger? mother. i will do that. i will put it on her ring-finger. there! see how pretty it looks! sister. how pretty it makes her finger look! mother. now come. we must not wake her. sh! sh! [_they go._] ring-finger. i have a gold ring. i am pretty. i am better than the other fingers. i will not work with them. thumb. do you hear that, fingers? [illustration:] pointing-finger. you are too proud, ring-finger. ring-finger. have i not a ring? middle-finger. that makes you no better, miss. ring-finger. i will not work with any of you. little-finger. then i will not work with you. pointing-finger. nor i! thumb. nor i! middle-finger. nor i! [_the ring-finger sees the rose._] ring-finger. i wish to hold the rose. middle-finger. i will not help you. ring-finger. i cannot get it alone. middle-finger. i will not help you. let the ring help you. ring-finger. dear me! dear me! i cannot get the rose! [_the ring-finger sees the apple._] ring-finger. i wish to hold the apple. pointing-finger. i will not help you. ring-finger. i cannot get it alone. pointing-finger. i will not help you. let the ring help you. ring-finger. dear me! dear me! i cannot get the apple. [_the ring-finger sees the gold pen._] ring-finger. i wish to write. thumb. i will not help you. ring-finger. i cannot write alone. thumb. i will not help you. let the ring help you. ring-finger. the ring does not help me. i cannot work alone. i am no better than you, my brothers. i will work win you. middle-finger. ah, now i will help you to get the rose. pointing-finger. and i will help you to get the apple. thumb. and i will help you to write. the two millers scene i time: _morning._ place: _peter's mill._ * * * * * peter, the stupid miller. peter's wife. the fox. * * * * * [_the_ fox _enters. he knocks at the mill door._ peter _opens the door and comes out. he is covered with meal._] fox. good-morning, peter. peter. what do you want, sir? fox. i am hungry. i want to eat jacob's chickens. peter. ah, that is fine! i do not like jacob. do you know that? fox. oh, yes, i know! now will you help me to get his chickens? peter. what can i do? fox. put meal on me, till i am white. then the chickens will think i am a miller. peter. ah, that is fine! i will get meal. wait here. [_peter enters the mill._] fox. ha, ha, ha, ha! [peter _comes with a pan of meal._] [illustration] peter. now i will make you white. you shall look just like a miller. (_he covers the fox with meal._) ha, ha! jacob's chickens will think you are jacob. now go! go and eat jacob's chickens. (_the fox goes._) ah, this is fine! i do not like jacob. i do not like jacob's chickens. i am glad the fox will eat them. ha, ha, ha! [_peter enters the mill. soon his_ wife _comes running._] wife. peter! peter! come out! come out! peter! [peter _comes running from the mill._] peter. what is it? what is it? wife. the fox has killed your chickens! peter. oh, no! he has killed jacob's chickens, dear wife. ha, ha, ha! wife. no, no! he has killed your chickens! they lie there on the grass. look and you will see them. [_peter runs to the fence and looks over._] peter. what is this? what is this? ah, my pretty chickens! my pretty chickens! [_he weeps bitterly._] scene ii time: _the next day._ place: _jacob's mill._ * * * * * jacob, the wise miller. the fox. * * * * * [_the_ fox _enters. he knocks at the mill door._ jacob _opens the door and comes out. he is covered with meal._] fox. good-morning, jacob. jacob. what do you want, sir? fox. i am hungry. i want to eat peter's chickens. jacob. why do you come to me? fox. you do not like peter. jacob. oh, you know that, do you? fox. oh, yes, i know! now will you help me to get his chickens? jacob. what can i do? fox. put meal on me, till i am white. then the chickens will think i am a miller. jacob. ah, that is fine! wait here. [_he enters the mill._] fox. he has gone for meal! ha, ha, ha, ha! [jacob _comes out with a club._] jacob. now go! go, sir! fox. why, what is this? i said i would eat peter's chickens. jacob. yes, but you mean to eat mine. now go! go, or i will beat you! [_the fox runs quickly away._] the vain jackdaw time: _last summer._ place: _a public park._ * * * * * vain jackdaw. old jackdaw. young jackdaw. other jackdaws. peacocks. * * * * * [_the_ jackdaws _are seen in the park._] old jackdaw. come, jackdaws! we must have our breakfast. come! [_the vain jackdaw stops to look at something on the ground._] (_to vain jackdaw._) come, no one should stop to look at anything! come! young jackdaw. just look at him. he takes up feathers! vain jackdaw (_to himself_). how fine i would look in these peacock feathers! another jackdaw. see how he sticks the feathers in among his own! young jackdaw. see how he struts about in them! old jackdaw. my son, take off those feathers! vain jackdaw. it pleases me to wear them. old jackdaw. take them off, i say! vain jackdaw. i will not take them off! old jackdaw. then you cannot stay with us. vain jackdaw. i do not wish to stay with jackdaws. i will not walk with jackdaws. i will not talk with jackdaws. i think myself too fine for jackdaws. old jackdaw. then, jackdaws, we will think no more about him. come, now, to find our breakfast! come! [_they go. the_ peacocks _enter._] vain jackdaw. good-morning, brothers. peacocks. ha, ha, ha! vain jackdaw. why do you laugh so, brothers? peacocks. ha, ha, ha! vain jackdaw. you must not laugh, dear brothers. i am a peacock like yourselves. first peacock. you silly jackdaw! vain jackdaw. i am no jackdaw. do i not have feathers like your own? second peacock. ha, ha! i dropped them on the ground this morning. thibaud peacock. let's take them from him! [illustration] vain jackdaw. no, no! i beg you-- first peacock. come, let's pull them out! [_they pull the peacock feathers from the jackdaw._] third peacock. you cannot stay with us! second peacock. go back to the jackdaws! first peacock. away with you! away! [_the jackdaw runs. the peacocks go, laughing. the other_ jackdaws _enter, followed by the_ vain jackdaw.] vain jackdaw. ah, here you are! i have been looking for you. old jackdaw. why do you look for us? vain jackdaw. i am a jackdaw. i want to be with jackdaws. old jackdaw. we will have nothing more to do with you! away! vain jackdaw. but, brothers, my dear, dear brothers, please let me stay with you! old jackdaw. you would not walk with jackdaws! away! young jackdaw. you would not talk with jackdaws! away! another jackdaw. you thought yourself too fine for jackdaws! away! all jackdaws. away! away! [_they drive the vain jackdaw from the park._] the little jackal and the camel scene i time: _one morning._ place: _the east bank of the river._ * * * * * the jackal. the camel. * * * * * [_the_ jackal _stands on the river bank. he looks longingly toward the west shore._] jackal. ah, if i could only get at those crabs over there! it makes me hungry just to see them! now if i could only swim! or if i could walk on water! or if i had a little canoe! [_enter the_ camel. _the jackal whispers to himself._] aha! now i know the way to get across. (_to the camel._) such news as i have for you, dear friend! camel. must i guess? jackal. no, i'll tell you this time. listen: i know a spot where the sugar-cane grows thick. camel. tell me! i cannot wait! tell me! jackal. i cannot. i'll have to show you. it is on the other side of the river. camel. why, then, i'll swim across and take you on my back. jackal. just the very thing! camel. come, then! it makes me hungry just to hear of sugar-cane. [_he kneels for the jackal to get upon his back._] scene ii time: _a little later._ place: _the sugar-cane field._ * * * * * the jackal. the camel. farmer. boys. * * * * * [_the_ camel _eats the sugar-cane. the_ jackal _comes running into the field._] camel. what! have you finished your crabs? jackal. i cannot eat another one! are you not ready to go? camel. ready! why, i have just begun. jackal. i'll wait for you outside the field, then. [_the camel nods and disappears among the cane._] now i do not wish to wait for him. i am in a hurry to get home, i am. so i'll sing a little song i know. the farmer then will come and drive the camel out. [_he goes. soon he is heard singing in the distance. enter the_ farmer _and_ the boys _with clubs._] farmer. i see no jackal here! a boy. i am sure i heard him singing! another boy. i heard him, too! farmer. we must look for him and drive him out. [_the_ camel _enters, eating cane._] first boy. look, look! a camel! second boy. look, father! a camel! farmer (_to camel_). so it was you who was singing, was it? drive him out, boys! quick! beat him with your clubs! [_they rush upon the camel and beat him as he runs from the field._] scene iii time: _a little later._ place: _the west bank of the river._ * * * * * the jackal. the camel. * * * * * [_the_ camel _lies on the bank half dead from his beating. enter the_ jackal.] jackal. are you ready to go now, friend? camel. don't say "friend" to me! jackal. why do you speak so strangely? camel. why did you sing so strangely? [illustration] jackal. oh, i don't know why! i always sing after dinner. camel. ah! well, let us go. [_he kneels. the jackal gets on his back. the camel rises and enters the river. he swims to the middle of the river and stops._] jackal. why do you stop? camel. i have such a strange, strange feeling. jackal. well, swim on. you need not stop! camel. i feel as if i must roll over. jackal. roll over! if you do, i shall be drowned! camel. exactly. but still i have that feeling. jackal. now that is nonsense! why should you roll over? camel. oh, i don't know why! i always roll over after dinner. [_he rolls over._] the endless tale time: _a long time ago._ place: _the king's palace._ * * * * * king. princess. first story-teller. second story-teller. lords and ladies. guards. * * * * * [_the_ king _sits on a cushion in the great hall. the_ princess _sits on a cushion by him. in front of them sits the_ first story-teller. _the_ lords _and_ ladies _sit near by._] story-teller. "then the prince married the princess and they were happy forever and ever." [_there is a pause._] king. go on! (_the story-teller hangs his head._) go on, i say! story-teller. that is all, your majesty. king. all! story-teller. the prince married the princess. there is nothing more to tell. king. i cannot bear so short a story! princess. why, father; for three months we have listened to it! king. 'tis short, i say! i bid you make it longer, sir! story-teller. i cannot, sire. the prince married the princess. there is nothing-- king. throw him out of the palace, guards! cut off his head! [_guards seize the story-teller._] princess. father! lords. your majesty! ladies. sire! princess. spare his life! story-teller. let me keep my head, sire! king. why should you keep it? you do not use it. story-teller. for three months i have used it, sire! king. your story is too short, i say! away with him, guards! away! (_guards take out the first story-teller._) bid another story-teller come! (_a guard admits the_ second story-teller, _who bows before the king and princess._) sir, hear me. you must tell a story that will last forever. second story-teller. i hear, o king! king. if you can do this, you shall marry my daughter and be king after me. second story-teller. i hear, o king! king. if you fail, you shall lose your head. begin! and remember, the story must go on forever. now again i say, begin! second story-teller. "once upon a time a certain king seized upon all the corn in his country. he had it stored in a strong granary. then came a swarm of locusts over the land. soon they found a crack in the south side of the granary. now the crack was just large enough for one locust to pass through at a time. so one locust went in and carried away a grain of corn. then another locust went in and carried away a grain of corn. then another locust went in and carried away a grain of corn. then--" king (_interrupting)._ yes, yes! now go on with the story. second story-teller. the story shall go on, o king! "then another locust went in and carried away another grain of corn. then another locust--" king (_interrupting). i_ tell you to go on with the story! second story-teller. i obey, great king. "then another locust went in and carried away another grain of corn. then another--" king. the story! the story, i tell you! second story-teller. this is the story, o king! "then another locust went in and carried away another grain of corn. then--" king. i cannot stand it! how long will it take the locusts to carry away all the grain? second story-teller. one thousand years, o king! "then another locust went in and--" king. stop! stop! take my daughter! be king after me! be king now! anything to stop the locusts! the hole in the dike scene i time: _late afternoon in autumn._ place: _holland._ * * * * * peter. jacob. gretchen. frieda. * * * * * [_the_ children _enter. they carry buckets full of nuts._] gretchen. how cold it is! frieda. let us run. then we shall not be cold. peter. how can we run? we shall spill our nuts. frieda. we are so far from home! jacob. we went so far to find the nuts. gretchen. it will soon be dark. frieda. we must walk as fast as we can. gretchen. why do you stop, peter? peter. there is water on the sand here. jacob. come, peter, come! peter. where has this water come from? [illustration: 'there is water on the sand here'] frieda. come, come, peter! peter. there was no rain yesterday. there was no rain to-day. gretchen. come, peter! peter. what if the water comes through the dike! jacob. oh, that could not be! how could water get through that thick wall? peter. there might be a hole in it. i will see. gretchen. peter, peter! your mother waits for you. peter. i must find where the water comes from. gretchen. well, i will not wait. jacob. nor i! frieda. nor i! it is too cold. [_they go. peter runs to the dike and looks at it carefully._] peter. ah, i thought so! here is a little hole! the water comes through it from the sea. soon the hole will be larger. i must find stones and fill it. (_he looks about for stones._) dear me! dear me! i cannot find a single stone! what shall i do? the hole will grow larger and larger. the sea will come in and cover all the land. what shall i do? i cannot go and tell the people. that would take too long. what shall i do? what shall i do? (_he thinks for a moment._) i know! i know how to stop it! (_he thrusts his arm through the hole. he shivers._) how cold it is! scene ii time: _the next morning._ place: _the street near peter's home._ * * * * * peter. peter's mother. prince. soldiers. people. * * * * * [_the_ mother _stands in the door of her home looking up and down the street._] mother. he does not come! well, i will go to jacob's after him. i must teach him that he cannot stay away all night. i will punish him for what he has done. [_enter the_ prince, soldiers, _and_ people. _four soldiers carry_ peter _on their shoulders._] a soldier. hurrah for peter! a man. hurrah for peter! soldiers. hurrah! hurrah! people. hurrah! hurrah! mother. what is this? why do you carry peter? prince. peter has saved us! mother. what do you mean? prince. he put his arm in a hole in the dike. all night long he stood there! all night long he kept out the sea! we found him there this morning. poor little boy, he was so cold! mother. ah, my peter! my dear peter! prince. he is a brave boy. the king wants to see him and to thank him. come, soldiers, to the king with peter! come, to the king! to the king! [_they go with peter on their shoulders._] soldiers. hurrah for peter! people. hurrah for peter! the pot of gold scene i time: _one spring day._ place: _the farmer's vineyard._ * * * * * the farmer. his three sons. * * * * * [_the_ three sons _dig lazily among the vines._] first son. oh, i am tired of digging! come, brothers, let us sit and talk! [_he throws down his spade and sits._] [illustration] second son. father said we should dig at every vine. but i must say i am tired of it. [_he throws down his spade and sits._] third son. i was tired when we began. [_he throws down his spade and sits. the_ farmer _enters. his sons do not see him._] first son. now i should like to go to war and ride a great white horse. second son. i should like to be a prince. i would do nothing all day long but wear my golden crown. third son. i want to find a purse of gold. i would never work again, i tell you! [_the farmer shakes his head sadly._] farmer. my sons, these vines have not been dug about. come, do this work as i have told you. (_the sons take up their spades, but unwillingly._) now listen: a pot of gold is hidden in this vineyard. it is buried deep beneath these vines. sons. a pot of gold! farmer. it is all i have to leave you. i think it best to-tell you now, for i cannot live much longer. first son. why do you hide the gold, my father? farmer. that you may dig for it. second son. why do you hide it in the ground? farmer. that you may dig for it. third son. why don't you tell us where it is? farmer. that you may dig for it. [_he goes._] sons. a pot of gold! first son. now i shall go to war and ride a great white horse! second son. now i shall marry a princess and wear her golden crown! third son. now i shall find my purse of gold, and never work again! scene ii time: _one month later._ place: _the vineyard._ * * * * * the three sons. * * * * * [_the ground is completely dug up. the_ first son _is seen digging. he throws down his spade showing disappointment._] first son. i cannot find it! (_enter_ second son _with his spade._) did you find it? second son. no, and i have dug up every inch of our western vineyard. [_enter_ third son _with his spade._] first and second sons. did you find it? third son. no, and i have dug up every inch of the eastern vineyard. first son. well, you see what i have done here. second son. not a vine that has not been dug about! third son. i cannot understand it! first son. the day our father died he spoke again of the pot of gold. second son. and told us again to dig for it. third son. i cannot understand it. [_they go, shaking their heads sadly._] scene iii time: _six months later._ place: _the vineyard._ * * * * * the three sons. the fruit merchant. * * * * * [_the_ merchant _enters the vineyard with the_ three sons.] merchant. you say your grapes are ripe? first son. they are ripe and ready to sell, sir. second son. come, now, and look at them. [_they cross to the vines._] merchant. why, i have never seen such grapes as these! third son. we have never had such grapes before, sir. merchant. how fine and large they are! first son. and sweet, too! just taste one, sir! merchant (_eating a grape_). are they all like these? second son. every vine bears just such grapes. merchant. i must have your grapes. i will give a pot of gold for them. sons. a pot of gold! merchant. come, will you sell? sons. aye, sir! merchant. then to-morrow i will bring the pot of gold and take away the grapes. [_he goes._] sons. a pot of gold! first son. i wonder if that was father's pot of gold. second son. i almost think it was. third son. i wonder now, i wonder-- first son. no war horse for me! i will stay and dig again for gold! second son. no prince's crown for me! i will stay and dig here too! third son. i have found my purse of gold! i will stay and find another! the hare and the hedgehog time: _one fine morning._ place: _the farmer's cabbage field._ * * * * * the hare. the hedgehog. the hedgehog's wife. * * * * * [_the_ hedgehog _and his_ wife _are walking in the field._] hedgehog. these cabbages are growing well. wife. they are very fine indeed. hedgehog. we can feed on them all summer. wife. yes, if the hares will let us. hedgehog. oh, there is enough for all of us, hares, hedgehogs, and farmer. wife. yes, if the hares will think that, too. hedgehog. well, we will let them alone as we have always done. wife. but they will not let us alone. yesterday they called at me while i was eating here. hedgehog. what did they say to you? wife. oh, such things as "short-legs," and "duck-legs." hedgehog. here comes one of them now! wife. he is one who called at me. i'll hide till he goes by. [_she hides among the cabbages. the_ hare _enters._] hedgehog. good-morning, sir. hare. why do you speak to me? hedgehog. i always speak to neighbors, sir. hare. speak to your own kind, then. i think myself too good for hedgehogs. hedgehog. now that is strange. hare. there is nothing strange about it. look at your silly little legs! hedgehog. they are quite as good as yours, sir. hare. as good as mine! hear him! you can only walk with those legs, sir. hedgehog. i'll run a race with you this day. hare. hear him! hear him! ha, ha! hedgehog. you may run in that furrow. i will run in this. we will see who gets to the field fence first. hare. are you crazy? hedgehog. come, come, let's begin the race! hare. ha, ha! well, i'll run with you. you ought to know just how silly your little duck-legs are. hedgehog. let us go to this end of the furrow to begin. hake. i will run to the brook and back while you are getting there. hedgehog. as you please. (_the hare runs off._) wife, wife, did you hear? wife. i heard. are you crazy? hedgehog. go to the other end of this furrow, wife. wife. and why should i do that? hedgehog. the hare will run in the other furrow. when he comes to your end, put up your head and say, "i am already here." wife. ha, ha! he will think that i am you. hedgehog. exactly. wife. ha, ha, ha! i go, mr. hedgehog! i go! you may be short on legs, my dear, but you are long on brains. [_she runs to other end of furrow. mr. hedgehog goes to his end._] [_the_ hare _enters._] hare. well, are you ready? hedgehog. i am ready. hare. one, two, three, go! [_the hare runs swiftly. the hedgehog sits. the hare reaches the other end of his furrow. the wife puts up her head._] [illustration] wife. i am already here. hare. what is this? wife. i am already here. hare. we will try again! are you ready? wife. i am ready. hare. one, two, three, go! [_the hare runs swiftly. the wife sits. the hare reaches the other end of his furrow. mr. hedgehog puts up his head._] hedgehog. i am already here. hare. i cannot understand this. hedgehog. i am already here. hare. we will try again! are you ready? hedgehog. i am ready. hare. one, two, three, go! [_the hare runs swiftly. mr. hedgehog sits. the hare reaches the other end of his furrow. mrs. hedgehog puts up her head._] wife. i am already here. hare. i cannot believe it! wife. i am already here. hare. we will try again! do you hear? we will try again. wife. i am ready. hare. one, two, three, go! [_the hare runs swiftly. the wife sits. the hare reaches the other end of his furrow. mr. hedgehog puts up his head._] hedgehog. i am already here. hare. this is very, very strange! hedgehog. shall we run again? hare. no, no! the race is yours, neighbor hedgehog. and will you please to call some day? i should be glad to see you. hedgehog. i shall be glad to come. [_the hare goes off wondering._] wife (_running to meet mr. hedgehog_). you may be short on legs, my dear, but you are very, very long on brains. fishing on dry land time: _long ago._ place: _before the king's palace._ * * * * * king. prince. queen. ladies. farmer nix. farmer knave. many other farmers. * * * * * [farmer nix, farmer knave, _and the other_ farmers _have come with their wagons, for it is market day. some of the wagons are drawn by horses and some by oxen._] nix. have you seen my colt, sir? a farmer. i saw a colt run by not long ago. second farmer. there is a colt with farmer knave's oxen. nix. i do not see him. third farmer. he is lying down between them. nix. ah, i see him now. (_he goes to farmer knave._) i have come for my colt, farmer knave. knave. your colt? nix. yes. there he is between your oxen. knave. he is my colt, sir. nix. how can he be your colt when he is mine? knave. i ask the same question, sir. nix. what do you mean? knave. how can the colt be yours when he is mine? nix. i'll have you before the judge, sir! knave. the judge shall speak to you, sir! [_the_ prince _comes from the castle._] prince. what is all this noise, sirs? what is all this noise, i say? the king sent me to ask. nix. farmer knave does claim my colt, prince. prince. how is this, farmer knave? knave. i claim the colt because the colt is mine, prince. prince. now how is this, farmer nix? nix. the colt is mine, prince. knave. the colt is mine i say! nix. i say the colt is mine! prince. hush, farmer nix! hush, farmer knave! i'll tell the king what both of you do claim. he will decide to whom the colt belongs. [_the prince goes._] knave. see how the colt lies between my oxen! is not that proof that he is mine? nix. but who can tell what a colt will do? [_the_ prince _comes._] prince. farmers, the king has decided. he says the colt belongs where it is now lying. knave. and he lies between my oxen. prince. that is proof enough, the colt belongs to you, farmer knave. nix. but, prince-- prince. not another word! go, now, with your wagons and horses and oxen! the queen comes out to walk. go, all of you! [_the prince enters the castle. the farmers go, nix last. the_ queen _and her_ ladies _come from the castle._] queen. go bring farmer nix to me. [_a lady runs to nix._] lady. the queen wants to see you, sir. [_nix goes to the queen and bows._] queen. i heard all from the castle window. i know the colt is yours. nix. i thank you, my queen, i thank you! queen. now you must show the king that colts cannot belong to oxen, never have belonged to oxen, and never will belong to oxen. nix. i will go to him at once! i will tell him-- queen. not so fast! i said you must show the king. he would not let you tell him. no one ever dares to tell things to a king. nix. how can i show him? queen. you must think out the way. i cannot help you more. nix. i thank you, my queen, i thank you. queen. the king comes out to walk soon. nix. i will return to show him. [_nix bows to the queen and goes. the_ king _and_ prince _come from the castle._] queen. 'tis a pleasant day to walk, dear king. king. oh, 'tis very, very pleasant. [_enter_ nix _with a fishing-net. he throws out the net and draws it in._] queen. why, look you what that foolish man is doing! king. he throws out his net and draws it in! he acts just as if he were fishing. queen. let's ask what he is doing. king. come here, you foolish fellow! come here, i say! (nix _comes to the king, but goes on with his fishing._) now what are you doing, sir? [illustration] nix. i am fishing, fishing, fishing. king. how can you fish where is no water? nix. fish can be found on land if colts belong to oxen. king. what is that, sir? nix. if colts belong to oxen, then fish should swim in dust. king. well, well, that may be true! what do you think, dear queen? queen. i think with you--it may be true. nix (_fishing_). if colts belong to oxen, then i will always fish in dust. king. well, well, i think you may be right, sir! (_pause. the king thinks deeply._) yes, i am now sure that you are right, sir. go get your colt from farmer knave. go with him, prince, and see to it. now come, dear queen, we'll walk about together, for 'tis a very pleasant day, 'tis very, very pleasant. the wise men of gotham scene i time: _one morning._ place: _the highroad to gotham._ * * * * * hodge. podge. nodge. scrodge. king. soldiers. * * * * * [_enter_ hodge, podge, nodge, _and_ scrodge; _each carries an ax and each chuckles to himself._] hodge. well, the last tree is down! podge. down and across the road! nodge. not a horse can get through them! scrodge. how angry it will make the king! ha, ha! hodge. he sent us word he would visit gotham! ha, ha! podge. ha, ha! nodge. ha, ha! scrodge. he would hang us if he knew we cut the trees! hodge. and let them fall across the road. podge. he will not know. not a gotham man would tell him! nodge. nor a gotham woman! scrodge. nor a gotham child! hodge. they have not forgotten what his last visit brought upon them. podge. everything he saw and liked, he took. nodge. and would not pay for it! scrodge. his servants and his soldiers ate the town up. hodge. and would not pay for it! podge (_looking off_). he is coming now! he is on the hill! scrodge. he has his soldiers with him! nodge. he must not see us! come! [_they run off. enter the_ king _and_ soldiers.] king. to think that i--a king--should have to walk! first soldier. shall i bring the horses up, your majesty? king. of what use? look how the road from here is filled with trees! second soldier. just as it was back there! king. i know! it was done to keep me out of gotham! i know! (_to third soldier._) here, you! third soldier (_saluting_). yes, your majesty. king. get to gotham, if you have to crawl. third soldier. yes, your majesty. king. tell these men of gotham i shall come again. third soldier. yes, your majesty. king. and when i do--and when i do--[_he stops._] third soldier. yes, your majesty? king. and when i do, i'll have their noses! third soldier. yes, your majesty. king. i'll have the gotham nose of every gotham man cut off his gotham face! third soldier. yes, your majesty. king. go, now, and tell them that! third soldier (_saluting)._ yes, your majesty. [_he goes._] king. we will now return the way we came. (_he shakes his finger toward gotham_,) i'll have your noses, that i will! [_he goes with his soldiers._] scene ii time: _one month later._ place: _a field near gotham._ * * * * * hodge. podge. nodge. scrodge. king. soldiers. old men of gotham. young men of gotham. peter and other gotham boys. pollie and other gotham girls. * * * * * [_the_ old men, _the_ young men, _and the_ children _are in the field._] an old man. well, the king's men have taken all the trees away. a young man. a good month's work it made them, too! another old man. and now the king will come again! peter. and we shall lose our noses! pollie. i do not wish to lose my nose! [_enter_ scrodge, _running._] scrodge. the king is coming! [_enter_ hodge, _running._] [illustration: "quick, now--before the king comes"] hodge. the king is coming! [_enter_ podge _and_ nodge, _running._] podge _and_ nodge. the king is coming! peter. and we shall lose our noses! pollie. oh dear! oh dear! i'll lose my nose! children. oh dear! we'll lose our noses! hodge. now get you back to gotham, children! you will not lose your noses. podge. quick, now--before the king comes! [_the children go, holding their noses._] nodge. now, gotham men, do you all know what to do? old men. aye! aye! young men. aye! aye! [_all the men begin to work._] podge. i think this will save our noses. [_enter the_ king _and the_ soldiers.] king. is there a tree left on the road? first soldier. we took them all away, sire. king (to _a soldier._) then go and get our horses. we will ride into this gotham town. (_the soldier salutes and goes._) where do you roll these stones, old men? an old man. uphill to help the sun rise. king. what! to help the sun rise? old man. yes, your majesty. king. don't you know that the sun will rise without help? old man. will it? well, well! who would have thought of that! king. you foolish fellows! well, go on and roll your stones. now tell me why you grunt, young men? a young man. oh, we do the grunting while our fathers do the work. king. ha, ha! well, go on and grunt. now what are you men doing? hodge. there is a cuckoo here, your majesty. king. what if there is a cuckoo there? podge. we are building a wall around it, sire? king. why build a wall around it? nodge. to keep it from flying away. king. ha, ha! don't you know that the bird can fly over the wall? hodge. well, well! who would have thought of that! nodge. how very wise you are, sire! king. you foolish fellows! well, go on and build your wall. (_enter_ scrodge, _carrying a door on his back._) where are you going with that door? scrodge. i am going on a journey, sire. king. why do you carry a door? scrodge. i left my money at home, sire. king. why didn't you leave the door at home? scrodge. i was afraid of thieves. king. afraid of thieves! and you have taken down your door! scrodge. if i have the door with me, they can't break it open to get in. king. you foolish fellow! why didn't you leave your door at home and carry your money? scrodge. well, well! who would have thought of that! how very wise you are, sire! king. ha, ha, ha! well, go on and carry your door. (_to soldiers._) these gotham men are foolish. does it not seem so to you? soldiers. aye, sire! king. i'll let them keep their noses. they knew no better than to cut down the trees. come, we will go away and leave them. [_king and soldiers go._] gotham men. ha, ha, ha! the two questions scene i time: _when john was king of england._ place: _king john's palace._ * * * * * king john. abbot. knight. jester. lords and ladies. * * * * * [king john _sits on his throne. a_ knight _stands before him. back of him are the_ lords, _the_ ladies, _and the_ jester.] king. now, what is this you say? knight. i saw it all, your majesty. king. you say one hundred men sit down to dine with him? knight. yes, your majesty, every day. king. and fifty knights in velvet coats do wait on him? knight. they bring him food on golden plates. jester. your majesty does not eat on golden plates! king. i cannot afford it. jester. ha, ha! the king's abbot lives better than the king! king. be silent, jester! sir knight, go bring this abbot to me. [_the knight bows and goes._] jester. the abbot is the real king! now who is john, ladies? who is john, lords? truly, who are you, john? [_all laugh. enter the_ knight _and_ abbot.] king. abbot, i hear strange things about you. abbot. your majesty! how can that be? king. 'tis said that every day you have one hundred men to dine with you. abbot. oh, your majesty, they are only friends. king. no matter who they are! jester. 'tis not their names! 'tis what they eat! lords. ha, ha! ladies. ha, ha! king. 'tis said that fifty knights in velvet coats do wait on you! abbot. well, your majesty, i-- king (_interrupting)._ do i have fifty knights to wait on me? abbot. well, your majesty, i-- [_he stops in confusion._] jester. are eggs brought to us on golden plates? not so! not an egg! king. you spend more money, sir, than i do! how do you dare to do so? abbot. 'tis my own money, sire-- king. 'tis not your money! everything in this land belongs to me! you shall go to prison, sir! abbot (_falling on his knees_). oh, say not so, dear king! oh, say not so! king. well, i will let you off if you will answer me two questions. abbot. ask as many as you like, dear king. king. first, you must tell me how long i shall live. [_the abbot is silent._] jester. go on, john! ask as many as you like! king. then, abbot, you must tell me what i think. abbot. your questions, sire, are deep and hard. king. answer them, or go to prison. abbot. i pray you for some time to think! king. i will give you just two weeks. if you cannot answer then, i'll have your head cut off. and then i'll take your lands and palaces. jester. and your knights and golden plates! abbot (_in a trembling voice_). in two weeks i will return, sire. king. two weeks and not a day longer! go! scene ii time: _two weeks later; morning._ place: _the abbot's palace._ * * * * * abbot. first professor. second professor. shepherd. * * * * * [_the_ professors _look through very large books._] abbot. look well for the answers, friends. look long, look deep, look well. [illustration] first professor (_closing book_). i cannot find the answers here. second professor (_closing book_). i cannot find them in my book. abbot. have you looked in other books? first professor. we have looked in every book. second professor. in every book, in every house, in every town. abbot. alas! alas! what shall i do? what shall i do? first professor. go to the king and tell him all. abbot. and then i'll lose my head! second professor. yes, i fear you'll lose your head. first professor. i am sorry, abbot, i wish that i might help you. second professor. i am sorry too, friend abbot. and i do wish the same. abbot. you both have tried your best. farewell. (_the professors bow and go._) alas! alas! alas! alas! [_enter the_ shepherd.] shepherd. good-day to you, good abbot! abbot. ah, shepherd, i am glad to see you. how goes it in your village? shepherd. we do nothing there but laugh since your visit to us, sir. we laugh all day and half the night. abbot. now why do you do that? shepherd. because, sir, i look so much like you. at least, they think so in our village. abbot. why, that is true, you do. well, what can i do for you? shepherd. i have heard about the two questions, sir. i have come to help you. abbot. how can you help me? speak! shepherd. i will go to the king in your place. he will think that i am you. abbot. can you answer the two questions? shepherd. only the king himself can say. now give me your gown and cap and golden staff, dear abbot. abbot. well, i will let you try. (_gives his gown and cap to the shepherd, who puts them on and then takes the staff._) you truly seem to be myself, good shepherd! shepherd. i hope the king will think so. abbot. suppose he will not take your answers? shepherd. then he will take my head. abbot. no, good shepherd, i'll take my own head up to him for that. now go, and bear my blessing with you. [_he lifts his hand. the shepherd bows his head._] scene iii time: _the same day; afternoon._ place: _king john's palace._ * * * * * king john. abbot (really the shepherd). knight. jester. lords and ladies. * * * * * [_the_ king _sits on his throne. the_ lords, ladies, _and_ jester _stand near. enter a_ knight.] knight. the abbot begs to see you, sire. king. ah, he has come, has he? knight. yes, your majesty, he waits without. king. bid him enter. [_the knight goes._] jester. will the abbot take his head back with him? i'll give you two guesses, ladies! i'll give you two guesses, lords! [_enter the_ knight _and the_ shepherd _dressed as the_ abbot.] abbot. your majesty, i am here. king. well, then, tell me how long i shall live. abbot. sire, you shall live till the day that you die, and not one day longer. king. ha, ha! you are witty, abbot. now tell me what i think. abbot. you think i am the abbot, sire. i am only his poor shepherd. behold! [_he throws off his gown and cap._] king. ha, ha, ha! truly you are a witty fellow! i like you for it, that i do! shepherd. then will you pardon the good abbot, sire? king. i will pardon the abbot and let him keep his lands and knights, if you will stay and live here in my court. jester. yes, stay. stay and help me jest! shepherd. i'll stay, and i'll jest whene'er i can. i thank you, king john, i thank you. pocahontas and captain smith scene i time: _a spring morning; three hundred years ago._ place _: forest near jamestown._ * * * * * pocahontas. indian woman. indian girls. indian boys. * * * * * [pocahontas _and the_ indian girls _are playing in the forest. an_ indian woman _comes with bows and arrows._] woman. the deer go to the river! you must shoot them while they drink. here are your bows and arrows. a girl. i'll shoot a doe! second girl. i'll shoot a stag with horns! third girl. and i, a fawn! woman. come, pocahontas, and get your bow and arrows. pocahontas. i will not shoot at deer! woman. ah, but you must. the braves have gone to watch the white men. so we must do the hunting. come! pocahontas. i will not shoot at deer! third girl. she never shoots at them. woman. why, what is this? fourth girl. she only shoots at trees and sedges peeping from the water. woman. now why do you not shoot at deer? pocahontas. they look at me so gently. i cannot bear to kill them. first girl. she will not kill anything. second girl. she will not even shoot a bird. woman. can this be true? pocahontas. i will not kill the pretty things. this forest is their home, the same as it is ours. woman. such talk i never heard before! the braves must know of this. pocahontas. no, no! they will tell my father! woman. aye! chief powhatan must know. pocahontas. i beg you not to tell him! third girl. he will send her from his wigwam! do not tell him! [illustration: "i will not shoot at deer"] fourth girl. he will send her alone into the forest! do not tell him! pocahontas. do not tell him! woman. then take your bow and kill a deer. pocahontas. i will not! i have told you that! i cannot! woman. powhatan shall know. before the sun sets, powhatan shall know. [indian boys _enter._] first boy. the braves have brought a prisoner! second boy. it is the white chief from the village! third boy. they have taken him to powhatan! fourth boy. come, if you would see him! woman. i come! i come! girls. and i! and i! and i! [_they go._] scene ii time: _a little later._ place: _indian camp._ * * * * * captain john smith. medicine man. chief powhatan. pocahontas. braves, women, and children. * * * * * [captain smith _stands before_ powhatan. he _holds a small compass in his hand._] smith. let me live, great chief! let me live and you shall have my talking needle! powhatan. talking needle! what is that? smith. it is this needle in this box. it talks whenever i wish it. powhatan. what does it say? smith. it tells me where to find the north. i turn the box this way,--i turn the box that way. but the needle always shows the north to me. powhatan. why, so it does! it is very strange and wonderful! a brave. will it tell the north at night? smith. in the darkest night it tells you. another brave. will it tell the north on water? smith. on river or on lake it tells you. powhatan. come, show me how to make it talk. smith. will you let me go in peace? powhatan. you shall live and go in peace. medicine man. great chief, is it wise to let so wise a man go from us? powhatan. is it your wish to keep him here? medicine man. there is no place for such a wise man. powhatan. what do you mean? medicine man. let him go, or let him stay, he will only make more wise things. powhatan. that is true. medicine man. things too wise for powhatan's braves. things too wise for powhatan. powhatan. what is that? things too wise for powhatan! medicine man. the white man makes talking needles. this needle shows the north to him. another needle may show him how to be chief in your place, powhatan. a brave. yes, yes! that is true! all braves. yes, yes! medicine man. he is too wise to live, great chief! braves. yes, yes, yes! (_pause._) powhatan. bind him to the ground, braves! put his head on that stone there! smith. powhatan! i beg you-- powhatan. take him, braves! be ready with your war clubs! [_the braves throw captain smith on the ground, and stand over him with uplifted clubs. enter_ pocahontas. _she runs to captain smith and kneels beside him, shielding his head with her arms. enter_ women _and_ children.] pocahontas. you shall not kill him! powhatan. my daughter! come away! pocahontas. you shall not kill him! you shall not kill him! a woman. pocahontas! a girl. pocahontas! they will kill you! second girl. pocahontas! come away! come away! pocahontas. i will not move! medicine man. drag her away, braves! drag her away, i say! powhatan. do not dare to touch her! do you hear? do not dare to touch her! the great spirit lives in the child! the great spirit has breathed his courage into her! captain smith, you shall live and go in peace. i, powhatan, do say these words! pocahontas saves jamestown scene i time: _one evening; three hundred years ago._ place: _indian camp near jamestown, virginia._ * * * * * chief powhatan. braves. medicine man. women and children pocahontas. * * * * * [powhatan, medicine man, _and_ braves _sit around the fire in council. the_ women _and_ children, pocahontas _among them, are near._] powhatan. i speak, my children. braves. we hear, great chief. powhatan. who among you loves the white man? (_there is silence._) again i ask, who among you loves the white man? (_there is silence._) medicine man. the white men are not our friends, chief powhatan. a brave. they take our land from us. second brave. they take our corn from us. third brave. they will not let us fish in our own rivers. medicine man. they are too wise for powhatan's children. powhatan. they are too wise for powhatan. medicine man. not one should live in our great forests! a brave. we should not leave one white man in their village! second brave. nor a white woman! third brave. nor a white child! powhatan. i think with you, my children. your words are my words. medicine man. this night we should creep upon them! braves. yes! yes! yes! powhatan. this night it shall be done! lie here and sleep, my braves, till midnight. then we will rise and creep upon them. women, take the children to the wigwams. pocahontas, fill my quiver full of arrows. you may do this while i sleep. and now, silence. scene ii time: _midnight of same day._ place: _jamestown._ * * * * * pocahontas. captain john smith. john rolfe. powhatan. medicine man. braves. settlers. * * * * * [pocahontas _enters, running. she knocks at the door of captain smith's cabin._] [illustration: ] smith (_within._) who knocks? pocahontas. pocahontas! [captain john smith _comes from the cabin._] pocahontas. powhatan is coming! he is coming with his braves! they come creeping while you sleep! smith. what is this? pocahontas. they come to kill you and the women and the children! smith. rolfe, rolfe, do you hear that? [rolfe _comes from the cabin._] rolfe. i heard! i'll go and warn the people! smith. tell them to run quickly to the fort! rolfe. i'll tell them! [_he goes, running._] smith. it is brave of you to warn us, pocahontas. pocahontas. i could not bear to have the little children killed. smith. you have saved them and their mothers and their fathers. me, you have saved twice. [_pocahontas starts to go._] pocahontas. good-by, white chief. i go now to my wigwam. smith. girl! girl! you must not go! the braves will know you warned us! pocahontas. they will not know, white chief. at midnight they were to leave the camp. i will get back by that time. smith. it is midnight now. they have missed you by this time, pocahontas. pocahontas. what shall i do? what shall i do? smith. you must stay with us. pocahontas. i cannot leave my father, white chief. [_she starts to go._] smith. you must not go! the braves will not let you live! i fear your father could not save you from them! [_enter_ rolfe, _running._] rolfe. to the fort! to the fort! the indians are upon us! to the fort! smith. come, pocahontas! there is our fort across the road. you will be safe in there. pocahontas. how can i leave my father! [_enter_ men, women, _and_ children, _running. they enter the fort._] smith. come, pocahontas! come! [_he leads her into the fort just as the_ indians _creep in from the forest. they see pocahontas and rush at her, but rolfe shuts the gates._] braves. pocahontas! pocahontas! medicine man. 'tis pocahontas who has warned them! braves. yes, yes! 'tis pocahontas! medicine man. do you hear that, chief powhatan? powhatan. i hear. a brave. she has betrayed her own people! second brave. we should never take her back to us! third brave. we should not let her live! medicine man. aye, braves, aye! we should not let her live! we will demand her from the white men! braves. yes, yes! medicine man. shall we offer them peace in return for pocahontas? braves. yes, yes, yes! medicine man. do you hear that, chief powhatan? [_there is a long pause._] powhatan. go, take the peace flag to them, and ask for pocahontas. [_the_ medicine man _raises a white flag and goes to the fort. captain smith and many men come out._] smith. do you come to offer peace? medicine man. we offer peace, great chief, if you will give up pocahontas. smith. and what if we will not give her up? medicine man. we will make war upon you. smith. we will not give her up. medicine man. then not a man of you shall live! nor a woman! nor a child! smith. pocahontas is our friend. we will not give her up to you. medicine man. shoot them, braves! shoot them, as they stand there! powhatan. do not dare to shoot one arrow! i, powhatan, speak. (_to smith._) i see you are my daughter's friend, white chief. smith. i am, and would be yours, if you would let me. powhatan. your white braves take our land from us. smith. they shall pay you. as i am chief here, they shall pay you. powhatan. your white braves take our corn from us. they will not let us fish in our own rivers. smith. i did not know such wrongs were done you. my braves shall pay for everything in full. powhatan. then there shall be peace between us. bring the peace pipe, braves. we will smoke in friendship with our brothers. smith. and pocahontas will be pardoned? you will take her back as your own daughter? powhatan. pocahontas will be pardoned, white chief. she shall come and go, as she may please, between our wigwams and yours, my brother. _[a brave comes with the peace pipe, which he gives to powhatan, who hands it to captain smith._] smith (_taking pipe_). 'tis for eternal peace between us! king alfred and the cakes [footnote: the teacher should explain that king alfred was one of the most famous and best beloved kings of england, and that while he was king the danes were trying to conquer england. at the time of the story, he had been defeated by the danes, and was compelled to hide with a few followers in the forest to avoid falling into the hands of the enemy.] time: _more than a thousand years ago._ place: _a forest in england._ * * * * * king alfred. danish chief. goodwife. english soldiers. prince. danes. * * * * * [_a hut is at one side. near by is a pile of burning fagots. the_ prince _enters from the forest. he carries a great spear. he looks about; creeps to the hut and looks in the window; shows satisfaction; returns to the forest._] prince (_softly_). all is well. enter! (_enter_ two english soldiers _from forest. they carry large bows and wear quivers holding arrows._) we are safe here, my men. tell king alfred that. [_the first soldier salutes and enters forest._] second soldier. danes may hide in the hut, prince-- prince (_shaking head_). there's only an old woman within. [_enter_ first soldier. _he holds the bushes and vines aside._] first soldier. the king! [_enter_ king alfred. _he is disguised as a beggar. he is young, manly, and courageous._] prince (_bowing)._ you can rest safely here, king alfred. king. do you think the danes are still in pursuit? prince. no, your majesty, i am sure we have escaped them this time. second soldier. besides, they would not know your majesty dressed so. king (_anxiously_). gentlemen, disguise yourselves as you have me. prince. that will not do, sire. the danes must not see you dressed as we are. 'twill make you safer. king. aye, but there's more danger for you dressed so. come, be beggars now with me! first soldier (_shaking head_). our first thought is for you, sire. second soldier. should you fall into the danes' hands now, what will become of england? king. why, she must fight again! prince, (_shaking head_). our soldiers ran from the danes to-day, and lost the battle to them! king. 'tis because they fear these danes as they do monsters,--monsters come to rob them,--to burn their homes,--to make them slaves! soldiers. aye! aye! king. if only i could turn their fear to rage and fierce, hot anger! then england would not flee! she'd fight her foes and conquer! soldiers. aye! aye! prince. 'tis for that great work you should save yourself, sire! for that, you should wear the beggar's rags now! [_enter_ english soldiers _in great haste._] third soldier. sire, save yourself! the danes still follow us! fourth soldier. they have crossed the river! third soldier. they pursue your majesty! prince. go to the hut there, sire. let the danes find you begging from the goodwife. king. but you, my men, where will you hide? first soldier. we'll scatter, sire. king. then go, go at once! i'll await you here, if the danes go on. prince (_saluting_). farewell, my king! soldiers (_saluting_). farewell, king alfred, farewell! [_they go. the king crosses to hut, and knocks at door, which is opened by the_ goodwife. _she holds a wooden bowl and a large flat stone in her hands._] goodwife (_aside_). another beggar, as i live! (_aloud, sharply_). well, what do you want? king. a bite to eat, goodwife. goodwife. my cakes are not yet baked. king. i will wait, then. goodwife (_indignantly_). well, and you will not, sir! king (_alarmed_). you will not drive me off, good woman! goodwife. and who are you, that you should sit by and wait, whilst i do all the work! and do you think you are the king, sir? king. no, no! i-- good wife (_interrupting_). you'll fry the cakes yourself, sir! and that you will at once, sir! go now and mend the fire, and lay this stone upon it. [_the king takes the stone; crosses to the fire, and stirs it; places the stone on the burning wood. when the stone is hot, the goodwife pours the batter from the bowl on the stone._] goodwife. now watch these cakes while i'm within. and watch them well: rye cakes do burn while one is winking. king. i'll watch them carefully, goodwife. (_the goodwife enters hut. the king turns the cakes carefully, then sits on a log; he shows that his thoughts are far away._) i _will_ drive them out! i _will!_ (_pause._) to-night i'll get my men together. (_pause._) we will take them by surprise--at daybreak. [_enter the_ goodwife; _she rushes to the fire._] good wife (_looking at cakes_). burnt to cinders! not one of them fit to eat! king. i am sorry--i-- good wife (_interrupting)._ oh, you good-for-nothing! i would like to beat you! king. what can i do to make it right? goodwife (_taking up a stick_). you'll mix more dough! more dough! do you hear? king. i'll be glad to do it, madam! goodwife (_flourishing stick_). in with you! now in with you, and get to work! [_the king enters the hut. enter_ danish chief _and_ danes _from the forest. they carry spears and shields._] goodwife (_with fear; dropping stick_). the danes! chief (_haughtily)._ aye, danes! goodwife. i have no silver! not a piece, sir! chief. burn the hut, men! danes. aye! aye! [_they start toward the hut. the goodwife falls on her knees before them._] goodwife. i pray you, spare my home! [illustration: "not one of them fit to eat!"] chief. we spare no home to any english. do you not know that? goodwife. i've heard so-- first dane. we'll burn every home on english land before we go! second dane. and drive every englishman into the seas! danes. aye! aye! goodwife (_sobbing)._ i pray you-- chief (_roughly)._ come, get up! get up and cease your weeping! i like it not. get up, i say! [_goodwife rises, trembling with fear._] chief. now listen; we will not burn your hut, if you will tell us what we wish to know. goodwife. i will tell you what i can-- chief. did king alfred pass this way in flight? goodwife (_starting_). what? our king in flight? chief (_angrily_). come, no tears for him! did he pass this way, i say? goodwife. no, my lord. first dane. do not believe her, chief! there's not an englishman that would not hide him from us! goodwife (_forgetting her fear_). aye, and die for him! chief (_angrily)._ say not such words to me! i am your king that is to be! danes. aye! aye! chief. go search within the hut, danes! [_danes enter hut. they come out immediately bringing king alfred._] first dane. we found this man within, chief. second dane. 'tis only her husband, i think. goodwife (_indignantly_). _husband_, say you?--that beggar! chief (_showing suspicion_). ah, a beggar--! goodwife. yes, my lord, he came but just before you. first dane (_whispering_). hear that, my lord,--just before us! second dane (_whispering_). it may be king alfred! third dane (_whispering_). disguised as a beggar, sir! fourth dane (_whispering_). 'twould be safest to take him prisoner, my lord! chief (_nodding_). we'll take him with us to be certain. goodwife (_hearing this_). yes, take him! 'twould serve him right! he burnt my cakes just now! chief. what! burnt your cakes? goodwife. yes, my lord! and i'd have beaten him had not your lordship come. chief (_aside to danes_). this cannot be the king. first dane (_shaking head_). no king would fry cakes! second dane (_shaking head_). he could not be made to fry them! third dane (_shaking head_). nor take a beating from a woman! [_the goodwife has crept up to listen; and so overhears this last remark._] goodwife. he wouldn't, eh? ha, ha! well, i sent him within to mix fresh dough! and i sent him with my stick, i did! [_flourishing stick._] fourth dane. would you let a woman threaten you with a stick, my lord? chief (_proudly)._ never! besides, king alfred would be dressed as are his princes and his soldiers. i have thought that from the first. release the beggar! [_danes release king alfred._] chief. now listen, danes! a hundred silver pieces will i give the man who makes king alfred prisoner! hear--all of you!--one hundred silver pieces! danes. aye! aye! chief (_to goodwife and alfred_). and when this alfred's taken, to me you'll bend your english knees! to me, you english beggar! now come, my men! to hunt king alfred! danes (_going_). to hunt king alfred! to hunt king alfred! [_they go. king alfred smiles. the goodwife looks after them, listening for a moment._] goodwife. may they never see a hair of his head! (_lifting up arms._) may heaven protect and save king alfred! king (_growling_). you seem to love king alfred-- goodwife. i love the ground he treads on! king (_as before_). of course,--'tis english ground! goodwife (_shaking head_). not that--i love the air he breathes! king. well--'tis english air. goodwife (_sharply)._ no, no! i love the king!--the king himself! king (_growling)._ out upon king alfred! out upon him, i say! goodwife (_angrily)._ you are a traitor, sir! king. what has he done for england? he has lost every battle to the danes! he is running from them now! goodwife. 'tis no fault of his! if the king's men were as brave as he, there would not be a dane on english land to-day! king (_still growling_). well, i'm glad there's one that thinks so well of him! goodwife. you are a traitor and should be punished! (_taking up stick._) i myself will do it! [_lifting stick. enter the_ prince _and_ english soldiers.] prince (_kneeling_). your majesty is safe! good wife (_aside_). what!--your majesty, they say! soldiers (_kneeling, joyfully_). king alfred! king alfred! goodwife (_aside)._ what!--king alfred!-- king. rise, my prince! rise, my soldiers! ah, i'm glad they did not find you! [_he grasps their hands._] goodwife (_aside; showing fear_). it is--it is--the king! king. we'll fight again, my men! at daybreak we'll surprise them. soldiers. aye! aye! king. goodwife, your king now thanks you. goodwife (_kneeling_). oh, your majesty, forgive me! forgive me! king (_gently_). arise, goodwife. goodwife (_rising_). alas the day i made you fry the cakes! alas the day i would have beaten you! king. nay, goodwife, 'twas that saved my life. i bless the day you made me fry the cakes! i bless the day you would have beaten me! (_lifting his hand over her head._) and you i bless, goodwife, for your loyalty to england and her king! soldiers, salute this brave goodwife! [_soldiers form in a double line from door of hut, and hold their bows aloft to make an arch. the goodwife passes up this lane, under the bows, and stands in door of hut. the king and the prince salute her._] the peace egg and other tales. by juliana horatia ewing. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, w.c. brighton: , north street. new york: e. & j. b. young & co. [published under the direction of the general literature committee.] * * * * * contents. the peace egg a christmas mumming play hints for private theatricals, i., ii., iii. snap-dragons old father christmas * * * * * the peace egg. the peace egg. a christmas tale. every one ought to be happy at christmas. but there are many things which ought to be, and yet are not; and people are sometimes sad even in the christmas holidays. the captain and his wife were sad, though it was christmas eve. sad, though they were in the prime of life, blessed with good health, devoted to each other and to their children, with competent means, a comfortable house on a little freehold property of their own, and, one might say, everything that heart could desire. sad, though they were good people, whose peace of mind had a firmer foundation than their earthly goods alone; contented people, too, with plenty of occupation for mind and body. sad--and in the nursery this was held to be past all reason--though the children were performing that ancient and most entertaining play or christmas mystery of good st. george of england, known as _the peace egg_, for their benefit and behoof alone. the play was none the worse that most of the actors were too young to learn parts, so that there was very little of the rather tedious dialogue, only plenty of dress and ribbons, and of fighting with the wooden swords. but though st. george looked bonny enough to warm any father's heart, as he marched up and down with an air learned by watching many a parade in barrack-square and drill-ground, and though the valiant slasher did not cry in spite of falling hard and the doctor treading accidentally on his little finger in picking him up, still the captain and his wife sighed nearly as often as they smiled, and the mother dropped tears as well as pennies into the cap which the king of egypt brought round after the performance. the captain's wife. many many years back the captain's wife had been a child herself, and had laughed to see the village mummers act the peace egg, and had been quite happy on christmas eve. happy, though she had no mother. happy, though her father was a stern man, very fond of his only child, but with an obstinate will that not even she dared thwart. she had lived to thwart it, and he had never forgiven her. it was when she married the captain. the old man had a prejudice against soldiers, which was quite reason enough, in his opinion, for his daughter to sacrifice the happiness of her future life by giving up the soldier she loved. at last he gave her her choice between the captain and his own favour and money. she chose the captain, and was disowned and disinherited. the captain bore a high character, and was a good and clever officer, but that went for nothing against the old man's whim. he made a very good husband too; but even this did not move his father-in-law, who had never held any intercourse with him or his wife since the day of their marriage, and who had never seen his own grandchildren. though not so bitterly prejudiced as the old father, the captain's wife's friends had their doubts about the marriage. the place was not a military station, and they were quiet country folk who knew very little about soldiers, whilst what they imagined was not altogether favourable to "red-coats" as they called them. soldiers are well-looking generally, it is true (and the captain was more than well-looking--he was handsome); brave, of course it is their business (and the captain had v.c. after his name and several bits of ribbon on his patrol jacket). but then, thought the good people, they are here to-day and gone to-morrow, you "never know where you have them"; they are probably in debt, possibly married to several women in several foreign countries, and, though they are very courteous in society, who knows how they treat their wives when they drag them off from their natural friends and protectors to distant lands where no one can call them to account? "ah, poor thing!" said mrs. john bull, junior, as she took off her husband's coat on his return from business, a week after the captain's wedding, "i wonder how she feels? there's no doubt the old man behaved disgracefully; but it's a great risk marrying a soldier. it stands to reason, military men aren't domestic; and i wish--lucy jane, fetch your papa's slippers, quick!--she'd had the sense to settle down comfortably amongst her friends with a man who would have taken care of her." "officers are a wild set, i expect," said mr. bull, complacently, as he stretched his limbs in his own particular arm-chair, into which no member of his family ever intruded. "but the red-coats carry the day with plenty of girls who ought to know better. you women are always caught by a bit of finery. however, there's no use our bothering _our_ heads about it. as she has brewed she must bake." the captain's wife's baking was lighter and more palatable than her friends believed. the captain (who took off his own coat when he came home, and never wore slippers but in his dressing-room) was domestic enough. a selfish companion must, doubtless, be a great trial amid the hardships of military life, but when a soldier is kind-hearted, he is often a much more helpful and thoughtful and handy husband than any equally well-meaning civilian. amid the ups and downs of their wanderings, the discomforts of shipboard and of stations in the colonies, bad servants, and unwonted sicknesses, the captain's tenderness never failed. if the life was rough the captain was ready. he had been, by turns, in one strait or another, sick-nurse, doctor, carpenter, nursemaid, and cook to his family, and had, moreover, an idea that nobody filled these offices quite so well as himself. withal, his very profession kept him neat, well-dressed, and active. in the roughest of their ever-changing quarters he was a smarter man, more like the lover of his wife's young days, than mr. bull amid his stationary comforts. then if the captain's wife was--as her friends said--"never settled," she was also for ever entertained by new scenes; and domestic mischances do not weigh very heavily on people whose possessions are few and their intellectual interests many. it is true that there were ladies in the captain's regiment who passed by sea and land from one quarter of the globe to another, amid strange climates and customs, strange trees and flowers, beasts and birds, from the glittering snows of north america to the orchids of the cape, from beautiful pera to the lily-covered hills of japan, and who in no place rose above the fret of domestic worries, and had little to tell on their return but of the universal misconduct of servants, from irish "helps" in the colonies, to _compradors_ and china-boys at shanghai. but it was not so with the captain's wife. moreover, one becomes accustomed to one's fate, and she moved her whole establishment from the curragh to corfu with less anxiety than that felt by mrs. bull over a port-wine stain on the best table-cloth. and yet, as years went and children came, the captain and his wife grew tired of travelling. new scenes were small comfort when they heard of the death of old friends. one foot of murky english sky was dearer, after all, than miles of the unclouded heavens of the south. the grey hills and overgrown lanes of her old home haunted the captain's wife by night and day, and home-sickness (that weariest of all sicknesses) began to take the light out of her eyes before their time. it preyed upon the captain too. now and then he would say, fretfully, "i _should_ like an english resting-place, however small, before _every-_body is dead! but the children's prospects have to be considered." the continued estrangement from the old man was an abiding sorrow also, and they had hopes that, if only they could get to england, he might be persuaded to peace and charity this time. at last they were sent home. but the hard old father still would not relent. he returned their letters unopened. this bitter disappointment made the captain's wife so ill that she almost died, and in one month the captain's hair became iron-grey. he reproached himself for having ever taken the daughter from her father, "to kill her at last," as he said. and (thinking of his own children) he even reproached himself for having robbed the old widower of his only child. after two years at home his regiment was ordered to india. he failed to effect an exchange, and they prepared to move once more--from chatham to calcutta. never before had the packing, to which she was so well accustomed, been so bitter a task to the captain's wife. it was at the darkest hour of this gloomy time that the captain came in, waving above his head a letter which changed all their plans. now close by the old home of the captain's wife there had lived a man, much older than herself, who yet had loved her with a devotion as great as that of the young captain. she never knew it, for when he saw that she had given her heart to his younger rival, he kept silence, and he never asked for what he knew he might have had--the old man's authority in his favour. so generous was the affection which he could never conquer, that he constantly tried to reconcile the father to his children whilst he lived, and, when he died, he bequeathed his house and small estate to the woman he had loved. "it will be a legacy of peace," he thought, on his death-bed. "the old man cannot hold out when she and her children are constantly in sight. and it may please god that i shall know of the reunion i have not been permitted to see with my eyes." and thus it came about that the captain's regiment went to india without him, and that the captain's wife and her father lived on opposite sides of the same road. master robert. the eldest of the captain's children was a boy. he was named robert, after his grandfather, and seemed to have inherited a good deal of the old gentleman's character, mixed with gentler traits. he was a fair, fine boy, tall and stout for his age, with the captain's regular features, and (he flattered himself) the captain's firm step and martial bearing. he was apt--like his grandfather--to hold his own will to be other people's law, and (happily for the peace of the nursery) this opinion was devoutly shared by his brother nicholas. though the captain had sold his commission, robin continued to command an irregular force of volunteers in the nursery, and never was colonel more despotic. his brothers and sister were by turn infantry, cavalry, engineers, and artillery, according to his whim, and when his affections finally settled upon the highlanders of "the black watch," no female power could compel him to keep his stockings above his knees, or his knickerbockers below them. the captain alone was a match for his strong-willed son. "if you please, sir," said sarah, one morning, flouncing in upon the captain, just as he was about to start for the neighbouring town,--"if you please, sir, i wish you'd speak to master robert. he's past my powers." "i've no doubt of it," thought the captain, but he only said, "well, what's the matter?" "night after night do i put him to bed," said sarah, "and night after night does he get up as soon as i'm out of the room, and says he's orderly officer for the evening, and goes about in his night-shirt, and his feet as bare as boards." the captain fingered his heavy moustache to hide a smile, but he listened patiently to sarah's complaints. "it ain't so much _him_ i should mind, sir," she continued, "but he goes round the beds and wakes up the other young gentlemen and miss dora, one after another, and when i speak to him, he gives me all the sauce he can lay his tongue to, and says he's going round the guards. the other night i tried to put him back in his bed, but he got away and ran all over the house, me hunting him everywhere, and not a sign of him, till he jumps out on me from the garret-stairs and nearly knocks me down. 'i've visited the outposts, sarah,' says he; 'all's well,' and off he goes to bed as bold as brass." "have you spoken to your mistress?" asked the captain. "yes, sir," said sarah. "and missis spoke to him, and he promised not to go round the guards again." "has he broken his promise?" asked the captain, with a look of anger, and also of surprise. "when i opened the door last night, sir," continued sarah, in her shrill treble, "what should i see in the dark but master robert a-walking up and down with the carpet-brush stuck in his arm. 'who goes there?' says he. 'you owdacious boy!' says i. 'didn't you promise your ma you'd leave off them tricks?' 'i'm not going round the guards,' says he; 'i promised not. but i'm for sentry-duty to-night.' and say what i would to him, all he had for me was, 'you mustn't speak to a sentry on duty.' so i says, 'as sure as i live till morning, i'll go to your pa,' for he pays no more attention to his ma than to me, nor to any one else." "please to see that the chair-bed in my dressing-room is moved into your mistress's bedroom," said the captain. "i will attend to master robert." with this sarah had to content herself, and she went back to the nursery. robert was nowhere to be seen, and made no reply to her summons. on this the unwary nursemaid flounced into the bedroom to look for him, when robert, who was hidden beneath a table, darted forth, and promptly locked her in. "you're under arrest," he shouted, through the keyhole. "let me out!" shrieked sarah. "i'll send a file of the guard to fetch you to the orderly room, by and by," said robert, "for 'preferring frivolous complaints.'" and he departed to the farmyard to look at the ducks. that night, when robert went up to bed, the captain quietly locked him into his dressing-room, from which the bed had been removed. "you're for sentry-duty to-night," said the captain. "the carpet-brush is in the corner. good-evening." as his father anticipated, robert was soon tired of the sentry game in these new circumstances, and long before the night had half worn away he wished himself safely undressed and in his own comfortable bed. at half-past twelve o'clock he felt as if he could bear it no longer, and knocked at the captain's door. "who goes there?" said the captain. "mayn't i go to bed, please?" whined poor robert. "certainly not," said the captain. "you're on duty." and on duty poor robert had to remain, for the captain had a will as well as his son. so he rolled himself up in his father's railway-rug, and slept on the floor. the next night he was very glad to go quietly to bed, and remain there. in the nursery. the captain's children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery. it was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children made it merry. this was just what he would have wished. they all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time. there were five of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them. sarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could be found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat darkie, the black retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on each and all of the breakfast bowls. he was as silent and sagacious as sarah was talkative and empty-headed. the expression of his face was that of king charles i. as painted by vandyke. though large, he was unassuming. pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first joint of darkie's leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short stumps). he always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a point of hustling him in doorways and of going first down-stairs. he strutted like a beadle, and carried his tail more tightly curled than a bishop's crook. he looked as one may imagine the frog in the fable would have looked, had he been able to swell himself rather nearer to the size of the ox. this was partly due to his very prominent eyes, and partly to an obesity favoured by habits of lying inside the fender, and of eating meals proportioned more to his consequence than to his hunger. they were both favourites of two years' standing, and had very nearly been given away, when the good news came of an english home for the family, dogs and all. robert's tongue was seldom idle, even at meals. "are you a yorkshirewoman, sarah?" he asked, pausing, with his spoon full in his hand. "no, master robert," said sarah. "but you understand yorkshire, don't you? i can't, very often; but mamma can, and can speak it, too. papa says mamma always talks yorkshire to servants and poor people. she used to talk yorkshire to themistocles, papa said, and he said it was no good; for though themistocles knew a lot of languages, he didn't know that. and mamma laughed, and said she didn't know she did."--"themistocles was our man-servant in corfu," robin added, in explanation. "he stole lots of things, themistocles did; but papa found him out." robin now made a rapid attack on his bread-and-milk, after which he broke out again. "sarah, who is that tall old gentleman at church, in the seat near the pulpit? he wears a cloak like what the blues wear, only all blue, and is tall enough for a lifeguardsman. he stood when we were kneeling down, and said _almighty and most merciful father_ louder than anybody." sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as yet. but she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. "never you mind, master robin," she said, nodding sagaciously. "little boys aren't to know everything." "ah, then, i know you don't know," replied robert; "if you did, you'd tell. nicholas, give some of your bread to darkie and pax. i've done mine. _for what we have received, the lord make us truly thankful._ say your grace and put your chair away, and come along. i want to hold a court-martial!" and seizing his own chair by the seat, robin carried it swiftly to its corner. as he passed sarah, he observed tauntingly, "you pretend to know, but you don't." "i do," said sarah. "you don't," said robin. "your ma's forbid you to contradict, master robin," said sarah; "and if you do i shall tell her. i know well enough who the old gentleman is, and perhaps i might tell you, only you'd go straight off and tell again." "no, no, i wouldn't!" shouted robin. "i can keep a secret, indeed i can! pinch my little finger, and try. do, do tell me, sarah, there's a dear sarah, and then i shall know you know." and he danced round her, catching at her skirts. to keep a secret was beyond sarah's powers. "do let my dress be, master robin," she said, "you're ripping out all the gathers, and listen while i whisper. as sure as you're a living boy, that gentleman's your own grandpapa." robin lost his hold on sarah's dress; his arms fell by his side, and he stood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking. then he said, emphatically, "what lies you do tell, sarah!" "oh, robin!" cried nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls standing stark with curiosity, "mamma said 'lies' wasn't a proper word, and you promised not to say it again." "i forgot," said robin. "i didn't mean to break my promise. but she does tell--ahem! _you know what_." "you wicked boy!" cried the enraged sarah; "how dare you to say such a thing! and everybody in the place knows he's your ma's own pa." "i'll go and ask her," said robin, and he was at the door in a moment; but sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself, caught him by the arm. "don't you go, love; it'll only make your ma angry. there; it was all my nonsense." "then it's not true?" said robin, indignantly. "what did you tell me so for?" "it was all my jokes and nonsense," said the unscrupulous sarah. "but your ma wouldn't like to know i've said such a thing. and master robert wouldn't be so mean as to tell tales, would he, love?" "i'm not mean," said robin, stoutly; "and i don't tell tales; but you do, and you tell _you know what_, besides. however, i won't go this time; but i'll tell you what--if you tell tales of me to papa any more, i'll tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue cloak." with which parting threat robin strode, off to join his brothers and sister. sarah's tale had put the court-martial out of his head, and he leaned against the tall fender, gazing at his little sister, who was tenderly nursing a well-worn doll. robin sighed. "what a long time that doll takes to wear out, dora!" said he. "when will it be done?" "oh, not yet, not yet!" cried dora, clasping the doll to her, and turning away. "she's quite good, yet." "how miserly you are," said her brother; "and selfish, too; for you know i can't have a military funeral till you'll let me bury that old thing." dora began to cry. "there you go, crying!" said robin, impatiently. "look here: i won't take it till you get the new one on your birthday. you can't be so mean as not to let me have it then!" but dora's tears still fell. "i love this one so much," she sobbed. "i love her better than the new one." "you want both; that's it," said robin, angrily. "dora, you're the meanest girl i ever knew!" at which unjust and painful accusation dora threw herself and the doll upon their faces, and wept bitterly. the eyes of the soft-hearted nicholas began to fill with tears, and he squatted down before her, looking most dismal. he had a fellow-feeling for her attachment to an old toy, and yet robin's will was law to him. "couldn't we make a coffin, and pretend the body was inside?" he suggested. "no, we couldn't," said robin. "i wouldn't play the dead march after an empty candle-box. it's a great shame--and i promised she should be chaplain in one of my night-gowns, too." "perhaps you'll get just as fond of the new one," said nicholas, turning to dora. but dora only cried, "no, no! he shall have the new one to bury, and i'll keep my poor, dear, darling betsy." and she clasped betsy tighter than before. "that's the meanest thing you've said yet," retorted robin; "for you know mamma wouldn't let me bury the new one." and, with an air of great disgust, he quitted the nursery. "a mumming we will go." nicholas had sore work to console his little sister, and betsy's prospects were in a very unfavourable state, when a diversion was caused in her favour by a new whim which put the military funeral out of robin's head. after he left the nursery he strolled out of doors, and, peeping through the gate at the end of the drive, he saw a party of boys going through what looked like a military exercise with sticks and a good deal of stamping; but, instead of mere words of command, they all spoke by turns, as in a play. in spite of their strong yorkshire accent, robin overheard a good deal, and it sounded very fine. not being at all shy, he joined them, and asked so many questions that he soon got to know all about it. they were practising a christmas mumming-play, called "the peace egg." why it was called thus they could not tell, as there was nothing whatever about eggs in it, and so far from being a play of peace, it was made up of a series of battles between certain valiant knights and princes, of whom st. george of england was the chief and conqueror. the rehearsal being over, robin went with the boys to the sexton's house (he was father to the "king of egypt"), where they showed him the dresses they were to wear. these were made of gay-coloured materials, and covered with ribbons, except that of the "black prince of paradine," which was black, as became his title. the boys also showed him the book from which they learned their parts, and which was to be bought for one penny at the post-office shop. "then are you the mummers who come round at christmas, and act in people's kitchens, and people give them money, that mamma used to tell us about?" said robin. st. george of england looked at his companions as if for counsel as to how far they might commit themselves, and then replied, with yorkshire caution, "well, i suppose we are." "and do you go out in the snow from one house to another at night? and oh, don't you enjoy it?" cried robin. "we like it well enough," st. george admitted. robin bought a copy of "the peace egg." he was resolved to have a nursery performance, and to act the part of st. george himself. the others were willing for what he wished, but there were difficulties. in the first place, there are eight characters in the play, and there were only five children. they decided among themselves to leave out the "fool," and mamma said that another character was not to be acted by any of them, or indeed mentioned; "the little one who comes in at the end," robin explained. mamma had her reasons, and these were always good. she had not been altogether pleased that robin had bought the play. it was a very old thing, she said, and very queer; not adapted for a child's play. if mamma thought the parts not quite fit for the children to learn, they found them much too long; so in the end she picked out some bits for each, which they learned easily, and which, with a good deal of fighting, made quite as good a story of it as if they had done the whole. what may have been wanting otherwise was made up for by the dresses, which were charming. robin was st. george, nicholas the valiant slasher, dora the doctor, and the other two hector and the king of egypt. "and now we've no black prince!" cried robin in dismay. "let darkie be the black prince," said nicholas. "when you wave your stick he'll jump for it, and then you can pretend to fight with him." "it's not a stick, it's a sword," said robin. "however, darkie may be the black prince." "and what's pax to be?" asked dora; "for you know he will come if darkie does, and he'll run in before everybody else too." "then he must be the fool," said robin, "and it will do very well, for the fool comes in before the rest, and pax can have his red coat on, and the collar with the little bells." christmas eve. robin thought that christmas would never come. to the captain and his wife it seemed to come too fast. they had hoped it might bring reconciliation with the old man, but it seemed they had hoped in vain. there were times now when the captain almost regretted the old bachelor's bequest. the familiar scenes of her old home sharpened his wife's grief. to see her father every sunday in church, with marks of age and infirmity upon him, but with not a look of tenderness for his only child, this tried her sorely. "she felt it less abroad," thought the captain. "an english home in which she frets herself to death is, after all, no great boon." christmas eve came. "i'm sure it's quite christmas enough now," said robin. "we'll have 'the peace egg' to-night." so as the captain and his wife sat sadly over their fire, the door opened, and pax ran in shaking his bells, and followed by the nursery mummers. the performance was most successful. it was by no means pathetic, and yet, as has been said, the captain's wife shed tears. "what is the matter, mamma?" said st. george, abruptly dropping his sword and running up to her. "don't tease mamma with questions," said the captain; "she is not very well, and rather sad. we must all be very kind and good to poor dear mamma;" and the captain raised his wife's hand to his lips as he spoke. robin seized the other hand and kissed it tenderly. he was very fond of his mother. at this moment pax took a little run, and jumped on to mamma's lap, where, sitting facing the company, he opened his black mouth and yawned, with a ludicrous inappropriateness worthy of any clown. it made everybody laugh. "and now we'll go and act in the kitchen," said nicholas. "supper at nine o'clock, remember," shouted the captain. "and we are going to have real frumenty and yule cakes, such as mamma used to tell us of when we were abroad." "hurray!" shouted the mummers, and they ran off, pax leaping from his seat just in time to hustle the black prince in the doorway. when the dining-room door was shut, st. george raised his hand, and said "hush!" the mummers pricked their ears, but there was only a distant harsh and scraping sound, as of stones rubbed together. "they're cleaning the passages," st. george went on, "and sarah told me they meant to finish the mistletoe, and have everything cleaned up by supper-time. they don't want us, i know. look here, we'll go _real mumming_ instead. that _will_ be fun!" the valiant slasher grinned with delight. "but will mamma let us?" he inquired. "oh, it will be all right if we're back by supper-time," said st. george, hastily. "only of course we must take care not to catch cold. come and help me to get some wraps." the old oak chest in which spare shawls, rugs, and coats were kept was soon ransacked, and the mummers' gay dresses hidden by motley wrappers. but no sooner did darkie and pax behold the coats, &c., than they at once began to leap and bark, as it was their custom to do when they saw any one dressing to go out. robin was sorely afraid that this would betray them; but though the captain and his wife heard the barking they did not guess the cause. so the front door being very gently opened and closed, the nursery mummers stole away. the nursery mummers and the old man. it was a very fine night. the snow was well trodden on the drive, so that it did not wet their feet, but on the trees and shrubs it hung soft and white. "it's much jollier being out at night than in the daytime," said robin. "much," responded nicholas, with intense feeling. "we'll go a wassailing next week," said robin. "i know all about it, and perhaps we shall get a good lot of money, and then we'll buy tin swords with scabbards for next year. i don't like these sticks. oh, dear, i wish it wasn't so long between one christmas and another." "where shall we go first?" asked nicholas, as they turned into the high-road. but before robin could reply, dora clung to nicholas, crying, "oh, look at those men!" the boys looked up the road, down which three men were coming in a very unsteady fashion, and shouting as they rolled from side to side. "they're drunk," said nicholas; "and they're shouting at us." "oh, run, run!" cried dora; and down the road they ran, the men shouting and following them. they had not run far, when hector caught his foot in the captain's great-coat, which he was wearing, and came down headlong in the road. they were close by a gate, and when nicholas had set hector upon his legs, st. george hastily opened it. "this is the first house," he said. "we'll act here;" and all, even the valiant slasher, pressed in as quickly as possible. once safe within the grounds, they shouldered their sticks, and resumed their composure. "you're going to the front door," said nicholas, "mummers ought to go to the back." "we don't know where it is," said robin, and he rang the front-door bell. there was a pause. then lights shone, steps were heard, and at last a sound of much unbarring, unbolting, and unlocking. it might have been a prison. then the door was opened by an elderly, timid-looking woman, who held a tallow candle above her head. "who's there," she said, "at this time of night?" "we're christmas mummers," said robin, stoutly; "we don't know the way to the back door, but--" "and don't you know better than to come here?" said the woman. "be off with you, as fast as you can." "you're only the servant," said robin. "go and ask your master and mistress if they wouldn't like to see us act. we do it very well." "you impudent boy, be off with you!" repeated the woman. "master'd no more let you nor any other such rubbish set foot in this house--" "woman!" shouted a voice close behind her, which made her start as if she had been shot, "who authorizes you to say what your master will or will not do, before you've asked him? the boy is right. you _are_ the servant, and it is not your business to choose for me whom i shall or shall not see." "i meant no harm, sir, i'm sure," said the housekeeper; "but i thought you'd never--" "my good woman," said her master, "if i had wanted somebody to think for me, you're the last person i should have employed. i hire you to obey orders, not to think." "i'm sure, sir," said the housekeeper, whose only form of argument was reiteration, "i never thought you would have seen them--" "then you were wrong," shouted her master. "i will see them. bring them in." he was a tall, gaunt old man, and robin stared at him for some minutes, wondering where he could have seen somebody very like him. at last he remembered. it was the old gentleman of the blue cloak. the children threw off their wraps, the housekeeper helping them, and chattering ceaselessly, from sheer nervousness. "well, to be sure," said she, "their dresses are pretty too. and they seem quite a better sort of children, they talk quite genteel. i might ha' knowed they weren't like common mummers, but i was so flusterated hearing the bell go so late, and--" "are they ready?" said the old man, who had stood like a ghost in the dim light of the flaring tallow candle, grimly watching the proceedings. "yes, sir. shall i take them to the kitchen, sir?" "--for you and the other idle hussies to gape and grin at? no. bring them to the library," he snapped, and then stalked off, leading the way. the housekeeper accordingly led them to the library, and then withdrew, nearly falling on her face as she left the room by stumbling over darkie, who slipped in last like a black shadow. the old man was seated in a carved oak chair by the fire. "i never said the dogs were to come in," he said. "but we can't do without them, please," said robin, boldly. "you see there are eight people in 'the peace egg,' and there are only five of us; and so darkie has to be the black prince, and pax has to be the fool, and so we have to have them." "five and two make seven," said the old man, with a grim smile; "what do you do for the eighth?" "oh, that's the little one at the end," said robin, confidentially. "mamma said we weren't to mention him, but i think that's because we're children.--you're grown up, you know, so i'll show you the book, and you can see for yourself," he went on, drawing "the peace egg" from his pocket: "there, that's the picture of him, on the last page; black, with horns and a tail." the old man's stern face relaxed into a broad smile as he examined the grotesque woodcut; but when he turned to the first page the smile vanished in a deep frown, and his eyes shone like hot coals with anger. he had seen robin's name. "who sent you here?" he asked, in a hoarse voice. "speak, and speak the truth! did your mother send you here?" robin thought the old man was angry with them for playing truant. he said, slowly, "n--no. she didn't exactly send us; but i don't think she'll mind our having come if we get back in time for supper. mamma never _forbid_ our going mumming, you know." "i don't suppose she ever thought of it," nicholas said, candidly, wagging his curly head from side to side. "she knows we're mummers," said robin, "for she helped us. when we were abroad, you know, she used to tell us about the mummers acting at christmas, when she was a little girl; and so we thought we'd be mummers, and so we acted to papa and mamma, and so we thought we'd act to the maids, but they were cleaning the passages, and so we thought we'd really go mumming; and we've got several other houses to go to before supper-time; we'd better begin, i think," said robin; and without more ado he began to march round and round, raising his sword and shouting-- "i am st. george, who from old england sprung, my famous name throughout the world hath rung." and the performance went off quite as creditably as before. as the children acted the old man's anger wore off. he watched them with an interest he could not repress. when nicholas took some hard thwacks from st. george without flinching, the old man clapped his hands; and, after the encounter between st. george and the black prince, he said he would not have had the dogs excluded on any consideration. it was just at the end, when they were all marching round and round, holding on by each other's swords "over the shoulder," and singing "a mumming we will go," &c., that nicholas suddenly brought the circle to a standstill by stopping dead short, and staring up at the wall before him. "what _are_ you stopping for?" said st. george, turning indignantly round. "look there!" cried nicholas, pointing to a little painting which hung above the old man's head. robin looked, and said, abruptly, "it's dora." "which is dora?" asked the old man, in a strange, sharp tone. "here she is," said robin and nicholas in one breath, as they dragged her forward. "she's the doctor," said robin; "and you can't see her face for her things. dor, take off your cap and pull back that hood. there! oh, it _is_ like her!" it was a portrait of her mother as a child; but of this the nursery mummers knew nothing. the old man looked as the peaked cap and hood fell away from dora's face and fair curls, and then he uttered a sharp cry, and buried his head upon his hands. the boys stood stupefied, but dora ran up to him, and putting her little hands on his arms, said, in childish pitying tones, "oh, i am so sorry! have you got a headache? may robin put the shovel in the fire for you? mamma has hot shovels for her headaches." and, though the old man did not speak or move, she went on coaxing him, and stroking his head, on which the hair was white. at this moment pax took one of his unexpected runs, and jumped on to the old man's knee, in his own particular fashion, and then yawned at the company. the old man was startled, and lifted his face suddenly. it was wet with tears. "why, you're crying!" exclaimed the children, with one breath. "it's very odd," said robin, fretfully. "i can't think what's the matter to-night. mamma was crying too when we were acting, and papa said we weren't to tease her with questions, and he kissed her hand, and i kissed her hand too. and papa said we must all be very good and kind to poor dear mamma, and so i mean to be, she's so good. and i think we'd better go home, or perhaps she'll be frightened," robin added. "she's so good, is she?" asked the old man. he had put pax off his knee, and taken dora on to it. "oh, isn't she!" said nicholas, swaying his curly head from side to side as usual. "she's always good," said robin, emphatically; "and so's papa. but i'm always doing something i oughtn't to," he added, slowly. "but then, you know, i don't pretend to obey sarah. i don't care a fig for sarah; and i won't obey any woman but mamma." "who's sarah?" asked the grandfather. "she's our nurse," said robin, "and she tells--i mustn't say what she tells--but it's not the truth. she told one about _you_ the other day," he added. "about me?" said the old man. "she said you were our grandpapa. so then i knew she was telling _you know what_." "how did you know it wasn't true?" the old man asked. "why, of course," said robin, "if you were our mamma's father, you'd know her, and be very fond of her, and come and see her. and then you'd be our grandfather, too, and you'd have us to see you, and perhaps give us christmas-boxes. i wish you were," robin added with a sigh. "it would be very nice." "would _you_ like it?" asked the old man of dora. and dora, who was half asleep and very comfortable, put her little arms about his neck as she was wont to put them round the captain's, and said, "very much." he put her down at last, very tenderly, almost unwillingly, and left the children alone. by and by he returned, dressed in the blue cloak, and took dora up again. "i will see you home," he said. the children had not been missed. the clock had only just struck nine when there came a knock on the door of the dining-room, where the captain and his wife still sat by the yule log. she said "come in," wearily, thinking it was the frumenty and the christmas cakes. but it was her father, with her child in his arms! peace and goodwill. lucy jane bull and her sisters were quite old enough to understand a good deal of grown-up conversation when they overheard it. thus, when a friend of mrs. bull's observed during an afternoon call that she believed that "officers' wives were very dressy," the young ladies were at once resolved to keep a sharp look-out for the captain's wife's bonnet in church on christmas day. the bulls had just taken their seats when the captain's wife came in. they really would have hid their faces, and looked at the bonnet afterwards, but for the startling sight that met the gaze of the congregation. the old grandfather walked into church abreast of the captain. "they've met in the porch," whispered mr. bull, under the shelter of his hat. "they can't quarrel publicly in a place of worship," said mrs. bull, turning pale. "she's gone into his seat," cried lucy jane in a shrill whisper. "and the children after her," added the other sister, incautiously aloud. there was now no doubt about the matter. the old man in his blue cloak stood for a few moments politely disputing the question of precedence with his handsome son-in-law. then the captain bowed and passed in, and the old man followed him. by the time that the service was ended everybody knew of the happy peacemaking, and was glad. one old friend after another came up with blessings and good wishes. this was a proper christmas, indeed, they said. there was a general rejoicing. but only the grandfather and his children knew that it was hatched from "the peace egg." a christmas mumming play. a christmas mumming play. introduction. since a little story of mine called "the peace egg" appeared in _aunt judy's magazine_, i have again and again been asked where the mumming play could be found which gave its name to my tale, and if real children could act it, as did the fancy children of my story. as it stands, this old christmas mumming play (which seems to have borrowed the name of an easter entertainment or pasque egg) is not fit for domestic performance; and though probably there are few nurseries in those parts of england where "mumming" and the sword-dance still linger, in which the children do not play some version of st. george's exploits, a little of the dialogue goes a long way, and the mummery (which must almost be seen to be imitated) is the chief matter. in fact, the mummery _is_ the chief matter--which is what makes the play so attractive to children, and, it may be added, so suitable for their performance. in its rudeness, its simplicity, its fancy dressing, the rapid action of the plot, and last, but not least, its _bludginess_--that quality which made the history of goliath so dear to the youngest of helen's babies!--it is adapted for nursery amusement, as the drama of punch and judy is, and for similar reasons. for some little time past i have purposed to try and blend the various versions of "peace egg" into one mummery for the nursery, with as little change of the old rhymes as might be. i have been again urged to do so this christmas, and though i have not been able to give so much time or research to it as i should have liked, i have thought it better to do it without further delay, even if somewhat imperfectly. to shuffle the characters and vary the text is nothing new in the history of these "mock plays," as they were sometimes called. they are probably of very ancient origin--"pagan, i regret to say," as mr. pecksniff observed in reference to the sirens--and go back to "the heathen custom of going about on the kalends of january in disguises, as wild beasts and cattle, the sexes changing apparel," (there is a relic of this last unseemly custom still in "the old tup" and "the old horse"; when these are performed by both girls and boys, the latter wear skirts and bonnets, the former hats and great-coats; this is also the case in scotland where the boys and girls go round at hogmanay.) in the th century the clergy introduced miracle plays and scripture histories to rival the performances of the strolling players, which had become very gross. they became as popular as beneficial, and london was famous for them. different places, and even trade-guilds and schools, had their differing "mysteries." secular plays continued, and the two seem occasionally to have got mixed. into one of the oldest of old plays, "st. george and the dragon," the crusaders and pilgrims introduced the eastern characters who still remain there. this is the foundation of "the peace egg." about the middle of the th century, plays, which, not quite religious, still witnessed to the effect of the religious plays in raising the standard of public taste, appeared under the name of "morals," or "moralities." christmas plays, masques, pageants, and the like were largely patronized by the tudor sovereigns, and the fashion set by the court was followed in the country. queen elizabeth was not only devoted to the drama, and herself performed, but she was very critical and exacting; and the high demand which she did so much to stimulate, was followed by such supply as was given by the surpassing dramatic genius of the elizabethan age of literature. later, ben jonson and inigo jones combined to produce the court masks, one of which,--the well-known "mask of christmas," had for chief characters, christmas and his children, misrule, carol, mince pie, gambol, post and pair, new year's gift, mumming, wassel, offering, and baby's cake. in the th century the christmas mummeries of the inns of court were conducted with great magnificence and at large cost. all such entertainments were severely suppressed during the commonwealth, at which time the words "welcome, or not welcome, i am come," were introduced into father christmas's part. at one time the jester of the piece (he is sometimes called the jester, and sometimes the fool, or the old fool) used to wear a calf's hide. robin goodfellow says, "i'll go put on my devilish robes--i mean my christmas calf's-skin suit--and then walk to the woods." "i'll put me on my great carnation nose, and wrap me in a rousing calf-skin suit, and come like some hobgoblin." and a character of the th century "clears the way" with-- "my name is captain calftail, calftail-- and on my back it is plain to be seen, although i am simple and wear a fool's cap, i am dearly beloved of a queen--" which looks as if titania had found her way into that mummery! "the hobby horse's" costume was a horse's hide, real or imitated. i have no copy of a christmas play in which the hobby horse appears. in the north of england, "the old horse" and "the old tup" are the respective heroes of their own peculiar mummeries, generally performed by a younger, or perhaps a rougher, set of lads than those who play the more elegant mysteries of st. george. the boy who acts "old tup" has a ram's head impaled upon a short pole, which he grasps and uses as a sort of wooden leg in front of him. he needs some extra support, his back being bent as if for leap-frog, and covered with an old rug (in days when "meat" was cheaper it was probably a hide). the hollow sound of his peg-leg upon the "flags" of the stone passages and kitchen floor, and the yearly test of courage supplied by the rude familiarities of his gruesome head as he charged and dispersed maids and children, amid shrieks and laughter, are probably familiar memories of all yorkshire, lancashire, and derbyshire childhoods. i do not know if the old horse and the old tup belong to other parts of the british isles. it is a rude and somewhat vulgar performance, especially if undertaken by older revellers, when the men wear skirts and bonnets, and the women don great-coats and hats--the fool, the doctor, and a darker character with a besom, are often of the party, but the knights of christendom and the eastern potentates take no share in these proceedings, which are oftenest and most inoffensively performed by little boys not yet promoted to be "mummers." it is, however, essential that one of them should have a good voice, true and tuneful enough to sing a long ballad, and lead the chorus. in the scale of contributions to the numerous itinerant christmas boxes of christmas week--such as the ringers, the waits, the brass band, the hand-bells, the mummers (peace egg), the superior mummers, who do more intricate sword-play (and in the north riding are called morris dancers), &c. &c., the old tup stands low down on the list. i never heard the rhymes of the old horse; they cannot be the same. these diversions are very strictly localized and handed on by word of mouth. of the best version of "peace egg" which i have seen performed, i have as yet quite vainly endeavoured to get any part transcribed. it is oral tradition. it is practised for some weeks beforehand, and the costumes, including wonderful head-dresses about the size of the plumed bonnet of a highlander in full-dress, are carefully preserved from year to year. these paste-board erections are covered with flowers, feathers, bugles, and coloured streamers. the dresses are of coloured calico, with ribbons everywhere; "points" to the breeches and hose, shoulder-knots and sashes. but, as a rough rule, it is one of the conveniences of mumming play, that the finery may be according to the taste and the resources of the company. the swords are of steel, and those i have seen are short. in some places i believe rapiers are used. i am very sorry to be unable to give proper directions for the sword-play, which is so pretty. i have only one version in which such directions are given. i have copied the "grand sword dance" in its proper place for the benefit of those who can interpret it. it is not easy to explain in writing even so much of it as i know. each combat consists of the same number of cuts, to the best of my remembrance, and the "shoulder cuts" (which look very like two persons sharpening two knives as close as possible to each other's nose!) are in double time, twice as quick as the others. the stage directions are as follows:-- a. and b. fight cut i ... ... crossing each other. (they change places, striking as they pass.) cut ... ... " " back. cut ... ... " " other. cut ... ... " " back. four shoulder cuts. a. loses his sword and falls. but i do not think the version from which this is an extract is at all an elaborate one. there ought to be a "triumph," with an archway of swords, in the style of sir roger de coverley. after the passing and repassing strokes, there is usually much more hand-to-hand fighting, then four shoulder cuts, and some are aimed high and some down among their ankles, in a way which would probably be quite clear to any one trained in broadsword exercise. the following christmas mumming play is compiled from five versions--the "peace egg," the "wassail cup," "alexander the great," "a mock play," and the "silverton mummer's play" (devon), which has been lent to me in manuscript. the mumming chorus, "and a mumming we will go," &c., is not in any one of these versions, but i never saw mumming without it. the silverton version is an extreme example of the continuous development of these unwritten dramas. generation after generation, the most incongruous characters have been added. in some cases this is a very striking testimony to the strength of rural sympathy with the great deeds and heroes of the time, as well as to native talent for dramatic composition. wellington and wolfe almost eclipsed st. george in some parts of england, and the sea heroes are naturally popular in devonshire. the death of nelson in the silverton play has fine dramatic touches. though he "has but one arm and a good one too," he essays to fight--whether tippo saib or st. george is not made clear. he falls, and st. george calls for the doctor in the usual words. the doctor ends his peculiar harangue with: "britons! our nelson is dead." to which a voice, which seems to play the part of greek chorus, responds--"but he is not with the dead, but in the arms of the living god!" then, enter collingwood-- "_collingwood_--here comes i, bold collingwood, who fought the french and boldly stood; and now the life of that bold briton's gone, i'll put the crown of victory on"-- with which--"he takes the crown off nelson's head and puts it on his own." i have, however, confined myself in "the peace egg" to those characters which have the warrant of considerable antiquity, and their number is not small. they can easily be reduced by cutting out one or two; or some of the minor characters could play more than one part, by making real exits and changing the dress, instead of the conventional exit into the background of the group. some of these minor characters are not the least charming. the fair sabra (who is often a mute) should be the youngest and prettiest little maid that can toddle through her part, and no old family brocade can be too gorgeous for her. the pretty page is another part for a "very little one," and his velvets and laces should become him. they contrast delightfully with dame dolly and little man jack, and might, if needful, be played by the same performers. i have cut out everything that could possibly offend, except the line--"take him and give him to the flies." it betrays an experience of asiatic battlefields so terribly real, that i was unwilling to abolish this unconscious witness to the influence of pilgrims and crusaders on the peace egg. it is easily omitted. i have dismissed the lord of flies, beelzebub, and (with some reluctance) "little devil doubt" and his besom. i had a mind to have retained him as "the demon of doubt," for he plays in far higher dramas. his besom also seems to come from the east, where a figure "sweeping everything out" with a broom is the first vision produced in the crystal or liquid in the palm of a medium by the magicians of egypt. those who wish to do so can admit him at the very end, after the sword dance, very black, and with a besom, a money-box, and the following doggrel: in come i, the demon of doubt, if you don't give me money i'll sweep you all out; money i want and money i crave, money i want and money i'll have. he is not a taking character--unless to the antiquary! i have substituted the last line for the less decorous original, "if you don't give me money, i'll sweep you all to the grave." it is perhaps only the antiquary who will detect the connection between the milk pail and the wassail cup in the fool's song. but it seems at one time to have been made of milk. in a play of the th century it is described as-- "wassayle, wassayle, out of the mylke payle; wassayle, wassayle, as white as my nayle," and selden calls it "a slabby stuff," which sounds as if it had got mixed up with frumenty. since the above went to press, i have received some extracts from the unwritten version of "peace egg" in the west riding of yorkshire to which i have alluded. they recall to me that the piece properly opens with a "mumming round," different to the one i have given, _that_ one belonging to the end. the first mumming song rehearses each character and his exploits. the hero of the verse which describes him singing (autobiographically!) his own doughty deeds in the third person. thus st. george begins; i give it in the vernacular. "the first to coom in is the champion bould, the champion bould is he, he never fought battle i' all his loife toim, but he made his bould enemy flee, flee, flee, he made his bould enemy flee." the beauty of this song is the precision with which each character enters and joins the slowly increasing circle. but that is its only merit. it is wretched doggrel, and would make the play far too tedious. i was, however, interested by this verse:-- the next to come in is the cat and calftail, the cat and calftail is he; he'll beg and he'll borrow, and he'll steal all he can, but he'll never pay back one penny, penny, he'll never pay back one penny. whether "cat and calftail" is a corruption of captain calftail or (more likely) captain calftail was evolved from a fool in calf's hide and cat's skins, it is hard to say. they are evidently one and the same shabby personage! the song which i have placed at the head of the peace egg play has other verses which also recite "the argument" of the piece, but not one is worth recording. a third song does not, i feel sure, belong to the classic versions, but to another "rude and vulgar" one, which i have not seen for some years, and which was played in a dialect dark, even to those who flattered themselves that they were to the manner born. in it st. george and the old fool wrangle, the o.f. accusing the patron saint of england of stealing clothes hung out to dry on the hedges. st. george, who has previously boasted-- i've travelled this world all round, and hope to do it again, i was once put out of my way by a hundred and forty men-- --indignantly denies the theft, and adds that, on the contrary, he has always sent home money to his old mother. to which the old fool contemptuously responds-- all the relations thou had were few, thou had an old granny i knew, she went a red-cabbage selling, as a many old people do. in either this, or another, rough version, the hero (presumably st. george) takes counsel with man jack on his love affairs. man jack is played by a small boy in a very tall beaver hat, and with his face blacked. "my man jack, what can the matter be? that i should luv this lady, and she will not luv me." st. george and man jack. no, nor nayther will she walk {with me {with thee. no, nor nayther will she talk {with me {with thee. but the true "peace egg," if _bludgy_, is essentially a heroic play, and i think the readers of _aunt judy's magazine_ will be content that i have omitted accretions which are not the less vulgar because they are old. in refining and welding the piece together, i have introduced thirty lines of my own, in various places. the rest is genuine. j. h. e. the peace egg. a christmas mumming play. _written expressly for all mummers, to commemorate the holy wars, and the happy festival of christmas._ dramatis personÃ�. st. george of england (_he must wear a rose_). st. andrew of scotland(_he must wear a thistle_). st. patrick of ireland(_he must wear the shamrock_). st. david of wales(_he must wear a leek_). saladin, a pagan giant of palestine(_a very tall grown-up actor would be effective_). the king of egypt(_in a turban and crown_). the prince of paradine, his son(_face blacked, and it is_ "tradition" _to play this part in weeds, as if he were hamlet_). the turkish knight(_eastern costume_). hector. the valiant slasher (_old yeomanry coat, &c., is effective_). the dragon(_a paste-board head, with horrid jaws, if possible. a tail, and paws with claws_). the fool(_motley: with a bauble long enough to put over his shoulder and be held by the one behind in the mumming circle_). old father christmas(_white beard, &c., and a staff_). the doctor(_wig, spectacles, hat and cane_). the little page(_pretty little boy in velvet, &c_.). little man jack(_big mask head, if convenient, short cloak and club_). princess sabra(_pretty little girl, gorgeously dressed, a crown_). dame dolly(_a large mask head, if possible, and a very amazing cap. dame dolly should bob curtseys and dance about_). no scenery is required. the actors, as a rule, all come in together. to "enter" means to stand forth, and "exit" that the actor retires into the background. but the following method will be found most effective. let fool enter alone, and the rest come in one by one when the fool begins to sing. they must march in to the music, and join the circle with regularity. each actor as he "brags," and gives his challenge, does so marching up and down, his drawn sword over his shoulder. all the characters take part in the "mumming round." the next to fair sabra might hold up her train, and if dame dolly had a gamp umbrella to put over _her_ shoulder, it would not detract from her comic charms. the trumpet calls for the four patron knights should be appropriate to each. if a trumpet is quite impossible, some one should play a national air as each champion enters. _enter_ fool. fool. good morrow, friends and neighbours dear, we are right glad to meet you here, christmas comes but once a year, but when it comes it brings good cheer, and when it's gone it's no longer near. may luck attend the milking-pail, yule logs and cakes in plenty be, may each blow of the thrashing-flail produce good frumenty. and let the wassail cup abound, whene'er the mummers' time comes round. _air, "le petit tambour._" _sings._ now all ye jolly mummers who mum in christmas time, come join with me in chorus, come join with me in rhyme. [_he has laid his bauble, over his shoulder, and it is taken by_ st. george, _who is followed by all the other actors, each laying his sword over his right shoulder and his left hand on the sword-point in front of him, and all marking time with their feet till the circle is complete, when they march round singing the chorus over and over again._] _chorus._ and a mumming we will go, will go, and a mumming we will go, with a bright cockade in all our hats, we'll go with a gallant show. [_disperse, and stand aside._] [_enter_ father christmas.] father christmas here comes i, old father christmas; welcome, or welcome not, i hope poor old father christmas will never be forgot! my head is white, my back is bent, my knees are weak, my strength is spent. eighteen hundred and eighty-three is a very great age for me. and if i'd been growing all these years what a monster i should be! now i have but a short time to stay, and if you don't believe what i say-- come in, dame dolly, and clear the way. [_enter_ dame dolly.] dame dolly. here comes i, little dame dolly, wearing smart caps in all my folly. if any gentleman takes my whim, i'll set my holiday cap at him. to laugh at my cap would be very rude; i wish you well, and i won't intrude. gentlemen now at the door do stand, they will walk in with drawn swords in hand, and if you don't believe what i say-- let one fool and four knights from the british isles come in and clear the way! [_enter_ fool_ and four christian knights._] fool[_shaking his bells at intervals_]. room, room, brave gallants, give us room to sport, for to this room we wish now to resort: resort, and to repeat to you our merry rhyme, for remember, good sirs, that this is christmas time. the time to make mince-pies doth now appear, so we are come to act our merriment in here. at the sounding of the trumpet, and beating of the drum, make room, brave gentlemen, and let our actors come. we are the merry actors that traverse the street, we are the merry actors that fight for our meat, we are the merry actors that show pleasant play. stand forth, st. george, thou champion, and clear the way. [_trumpet sounds for_ st. george.] [st. george _stands forth and walks up and down with sword on shoulder._] st. george. i am st. george, from good old england sprung, my famous name throughout the world hath rung, many bloody deeds and wonders have i shown, and made false tyrants tremble on their throne. i followed a fair lady to a giant's gate, confined in dungeon deep to meet her fate. then i resolved with true knight-errantry to burst the door, and set the captive free. far have i roamed, oft have i fought, and little do i rest; all my delight is to defend the right, and succour the opprest. and now i'll slay the dragon bold, my wonders to begin; a fell and fiery dragon he, but i will clip his wing. i'll clip his wings, he shall not fly, i'll rid the land of him, or else i'll die. [_enter_ the dragon, _with a sword over his shoulder._] dragon. who is it seeks the dragon's blood, and calls so angry and so loud? that english dog who looks so proud-- if i could catch him in my claw-- with my long teeth and horrid jaw, of such i'd break up half a score, to stay my appetite for more. marrow from his bones i'd squeeze, and suck his blood up by degrees. [st. george _and_ the dragon _fight_. the dragon_ is killed_. _exit_ dragon.] st. george. i am st. george, that worthy champion bold, and with my sword and spear i won three crowns of gold. i fought the fiery dragon and brought him to the slaughter, by which behaviour i won the favour of the king of egypt's daughter. thus i have gained fair sabra's hand, who long had won her heart. stand forth, egyptian princess, and boldly act thy part! [_enter_ the princess sabra.] sabra. i am the princess sabra, and it is my delight, my chiefest pride, to be the bride of this gallant christian knight. [st. george _kneels and kisses her hand_. fool _advances and holds up his hands over them._] fool. why here's a sight will do any honest man's heart good, to see the dragon-slayer thus subdued! [st. george _rises_. _exit_ sabra.] st. george. keep thy jests in thy pocket if thou would'st keep thy head on thy shoulders. i love a woman, and a woman loves me, and when i want a fool i'll send for thee. if there is any man but me who noxious beasts can tame, let him stand forth in this gracious company, and boldly tell his name. [st. george _stands aside_. _trumpet sounds for_ st. patrick.] [st. patrick _stands forth._] st. patrick. i am st. patrick from the bogs, this truth i fain would learn ye, i banished serpents, toads, and frogs, from beautiful hibernia. i flourished my shillelah and the reptiles all ran races, and they took their way into the sea, and they've never since shown their faces. [_enter_ the prince of paradine.] prince. i am black prince of paradine, born of high renown, soon will i fetch thy lofty courage down. cry grace, thou irish conqueror of toads and frogs, give me thy sword, or else i'll give thy carcase to the dogs. st. patrick. now, prince of paradine, where have you been? and what fine sights pray have you seen? dost think that no man of thy age dares such a black as thee engage? stand off, thou black morocco dog, or by my sword thou'lt die, i'll pierce thy body full of holes, and make thy buttons fly. [_they fight._ the prince of paradine _is slain._] st. patrick. now prince of paradine is dead, and all his joys entirely fled, take him and give him to the flies. that he may never more come near my eyes. [_enter_ king of egypt.] king. i am the king of egypt, as plainly doth appear; i am come to seek my son, my only son and heir. st. patrick. he's slain! that's the worst of it. king. who did him slay, who did him kill, and on the ground his precious blood did spill? st. patrick. i did him slay, i did him kill, and on the ground his precious blood did spill. please you, my liege, my honour to maintain, as i have done, so would i do again. king. cursed christian! what is this thou hast done? thou hast ruined me, slaying my only son. st. patrick. he gave me the challenge. why should i him deny? how low he lies who held himself so high! king. oh! hector! hector! help me with speed, for in my life i ne'er stood more in need. [_enter_ hector.] king. stand not there, hector, with sword in hand, but fight and kill at my command. hector. yes, yes, my liege, i will obey, and by my sword i hope to win the day. if that be he who doth stand there that slew my master's son and heir, though he be sprung from royal blood i'll make it run like ocean flood. [_they fight._ hector _is wounded._] i am a valiant hero, and hector is my name, many bloody battles have i fought, and always won the same, but from st. patrick i received this deadly wound. [_trumpet sounds for_ st. andrew.] hark, hark, i hear the silver trumpet sound, it summons me from off this bloody ground. down yonder is the way (_pointing_); farewell, farewell, i can no longer stay. [_exit_ hector.] [_enter_ st. andrew.] king. is there never a doctor to be found can cure my son of his deep and deadly wound? [_enter_ doctor.] doctor. yes, yes, there is a doctor to be found can cure your son of his deep and deadly wound. king. what's your fee? doctor. five pounds and a yule cake to thee. i have a little bottle of elacampane, it goes by the name of virtue and fame, that will make this worthy champion to rise and fight again. [_to_ prince.] here, sir, take a little of my flip-flop, pour it on thy tip-top. [_to audience, bowing._] ladies and gentlemen can have my advice gratis. [_exeunt_ king of egypt, prince of paradine, _and_ doctor.] [st. andrew _stands forth._] st. andrew. i am st. andrew from the north, men from that part are men of worth; to travel south we're nothing loth, and treat you fairly, by my troth. here comes a man looks ready for a fray. come in, come in, bold soldier, and bravely clear the way. [_enter_ slasher.] slasher. i am a valiant soldier, and slasher is my name, with sword and buckler by my side, i hope to win more fame; and for to fight with me i see thou art not able, so with my trusty broadsword i soon will thee disable. st. andrew. disable, disable? it lies not in thy power, for with a broader sword than thine i soon will thee devour. stand off, slasher, let no more be said, for if i draw my broadsword, i'm sure to break thy head. slasher. how canst thou break my head? since my head is made of iron; my body made of steel; my hands and feet of knuckle-bone. i challenge thee to feel. [_they fight, and_ slasher _is wounded._] [fool _advances to_ slasher.] fool. alas, alas, my chiefest son is slain! what must i do to raise him up again? here he lies before you all, i'll presently for a doctor call. a doctor! a doctor! i'll go and fetch a doctor. doctor. here am i. fool. are you the doctor? doctor. that thou may plainly see, by my art and activity. fool. what's your fee to cure this poor man? doctor. five pounds is my fee; but, jack, as thou art a fool, i'll only take ten from thee. fool. you'll be a clever doctor if you get any. [_aside._] well, how far have you travelled in doctorship? doctor. from the front door to the cupboard, cupboard to fireplace, fireplace up-stairs and into bed. fool. so far, and no farther? doctor. yes, yes, much farther. fool. how far? doctor. through england, ireland, scotland, flanders, france, and spain, and now am returned to cure the diseases of old england again. fool. what can you cure? doctor. all complaints within and without, from a cold in your head to a touch of the gout. if any lady's figure is awry i'll make her very fitting to pass by. i'll give a coward a heart if he be willing, will make him stand without fear of killing. ribs, legs, or arms, whate'er you break, be sure of one or all i'll make a perfect cure. nay, more than this by far, i will maintain, if you should lose your head or heart, i'll give it you again. then here's a doctor rare, who travels much at home, so take my pills, i'll cure all ills, past, present, or to come. i in my time many thousands have directed, and likewise have as many more dissected, and i never met a gravedigger who to me objected. if a man gets nineteen bees in his bonnet, i'll cast twenty of 'em out. i've got in my pocket crutches for lame ducks, spectacles for blind bumble-bees, pack-saddles and panniers for grasshoppers, and many other needful things. surely i can cure this poor man. here, slasher, take a little out of my bottle, and let it run down thy throttle; and if thou beest not quite slain, rise, man, and fight again. [slasher _rises._] slasher. oh, my back! fool. what's amiss with thy back? slasher. my back is wounded, and my heart is confounded; to be struck out of seven senses into fourscore, the like was never seen in old england before. [_trumpet sounds for_ st. david.] oh, hark! i hear the silver trumpet sound! it summons me from off this bloody ground. down yonder is the way (_points_); farewell, farewell, i can no longer stay. [_exit_ slasher.] fool. yes, slasher, thou hadst better go, else the next time he'll pierce thee through. [st. david _stands forth._] st. david. of taffy's land i'm patron saint. oh yes, indeed, i'll you acquaint, of ancient britons i've a race dare meet a foeman face to face. for welshmen (hear it once again;) were born before all other men. i'll fear no man in fight or freaks, whilst wales produces cheese and leeks. [_enter_ turkish knight.] turkish knight. here comes i, the turkish knight, come from the turkish land to fight. i'll take st. david for my foe, and make him yield before i go; he brags to such a high degree, he thinks there was never a knight but he. so draw thy sword, st. david, thou man of courage bold, if thy welsh blood is hot, soon will i fetch it cold. st. david. where is the turk that will before me stand? i'll cut him down with my courageous hand. turkish knight. draw out thy sword and slay, pull out thy purse and pay, for satisfaction i will have, before i go away. [_they fight_. the turkish knight _is wounded, and falls on one knee._] quarter! quarter! good christian, grace of thee i crave, oh, pardon me this night, and i will be thy slave. st. david. i keep no slaves, thou turkish knight. so rise thee up again, and try thy might. [_they fight again_. the turkish knight _is slain._] [_exit_ turkish knight.] [_enter_ st. george.] st. george. i am the chief of all these valiant knights, we'll spill our heart's blood for old england's rights. old england's honour we will still maintain, we'll fight for old england once and again. [_flourishes his sword above his head and then lays it over his right shoulder._] i challenge all my country's foes. st. patrick [_dealing with his sword in like manner, and then taking the point of_ st. george's _sword with his left hand_]. and i'll assist with mighty blows. st. andrew [_acting like the other_]. and you shall find me ready too. st. david [_the same_]. and who but i so well as you. fool [_imitates the knights, and they close the circle and go round_]. while we are joined in heart and hand, a gallant and courageous band, if e'er a foe dares look awry, we'll one and all poke out his eye. [_enter_ saladin.] saladin. don't vaunt thus, my courageous knights, for i, as you, have seen some sights in palestine, in days of yore. 'gainst prowess strong i bravely bore the sway, when all the world in arms shook holy land with war's alarms. i for the crescent, you the cross, each mighty host oft won and lost. i many a thousand men did slay, and ate two hundred twice a day, and now i come, a giant great, just waiting for another meat. st. george. oh! saladin! art thou come with sword in hand, against st. george and christendom so rashly to withstand? saladin. yes, yes, st. george, with thee i mean to fight, and with one blow, i'll let thee know i am not the turkish knight. st. george. ah, saladin, st. george is in this very room, thou'rt come this unlucky hour to seek thy fatal doom. [_enter_ little page.] little page. hold, hold, st. george, i pray thee stand by, i'll conquer him, or else i'll die; long with that pagan champion will i engage, although i am but the little page. st. george. fight on, my little page, and conquer! and don't thee be perplext, for if thou discourage in the field, fight him will i next. [_they fight._ the little page _falls._] saladin. though but a little man, they were great words he said. st. george. ah! cruel monster. what havoc hast thou made? see where the lovely stripling all on the floor is laid. a doctor! a doctor! ten pounds for a doctor! [dame dolly _dances forward, bobbing as before._] dame dolly. here comes i, little dame dorothy, flap front, and good-morrow to ye; my head is big, my body is small, i'm the prettiest little jade of you all. call not the doctor for to make him worse, but give the boy into my hand to nurse. [_to_ little page.] rise up, my pretty page, and come with me, and by kindness and kitchen physic, i'll cure thee without fee. [page _rises. exeunt_ page _and_ dame dolly.] [st. george _and_ saladin _fight_. saladin _is slain._] [_enter_ father christmas.] st. george. carry away the dead, father. father christmas. let's see whether he's dead or no, first, georgy. yes; i think he's dead enough, georgy. st. george. carry him away then, father. father christmas [_vainly tries to move the_ giant's _body_]. thou killed him; thou carry him away. st. george. if you can't carry him, call for help. father christmas [_to audience_]. three or four of you great logger-headed fellows, come and carry him away. [doctor _and_ fool _raise the_ giant _by his arms. exit_ giant.] [_enter_ little man jack.] little man jack. here comes i, little man jack, the master of giants; if i could but conquer thee, st. george, i'd bid the world defiance. st. george. and if thou beest little man jack, the master of all giants, i'll take thee up on my back, and carry thee without violence. [_lifts him over his shoulder._] fool. now brave st. george, he rules the roast; britons triumphant be the toast; let cheerful song and dance abound, whene'er the mummers' time comes round. [_all sing._] rule, britannia; britannia rules the waves, britons never, never, never will be slaves. grand sword dance. cut and cross. cut and cross partner (which is r. and l.). same back again. the two knights at opposite corners r. h. cut and cross, and cut with opposite knights. same back (which is ladies' chain). four sword-points up in the centre. all go round--all cut --and come to bridle-arm protect, and round to places. repeat the first figure. [_all go round, and then out, singing._] [illustration: musical score] _allegro_, and a mumming we will go, will go, and a mumming we will go, with a bright cock-ade in all our hats, we'll go with a gal-lant show. [_exeunt omnes._] god save the queen. hints for private theatricals. hints for private theatricals.--i. in a letter from burnt cork to rouge pot. my dear rouge pot,--you say that you all want to have "theatricals" these holidays, and beg me to give you some useful rules and hints to study before the christmas play comes out in the december number of _aunt judy_. i will do my best. but--to begin with--_do_ you "all" want them? at least, do you all want them enough to keep in the same mind for ten days or a fortnight, to take a good deal of trouble, whether it is pleasant or not, and to give up some time and some of your own way, in order that the theatricals may be successful? if you say yes, we will proceed at once to the first--and perhaps the most important--point, on which you will have to display two of an actor's greatest virtues--self-denial and good temper:-- the stage-manager. if your numbers are limited, you may have to choose the one who knows most about theatricals, and he or she may have to act a leading part as well. but by rights _the stage-manager ought not to act_; especially as in juvenile theatricals he will probably be prompter, property-man, and scene-shifter into the bargain. if your "company" consists of very young performers, an elder sister is probably the best stage-manager you could have. but _when once your stage-manager is chosen, all the actors must make up their minds to obey him implicitly_. they must take the parts he gives them, and about any point in dispute the stage-manager's decision must be final. it is quite likely that now and then he may be wrong. the leading gentleman may be more in the right, the leading lady may have another plan quite as good, or better; but as there would be "no end to it" if everybody's ideas had to be listened to and discussed, it is absolutely necessary that there should be one head, and one plan loyally supported by the rest. truism as it is, my dear rouge pot, i am bound to beg you never to forget that _everybody can't have everything_ in this world, and that _everybody can't be everything_ on the stage. what you (and i, and every other actor!) would really like, would be to choose the play, to act the best part, to wear the nicest dress, to pick the people you want to act with, to have the rehearsal on those days, and that part of the day, when you do not happen to want to go out, or do something else, to have the power of making all the others do as you tell them, without the bother of hearing any grumbles, and to be well clapped and complimented at the conclusion of the performance. but as this very leading part could only be played by one person at the expense of all the rest, private theatricals--like so many other affairs of this life--must for everybody concerned be a compromise of pains and pleasures, of making strict rules and large allowances, of giving and taking, bearing and forbearing, learning to find one's own happiness in seeing other people happy, aiming at perfection with all one's might, and making the best of imperfection in the end. at this point, i foresee that you will very naturally exclaim that you asked me for stage-directions, and that i am sending you a sermon. i am very sorry; but the truth really is, that as the best of plays and the cleverest of actors will not ensure success, if the actors quarrel about the parts, and are unwilling to suppress themselves for the common good, one is obliged to set out with a good stock of philosophy as well as of "properties." now, in case it should strike you as "unfair" that any one of your party should have so much of his own way as i have given to the stage-manager, you must let me say that no one has more need of philosophy than that all-powerful person. _the stage-manager will have his own way, but he will have nothing else._ he will certainly have "no peace" from the first cry of "let us have some private theatricals" till the day when the performance ceases to be discussed. if there are ten actors, it is quite possible that ten different plays will be warmly recommended to him, and that, whichever he selects, he will choose it against the gloomy forebodings of nine members of his company. nine actors will feel a natural disappointment at not having the best part, and as it is obviously impossible to fix rehearsals so as to be equally convenient for everybody, the stage-manager, whose duty it is to fix them, will be very fortunate if he suits the convenience of the majority. you will easily believe that it is his painful duty to insist upon regular attendance, and even to enforce it by fines or by expulsion from the part, if such stringent laws have been agreed to by the company beforehand. but at the end he will have to bear in mind that private theatricals are an amusement, not a business; that it is said to be a pity to "make a toil of a pleasure"; that "boys will be boys"; that "christmas comes but once a year," and holidays not much oftener--and in a general way to console himself for the absence of defaulters, with the proverbial philosophy of everyday life, and the more reliable panacea of resolute good temper. he must (without a thought of self) do his best to give the right parts to the right people, and he must try to combine a proper "cast" with pleasing everybody--so far as that impossible task is possible! he must not only be ready to meet his own difficulties with each separate actor, but he must be prepared to be confidant, if not umpire, in all the squabbles which the actors and actresses may have among themselves. if the performance is a great success, the actors will have the credit of it, and will probably be receiving compliments amongst the audience whilst the stage-manager is blowing out the guttering footlights, or showing the youngest performer how to get the paint off his cheeks, without taking the skin off into the bargain. and if the performance is a failure, nine of the performers will have nine separate sets of proofs that it was due to the stage-manager's unfortunate selection of the piece, or mistaken judgment as to the characters. he will, however, have the satisfaction (and when one has a head to plan and a heart in one's work, it _is_ a satisfaction) of carrying through the thing in his own way, and sooner or later, and here and there, he will find some people who know the difficulties of his position, and will give him ample credit and _kudos_ if he keeps his company in good humour, and carries out his plans without a breakdown. by this time, my dear rouge pot, you will see that the stage-manager, like all rulers, pays dearly for his power; but it is to be hoped that the difficulties inseparable from his office will not be wilfully increased by the actors. they are a touchy race at any time. amateur actors are said to have--one and all--a belief that each and every one can play any part of any kind. shakespeare found that some of them thought they could play _every_ part also! but besides this general error, each actor has his own peculiarities, which the stage-manager ought to acquaint himself with as soon as possible. it is a painful fact that there are some people who "come forward" readily, do not seem at all nervous, are willing to play anything, and are either well provided with anecdotes of previous successes, or quite amazingly ready for leading parts, though they "never tried acting," and are only "quite sure they shall like it"--but who, when the time comes, fail completely. i fear that there is absolutely nothing to be done with such actors, but to avoid them for the future. on the other hand, there are many people who are nervous and awkward at first, and even more or less so through every rehearsal, but who _do not fail at the pinch_. once fairly in their clothes, and pledged to their parts, they forget themselves in the sense of what they have undertaken, and their courage is stimulated by the crisis. their knees may shake, but their minds see no alternative but to do their best, and the best, with characters of this conscientious type, is seldom bad. it is quite true, also, that some actors are never at their best till they are dressed, and that some others can put off learning their parts till the last moment, and then "study" them at a push, and acquit themselves creditably in the play. _but these peculiarities are no excuse for neglecting rehearsals, or for not learning parts, or for rehearsing in a slovenly manner._ _actors should never forget that rehearsals are not only for the benefit of each actor individually, but also of all the characters of the piece as a whole._ a. and b. may be able to learn their parts in a day, and to act fairly under the inspiration of the moment, but if they neglect rehearsals on this account, they deal very selfishly by c. and d., who have not the same facility, and who rehearse at great disadvantage if the other parts are not properly represented too. and now a word or two to the actors of the small parts. it _is_ a disappointment to find yourself "cast" for a footman, with no more to do than to announce and usher in the principal personages of the piece, when you feel a strong (and perhaps well-grounded) conviction that you would have "made a hit" as the prince in blank verse and blue velvet. well! one must fall back on one's principles. be loyal to the stage-manager. help the piece through, whether it is or is not a pleasure and a triumph for you yourself. set an example of willingness and good-humour. if to these first principles you add the amiable quality of finding pleasure in the happiness of others, you will be partly consoled for not playing the prince yourself by sympathizing with jack's unfeigned pride in his part and his finery, and if jack has a heart under his velvet doublet, he will not forget your generosity. it may also be laid down as an axiom that _a good actor will take a pride in making the most of a small part_. there are many plays in which small parts have been raised to the rank of principal ones by the spirit put into them by a good actor, who "made" his part instead of grumbling at it. and the credit gained by a triumph of this kind is very often even beyond the actor's deserts. _from those who play the principal parts much is expected, and it is difficult to satisfy ones audience, but if any secondary character is made pathetic or amusing, the audience (having expected nothing) are willing to believe that if the actor can surprise them with a small part, he would take the house by storm with a big one._ i will conclude my letter with a few general rules for young actors. _say nothing whatever on the stage but your part._ this is a rule for rehearsals, and if it could be attended to, every rehearsal would have more than double its usual effect. people chatter from nervousness, explain or apologize for their mistakes, and waste quite three-fourths of the time in words which are not in the piece. _speak very slowly and very clearly._ all young actors speak too fast, and do not allow the audience time to digest each sentence. _speak louder than usual, but clearness of enunciation is even more important. do not be slovenly with the muscles of the lips, or talk from behind shut teeth._ _keep your face to the audience as a rule._ if two people talking together have to cross each other so as to change their places on the stage, _the one who has just spoken should cross before the one who is going to speak_. _learn to stand still._ as a rule, _do not speak when you are crossing the stage_, but cross first and then speak. _let the last speaker get his sentence well out before you begin yours._ if you are a comic actor, _don't run away with the piece by over-doing your fun. never spoil another actor's points by trying to make the audience laugh whilst he is speaking._ it is inexcusably bad stage-manners. if the audience applauds, _wait till the noise of the clapping is over to finish your speech_. _rehearse without your book in the last rehearsals_, so as to get into the way of hearing the prompter, and catching the word from him when your memory fails you. _practise your part before a looking-glass, and say it out aloud._ a part may be pat in your head, and very stiff on your tongue. the green-room is generally a scene of great confusion in private theatricals. besides getting everything belonging to your dress together _yourself_ and in _good time_, i advise you to have _a little hand-basket_, such as you may have used at the seaside or in the garden, and into this to put _pins_, _hair-pins_, _a burnt cork_, _needles and thread_, _a pair of scissors_, _a pencil_, _your part_, _and any small things you may require_. it is easy to drop them into the basket again. small things get mislaid under bigger ones when one is dressing in a hurry; and a hero who is flustered by his moustache having fallen under the washstand well out of sight is apt to forget his part when he has found the moustache. remember that _right and left in stage directions mean the right and left hand of the actor as he faces the audience_. i will not burden you with any further advice for yourself, and i will reserve a few hints as to rough and ready scenery, properties, &c., for another letter. meanwhile--whatever else you omit--get your parts well by rote; and if you cannot find or spare a stage-manager, you must find good-humour and common agreement in proportion; prompt by turns, and each look strictly after his own "properties." yours, &c., burnt cork. hints for private theatricals.--ii. my dear rouge pot,--i promised to say a few words about _rough and ready properties_. the most indispensable of all is _the curtain_, which can be made (at small expense) to roll up and come down in orthodox fashion. even better are two curtains, with the rings and strings so arranged that the curtains can be pulled apart or together by some one in the wings. any upholsterer will do this. a double drawing-room with folding doors is of course "made for theatricals." the difficulty of having only one exit from the stage--the door of the room--may be met by having a screen on the other side. but then _the actors who go out behind the screen, must be those who will not have to come in again till the curtain has been drawn_. if, however, the room, or part of a room, devoted to the stage is large enough for an amateur proscenium, with "wings" at the sides, and space behind the "scenes" to conceal the actors, and enable them to go round, of course there can be as many exits as are needed. a proscenium is quite a possibility. _the framework in which the curtain falls need not be an expensive or complicated concern._ two wooden uprights, firmly fastened to the floor by bolt and socket, each upright being four or five feet from the wall on either side; a cross-bar resting on the top, but the whole width of the room, to which (if it draws up) the curtain is to be nailed; a curtain, with a wooden pole in the hem at the bottom to steady it (like a window-blind); long, narrow, fixed curtains to fall from the cross-bar at each end where it projects beyond the uprights, so as to fill the space between each upright and the wall of the room, and hide the wings; some bright wall-paper border to fasten on to the uprights and cross-bar, as decoration;--these are not expensive matters, and the little carpentry needed could be done in a very short time by a village carpenter. and here, my dear rouge pot, i feel inclined to say a word to "parents and guardians." _i wish that a small annual outlay on little pleasures were oftener reckoned among legitimate expenses in middle-class british families._ but little pleasures and alms are apt to be left till they are asked for, and then grudged. though, if the annual expenses under these two heads were summed up at the end of the year, we should perhaps be more inclined to blush than to bewail our extravagances. as to little pleasures, i am not speaking of toys and books and presents, of which children have commonly six times as many now-a-days as they can learn to love; nor do i mean such pleasures as the month at the seaside, which i should be sorry to describe as a light matter for papa's purse. but i mean little pleasures of the children's own devising, for which some trifling help from the elders will make all the difference between failure and success. in short, my dear rouge pot, at the present moment i mean the children's theatricals; and papa himself will confess that, whereas two or three pounds, "up or down," in the seaside move, would hardly be considered, and fifteen shillings "more or less" in the price of a new dining-room fender would upset nobody's nerves in the household--if "the children" asked for a day's work of the village carpenter, and seven and sixpence worth of wood, to carry out a project of their own, it would be considered a great waste of money. however, it is only fair to add that the young people themselves will do wisely to establish a "theatrical fund" box, which will not open, and to put in a fixed percentage of everybody's pocket-money to accumulate for some genuine properties when the theatrical season begins. the question of _scenery_ of course must depend on the resources of the company. but _acting may be very successful without any at all_. it must never be forgotten that _those who look and listen can also imagine_, and unless tolerably good scenes can be had, it is almost better to content oneself with what served in the days of shakespeare--a written placard of what the scene is supposed to be. _shakespeare scenery_, as we may call it, will amuse people of itself, and a good piece and good actors will not suffer from its use. thus, if _the barmecide_ is being played, alnaschan and ina will be "discovered" standing in an empty room, at the back of which a placard will bear this inscription in large letters--a street in bagdad. it is possible, however, that your company may include some water-colour artist, who will try his or her hand at scene-painting in the barn. well: he will want canvas or unbleached calico, which must be covered completely with a "first wash" of whitening and size, mixed to a freely working consistency, and laid on with a white-wash brush. when dry, he must outline his scene on this in charcoal. the painting is then to be done in distemper--all the effects are put in by the first wash; lights and shadows in their full tone, &c. he will use powder paints, mix them with size (which must be kept warm on a fire), and add white for body-colour when he wants to lay one colour over another. i will add four hints. _for a small stage avoid scenes with extreme perspective. keep the general colouring rather sober, so as to harmonize with the actors' dresses. only broad effects will show. keep stepping back to judge your work from a distance._ in a wood, for instance, the distance may be largely blue and grey, and the foreground trees a good deal in warm browns and dull olive. _paint by candle-light when convenient._ _all the lights in your theatre must be protected by glasses. the footlights should have reflectors behind them_, or a board about eighteen inches high with block-tin nailed on it. failing this, a plain polished fender, in which candles or lamps can be placed, will serve. _there must also be sidelights_, or the footlights will cast shadows. _long strips of coloured glass, in frames, can lie flat in front of the stage when not in use, and be raised up when wanted, between the footlights and the stage--blue for moonlight, yellow for sunshine, rose-colour for sunset scenes and fairy effects._ a shade may be quickly thrown up between the footlights and the stage, _on the same principle, if darkness is required. for thunder, shake a thin sheet of iron behind the scenes. powdered resin or lycopodium thrown on to the flame of a candle from a quill_ is said to be effective as _lightning_. but any tricks with naked lights, in the confusion of private theatricals, are objectionable, and should never be used except by some grown-up person not among the actors. _for rain, shake parched peas in a box with irregular partitions. for a full moon, cut a round hole in your scene, cover it with some translucent material, and hold a lamp behind it_; the blue-glass shade must be up before the footlights. a similar hole, or, if low on the horizon, a half-moon-shaped one, with a crimson transparency, will do for a setting sun--then the rose-coloured glass will be required before the footlights. i have no further space just now, my dear rouge pot; but you may expect another letter from me on scenery screens, properties and costumes. yours, &c., burnt cork. hints for private theatricals.--iii. my dear rouge pot,--i promised to say something about _scenery screens_. if the house happens to boast a modern pseudo-japanese screen of a large size (say six feet high), it will make a very pretty background for a drawing-room scene, and admit of entrances as i suggested. but _screens with light grounds are also very valuable as reflectors_, carrying the light into the back of the stage. there is generally a want of light on the amateur stage, and all means to remedy this defect and brighten up matters are worth considering. _folding screens_ may be covered on both sides _with strips of lining wall-paper of delicate tints, pinned on with drawing-pins_. the paper can be left plain, or it may serve as the background on which to affix "shakespeare scenery." or again, your amateur painter will find an easier and more effective reward for such labour as he will not grudge to bestow in the holidays, if, instead of attempting the ambitious task of scene-painting on canvas, he adorns these scenery screens with japanese designs in water-colours. bold and not too crowded combinations of butterflies and flamingoes, tortoises, dragons, water-reeds, flowers and ferns. he need not hesitate to employ bessemer's gold and silver paints, with discretion, and the two sides of the screen can be done in different ways. the japanesque side would make a good drawing-room background, and some other scene (such as a wood) might be indicated on the other with a nearer approach to real scene-painting. _these screens light up beautifully, and are well adapted for drawing-room theatricals._ in the common event of your requiring a bit of a cottage with a practicable door to be visible, it will be seen that two folds of a screen, painted with bricks and windows, may be made to do duty in no ill fashion as the two sides of a house, and with a movable porch (a valuable stage property) the entrance can be contrived just out of sight. _the stage will be brightened up by laying down a "crumb cloth," or covering it with holland._ a drawing-room scene is made very pretty _by hanging up pairs of the summer white muslin curtains, looped with gay ribbons, as if there were windows in the sides of the stage_. if a fireplace is wanted and will do at the side, a mantelpiece is easily represented, and a banner screen will help to conceal the absence of a grate. a showy specimen of that dreadful thing, a paper grate-ornament, flowing well down into the fender, may sometimes hide deficiencies. the appearance of _hot coals in a practicable grate_ is given by _irregularly-shaped pieces of red glass, through which light is thrown from a candle behind_. a very important part of your preparations will be _the dresses_. now of dresses it may be said--as we have said of scenery--that if the actors are clever, very slight (if suggestive) accessories in the way of costume will suffice. at the same time, whilst the scenery can never be good enough in amateur theatricals to cover deficiencies in the performance, good costumes may be a most material help to the success of a piece. very little wit is demanded from the young gentleman who plays the part of a monkey, if his felt coat is well made, and his monkey-mask comical, and if he has acquired some dexterity in the management of his tail. i think, my dear rouge pot, that you were taken to see that splendid exhibition of stage properties, _babil and bijou_? do you remember the delightful effect of the tribe of oysters? the little boys who played the oysters had nothing to do but to hop and run, and keep their shells nicely in front of them, and yet how we laughed at them! now, in a large family, such parts as these afford an opportunity for allowing "the little ones" to "act," and so to become accustomed to the stage, before they can be trusted to learn written parts. nor are _comical costumes_ beyond the powers of home manufacturers. you know those men--sandwich-men as they are often called!--who go about the london streets with one board in front and one behind. these boards are of simple shape and only reach from the shoulder, to a little below the knee; they are only wanted to paste advertisements on. but if you think about it, you will see that to have the boards high enough to hide the head, and low enough to hide the legs, rounded at the top like a scallop shell, with the ribs of the shell nicely painted, eyeholes to peep through, and the hinge of the shell arranged to conceal the feet, would be no very great effort of skill. _sandwich costumes for the little ones_ might be of many effective shapes. thick paste-board would probably be strong enough for very little people, and in many cases a covered framework would be better still, and if you have a kite-maker in your troupe, you had better commit these costumes to his skill and ingenuity. a very simple device would be that of flower-pots painted red. they need come no higher than the chin, if a good thick bush is firmly held by the little hands behind, so as to conceal the face. but no doubt, my dear rouge pot, you will say, "if we have no plays with such characters in, we cannot have them, however desirable it may be to bring in the little ones." but i think you will find some of the elders ingenious enough to "tack them on" to your pieces if required, especially to those founded on fairy tales. _glazed calico_ is the amateur costume-maker's best friend. it is cheap, it is shiny, and it can be had in all the most effective colours. i have never seen a very good green; but the turquoise blue, the pink, and the yellow, are of those pretty dresden china shades which mr. marcus ward and other christmas-card makers use to such good purpose against gold backgrounds. many of these christmas cards, by the bye, with children dressed in ancient costumes painted by good artists, will give you and your sisters help in a tasteful combination of colours; and besides the gold and silver powder paints, which answer admirably, gold and silver paper can be had to cut stars and trimmings of various sorts from, to stitch or gum on to fairies' dresses, &c. tarlatan can now be had in hues that almost rival the colours of flowers, but i fear that only the white can be had "fire-proof." gauze wings, flowing hair, and tarlatan skirts, combined with the "flurry" of the performances, the confined space behind the scenes, and lights everywhere, form a dangerous combination which it makes one shudder to think of. the truth is, my dear rouge pot, it cannot be too often or too emphatically repeated that _naked lights on the stage or behind the scenes in amateur theatricals are as wrong as in a coal-mine_. glass shades for the bedroom candles--with which boy-brothers, seeing imperfectly through masks, will rush past little sisters whose newly-crimped hair and tarlatan skirts are sticking out, they can't feel how far behind them--cost a few shillings, _and the mental effort of resolving to have and use them_. depend upon it, rouge pot, the latter is the greater difficulty! and yet our petty economies in matters which affect our health, our daily comfort, or our lives, are wonderful, when the dangers or discomforts we have to avert may, _by chance_, be averted by good luck at no cost at all. so perhaps the few shillings have something to do with it. i hope they will always be expended on safety glasses for all lights in use on or about your stage. well, glazed calico and tarlatan are very effective, and so is cotton velvet or velveteen; but in every family there will probably be found a few articles of finery originally made of expensive materials, but which are now yielded to the juvenile property-box, and from experience i can assure you that these are valuable treasures. i have a tender remembrance of a few which were our _pièces de résistance_ when we "dressed up" either for charades or one of miss corner's plays--"in my young days." a black satin dress--ancient, but of such lustre and softness as satins are not made now; a real camel's-hair burnous, dyed crimson; a green satin driving cloak, lined with fur--these things did not crush and tumble during their long periods of repose in the property-box, as tarlatan skirts and calico doublets were apt to do. most valuable of all, a grey wig, worn right side foremost by our elderly gentlemen, and wrong side foremost (so as to bring the pig-tail curls over the forehead) by our elderly ladies. fur gloves, which, with a black rabbit-skin mask over her rosy cheeks, gave ferocity in the part of "the beast" to our jolliest little actress. a pair of claret-coloured stockings, silk throughout, and a pair of yellow leather slippers, embroidered with gold, doubtless bought long years back in some eastern bazaar, &c., &c. there came a date in our theatrical history when only one pair of feet could get right into these much-desired shoes, heels and all; and as the individual who owned them was also supposed to display the claret-coloured stockings to the best advantage, both these important properties, with the part of prince to which our custom assigned them, fell to an actor who could lay no other claim to pre-eminence. surely your home will provide one or two of these "stand-bys" of the green-room, and you will not fail to value them, i assure you. i hope you will not fight for them! _wigs are very important. unbleached calico is a very fair imitation of the skin of one's head._ a skull-cap made of it will do for a bald pate, or, with a black pig-tail and judicious face-painting, will turn any smooth-faced actor into a very passable chinaman. flowing locks of tow, stitched on round the lower part, will convert it into a patriarchal wig. _nigger wigs are made of curly black horsehair fastened on to a black skull-cap._ moustaches and whiskers can be bought at small expense, but if well painted the effect is nearly as good. as to _face-painting_. rouge is indispensable, but care must be taken not to overdo it. the eyebrows must be darkened with sepia or indian ink, and a camel's-hair brush--especially for fair people. with the same materials you must deepen all the lines of the face, if you want to make a young person look like an old one. the cheek lines on each side of the nose, furrows across the forehead, and crow's-foot marks by the eyes, are required for an old face; but if the audience are to be very close to the stage, you must be careful not to overdo your painting. violet powder is the simplest and least irritating white for the skin. rouge should be laid on with a hare's foot. if your "old man" is wearing a bald wig, be careful to colour his forehead to match as well as possible with his bald pate. all these applications are more or less irritating to one's skin. it is said to be a mistake to _wash_ them off. cold cream should be rubbed over the face, and then wiped off with a soft towel. as a parting hint, my dear rouge pot, when you have passed the stage of child-plays in rhyme--but do not be in a _hurry_ to discard such universal favourites as _dick whittington_, _beauty and the beast_, and _cinderella_--don't be too ambitious in your selection from "grown-up" plays. as a matter of experience, when _we_ got beyond miss corner we took to farces, and found them very successful. there are many which play well in young hands, and only require the omission of a few coarse expressions, which, being intended to raise a laugh among "roughs" in the gallery of a public theatre, need hardly be hurled at the ears of one's private friends. i am bound to say that competent critics have told me that farces were about the most difficult things we could have attempted. i can only say that we found them answer. partly, perhaps, because it requires a less high skill to raise a laugh than to move by passion or pathos. partly, too, because farces are short, and amateurs can make no greater mistake than to weary their audience. if you prefer "dress pieces" and dramas to farces or burlesque, let some competent person curtail the one you choose to a suitable length. the manager of juvenile theatricals should never forget the wisdom embodied in sam weller's definition of the art of letter-writing, that the writer should stop short at such a point as that the reader should "wish there wos more of it." yours, &c., burnt cork. snap-dragons. snap-dragons. a tale of christmas eve. mr. and mrs. skratdj. once upon a time there lived a certain family of the name of skratdj. (it has a russian or polish look, and yet they most certainly lived in england.) they were remarkable for the following peculiarity. they seldom seriously quarrelled, but they never agreed about anything. it is hard to say whether it were more painful for their friends to hear them constantly contradicting each other, or gratifying to discover that it "meant nothing," and was "only their way." it began with the father and mother. they were a worthy couple, and really attached to each other. but they had a habit of contradicting each other's statements, and opposing each other's opinions, which, though mutually understood and allowed for in private, was most trying to the bystanders in public. if one related an anecdote, the other would break in with half-a-dozen corrections of trivial details of no interest or importance to any one, the speakers included. for instance: suppose the two dining in a strange house, and mrs. skratdj seated by the host, and contributing to the small-talk of the dinner-table. thus:-- "oh yes. very changeable weather indeed. it looked quite promising yesterday morning in the town, but it began to rain at noon." "a quarter-past eleven, my dear," mr. skratdj's voice would be heard to say from several chairs down, in the corrective tones of a husband and a father; "and really, my dear, so far from being a promising morning, i must say it looked about as threatening as it well could. your memory is not always accurate in small matters, my love." but mrs. skratdj had not been a wife and a mother for fifteen years, to be snuffed out at one snap of the marital snuffers. as mr. skratdj leaned forward in his chair, she leaned forward in hers, and defended herself across the intervening couples. "why, my dear mr. skratdj, you said yourself the weather had not been so promising for a week." "what i said, my dear, pardon me, was that the barometer was higher than it had been for a week. but, as you might have observed if these details were in your line, my love, which they are not, the rise was extraordinarily rapid, and there is no surer sign of unsettled weather.--but mrs. skratdj is apt to forget these unimportant trifles," he added, with a comprehensive smile round the dinner-table; "her thoughts are very properly absorbed by the more important domestic questions of the nursery." "now i think that's rather unfair on mr. skratdj's part," mrs. skratdj would chirp, with a smile quite as affable and as general as her husband's. "i'm sure he's _quite_ as forgetful and inaccurate as _i_ am. and i don't think _my_ memory is at _all_ a bad one." "you forgot the dinner hour when we were going out to dine last week, nevertheless," said mr. skratdj. "and you couldn't help me when i asked you," was the sprightly retort. "and i'm sure it's not like you to forget anything about _dinner_, my dear." "the letter was addressed to you," said mr. skratdj. "i sent it to you by jemima," said mrs. skratdj. "i didn't read it," said mr. skratdj. "well, you burnt it," said mrs. skratdj; "and, as i always say, there's nothing more foolish than burning a letter of invitation before the day, for one is certain to forget." "i've no doubt you always do say it," mr. skratdj remarked, with a smile, "but i certainly never remember to have heard the observation from your lips, my love." "whose memory's in fault there?" asked mrs. skratdj triumphantly; and as at this point the ladies rose, mrs. skratdj had the last word. indeed, as may be gathered from this conversation, mrs. skratdj was quite able to defend herself. when she was yet a bride, and young and timid, she used to collapse when mr. skratdj contradicted her statements and set her stories straight in public. then she hardly ever opened her lips without disappearing under the domestic extinguisher. but in the course of fifteen years she had learned that mr. skratdj's bark was a great deal worse than his bite. (if, indeed, he had a bite at all.) thus snubs that made other people's ears tingle, had no effect whatever on the lady to whom they were addressed, for she knew exactly what they were worth, and had by this time become fairly adept at snapping in return. in the days when she succumbed she was occasionally unhappy, but now she and her husband understood each other, and having agreed to differ, they unfortunately agreed also to differ in public. indeed, it was the bystanders who had the worst of it on these occasions. to the worthy couple themselves the habit had become second nature, and in no way affected the friendly tenour of their domestic relations. they would interfere with each other's conversation, contradicting assertions, and disputing conclusions for a whole evening; and then, when all the world and his wife thought that these ceaseless sparks of bickering must blaze up into a flaming quarrel as soon as they were alone, they would bowl amicably home in a cab, criticizing the friends who were commenting upon them, and as little agreed about the events of the evening as about the details of any other events whatever. yes, the bystanders certainly had the worst of it. those who were near wished themselves anywhere else, especially when appealed to. those who were at a distance did not mind so much. a domestic squabble at a certain distance is interesting, like an engagement viewed from a point beyond the range of guns. in such a position one may some day be placed oneself! moreover, it gives a touch of excitement to a dull evening to be able to say _sotto voce_ to one's neighbour, "do listen! the skratdjs are at it again!" their unmarried friends thought a terrible abyss of tyranny and aggravation must lie beneath it all, and blessed their stars that they were still single, and able to tell a tale their own way. the married ones had more idea of how it really was, and wished in the name of common sense and good taste that skratdj and his wife would not make fools of themselves. so it went on, however; and so, i suppose, it goes on still, for not many bad habits are cured in middle age. on certain questions of comparative speaking their views were never identical. such as the temperature being hot or cold, things being light or dark, the apple-tarts being sweet or sour. so one day mr. skratdj came into the room, rubbing his hands, and planting himself at the fire with "bitterly cold it is to-day, to be sure." "why, my dear william," said mrs. skratdj, "i'm sure you must have got a cold; i feel a fire quite oppressive myself." "you were wishing you'd a seal-skin jacket yesterday, when it wasn't half as cold as it is to-day," said mr. skratdj. "my dear william! why, the children were shivering the whole day, and the wind was in the north." "due east, mrs. skratdj." "i know by the smoke," said mrs. skratdj, softly but decidedly. "i fancy i can tell an east wind when i feel it," said mr. skratdj, jocosely, to the company. "i told jemima to look at the weathercock," murmured mrs. skratdj. "i don't care a fig for jemima," said her husband. on another occasion mrs. skratdj and a lady friend were conversing. ... "we met him at the smiths'--a gentleman-like agreeable man, about forty," said mrs. skratdj, in reference to some matter interesting to both ladies. "not a day over thirty-five," said mr. skratdj, from behind his newspaper. "why, my dear william, his hair's grey," said mrs. skratdj. "plenty of men are grey at thirty," said mr. skratdj. "i knew a man who was grey at twenty-five." "well, forty or thirty-five, it doesn't much matter," said mrs. skratdj, about to resume her narration. "five years matter a good deal to most people at thirty-five," said mr. skratdj, as he walked towards the door. "they would make a remarkable difference to me, i know;" and with a jocular air mr. skratdj departed, and mrs. skratdj had the rest of the anecdote her own way. the little skratdjs. the spirit of contradiction finds a place in most nurseries, though to a varying degree in different ones. children snap and snarl by nature, like young puppies; and most of us can remember taking part in some such spirited dialogues as the following:-- {"i will." {"you daren't." {"you can't." {"i dare." {"you shall." {"i'll tell mamma." {"i won't." {"i don't care if you do." it is the part of wise parents to repress these squibs and crackers of juvenile contention, and to enforce that slowly-learned lesson, that in this world one must often "pass over" and "put up with" things in other people, being oneself by no means perfect. also that it is a kindness, and almost a duty, to let people think and say and do things in their own way occasionally. but even if mr. and mrs. skratdj had ever thought of teaching all this to their children, it must be confessed that the lesson would not have come with a good grace from either of them, since they snapped and snarled between themselves as much or more than their children in the nursery. the two eldest were the leaders in the nursery squabbles. between these, a boy and a girl, a ceaseless war of words was waged from morning to night. and as neither of them lacked ready wit, and both were in constant practice, the art of snapping was cultivated by them to the highest pitch. it began at breakfast, if not sooner. "you've taken my chair." "it's not your chair." "you know it's the one i like, and it was in my place." "how do you know it was in your place?" "never mind. i do know." "no, you don't." "yes, i do." "suppose i say it was in my place." "you can't, for it wasn't." "i can, if i like." "well, was it?" "i sha'n't tell you." "ah! that shows it wasn't." "no, it doesn't." "yes, it does." etc., etc., etc. the direction of their daily walks was a fruitful subject of difference of opinion. "let's go on the common to-day, nurse." "oh, don't let's go there; we're always going on the common." "i'm sure we're not. we've not been there for ever so long." "oh, what a story! we were there on wednesday. let's go down gipsey lane. we never go down gipsey lane." "why, we're always going down gipsey lane. and there's nothing to see there." "i don't care, i won't go on the common, and i shall go and get papa to say we're to go down gipsey lane. i can run faster than you." "that's very sneaking; but i don't care." "papa! papa! polly's called me a sneak." "no, i didn't, papa." "you did." "no, i didn't. i only said it was sneaking of you to say you'd run faster than me, and get papa to say we were to go down gipsey lane." "then you did call him sneaking," said mr. skratdj. "and you're a very naughty ill-mannered little girl. you're getting very troublesome, polly, and i shall have to send you to school, where you'll be kept in order. go where your brother wishes at once." for polly and her brother had reached an age when it was convenient, if possible, to throw the blame of all nursery differences on polly. in families where domestic discipline is rather fractious than firm, there comes a stage when the girls almost invariably go to the wall, because they will stand snubbing, and the boys will not. domestic authority, like some other powers, is apt to be magnified on the weaker class. but mr. skratdj would not always listen even to harry. "if you don't give it me back directly, i'll tell about your eating the two magnum-bonums in the kitchen garden on sunday," said master harry on one occasion. "tell-tale tit! your tongue shall be slit, and every dog in the town shall have a little bit," quoted his sister. "ah! you've called me a tell-tale. now i'll go and tell papa. you got into a fine scrape for calling me names the other day." "go, then! i don't care." "you wouldn't like me to go, i know." "you daren't. that's what it is." "i dare." "then why don't you?" "oh, i am going; but you'll see what will be the end of it." polly, however, had her own reasons for remaining stolid, and harry started. but when he reached the landing he paused. mr. skratdj had especially announced that morning that he did not wish to be disturbed, and though he was a favourite, harry had no desire to invade the dining-room at this crisis. so he returned to the nursery, and said with a magnanimous air, "i don't want to get you into a scrape, polly. if you'll beg my pardon i won't go." "i'm sure i sha'n't," said polly, who was equally well informed as to the position of affairs at head-quarters. "go, if you dare." "i won't if you want me not," said harry, discreetly waiving the question of apologies. "but i'd rather you went," said the obdurate polly. "you're always telling tales. go and tell now, if you're not afraid." so harry went. but at the bottom of the stairs he lingered again, and was meditating how to return with most credit to his dignity, when polly's face appeared through the banisters, and polly's sharp tongue goaded him on. "ah! i see you. you're stopping. you daren't go." "i dare," said harry; and at last he went. as he turned the handle of the door, mr. skratdj turned round. "please, papa--" harry began. "get away with you!" cried mr. skratdj, "didn't i tell you i was not to be disturbed this morning? what an extraor----" but harry had shut the door, and withdrawn precipitately. once outside, he returned to the nursery with dignified steps, and an air of apparent satisfaction, saying, "you're to give me the bricks, please." "who says so?" "why, who should say so? where have i been, pray?" "i don't know, and i don't care." "i've been to papa. there!" "did he say i was to give up the bricks?" "i've told you." "no, you've not." "i sha'n't tell you any more." "then i'll go to papa and ask." "go by all means." "i won't if you'll tell me truly." "i sha'n't tell you anything. go and ask, if you dare," said harry, only too glad to have the tables turned. polly's expedition met with the same fate, and she attempted to cover her retreat in a similar manner. "ah! you didn't tell." "i don't believe you asked papa." "don't you? very well!" "well, did you?" "never mind." etc., etc., etc. meanwhile mr. skratdj scolded mrs. skratdj for not keeping the children in better order. and mrs. skratdj said it was quite impossible to do so, when mr. skratdj spoilt harry as he did, and weakened her (mrs. skratdj's) authority by constant interference. difference of sex gave point to many of these nursery squabbles, as it so often does to domestic broils. "boys never will do what they're asked," polly would complain. "girls ask such unreasonable things," was harry's retort. "not half so unreasonable as the things you ask." "ah! that's a different thing! women have got to do what men tell them, whether it's reasonable or not." "no, they've not!" said polly. "at least, that's only husbands and wives." "all women are inferior animals," said harry. "try ordering mamma to do what you want, and see!" said polly. "men have got to give orders, and women have to obey," said harry, falling back on the general principle. "and when i get a wife, i'll take care i make her do what i tell her. but you'll have to obey your husband when you get one." "i won't have a husband, and then i can do as i like." "oh, won't you? you'll try to get one, i know. girls always want to be married." "i'm sure i don't know why," said polly; "they must have had enough of men if they have brothers." and so they went on, _ad infinitum_, with ceaseless arguments that proved nothing and convinced nobody, and a continual stream of contradiction that just fell short of downright quarrelling. indeed, there was a kind of snapping even less near to a dispute than in the cases just mentioned. the little skratdjs, like some other children, were under the unfortunate delusion that it sounds clever to hear little boys and girls snap each other up with smart sayings, and old and rather vulgar play upon words, such as: "i'll give you a christmas-box. which ear will you have it on?" "i won't stand it." "pray take a chair." "you shall have it to-morrow." "to-morrow never comes." and so if a visitor kindly began to talk to one of the children, another was sure to draw near and "take up" all the first child's answers, with smart comments, and catches that sounded as silly as they were tiresome and impertinent. and ill-mannered as this was, mr. and mrs. skratdj never put a stop to it. indeed, it was only a caricature of what they did themselves. but they often said, "we can't think how it is the children are always squabbling!" the skratdjs' dog and the hot-tempered gentleman. it is wonderful how the state of mind of a whole household is influenced by the heads of it. mr. skratdj was a very kind master, and mrs. skratdj was a very kind mistress, and yet their servants lived in a perpetual fever of irritability that just fell short of discontent. they jostled each other on the back stairs, said sharp things in the pantry, and kept up a perennial warfare on the subject of the duty of the sexes with the general man-servant. they gave warning on the slightest provocation. the very dog was infected by the snapping mania. he was not a brave dog, he was not a vicious dog, and no high-breeding sanctioned his pretensions to arrogance. but like his owners, he had contracted a bad habit, a trick, which made him the pest of all timid visitors, and indeed of all visitors whatsoever. the moment any one approached the house, on certain occasions when he was spoken to, and often in no traceable connection with any cause at all, snap the mongrel would rush out, and bark in his little sharp voice--"yap! yap! yap!" if the visitor made a stand, he would bound away sideways on his four little legs; but the moment the visitor went on his way again, snap was at his heels--"yap! yap! yap!" he barked at the milkman, the butcher's boy, and the baker, though he saw them every day. he never got used to the washerwoman, and she never got used to him. she said he "put her in mind of that there black dog in the _pilgrim's progress_." he sat at the gate in summer, and yapped at every vehicle and every pedestrian who ventured to pass on the high-road. he never but once had the chance of barking at burglars; and then, though he barked long and loud, nobody got up, for they said, "it's only snap's way." the skratdjs lost a silver teapot, a stilton cheese, and two electro christening mugs, on this occasion; and mr. and mrs. skratdj dispute who it was who discouraged reliance on snap's warning to the present day. one christmas time, a certain hot-tempered gentleman came to visit the skratdjs. a tall, sandy, energetic young man, who carried his own bag from the railway. the bag had been crammed rather than packed, after the wont of bachelors; and you could see where the heel of a boot distended the leather, and where the bottle of shaving-cream lay. as he came up to the house, out came snap as usual--"yap! yap! yap!" now the gentleman was very fond of dogs, and had borne this greeting some dozen of times from snap, who for his part knew the visitor quite as well as the washerwoman, and rather better than the butcher's boy. the gentleman had good, sensible, well-behaved dogs of his own, and was greatly disgusted with snap's conduct. nevertheless he spoke friendly to him; and snap, who had had many a bit from his plate, could not help stopping for a minute to lick his hand. but no sooner did the gentleman proceed on his way, than snap flew at his heels in the usual fashion-- "yap! yap! yap!" on which the gentleman--being hot-tempered, and one of those people with whom it is (as they say) a word and a blow, and the blow first--made a dash at snap, and snap taking to his heels, the gentleman flung his carpet-bag after him. the bottle of shaving-cream hit upon a stone and was smashed. the heel of the boot caught snap on the back, and sent him squealing to the kitchen. and he never barked at that gentleman again. if the gentleman disapproved of snap's conduct, he still less liked the continual snapping of the skratdj family themselves. he was an old friend of mr. and mrs. skratdj, however, and knew that they were really happy together, and that it was only a bad habit which made them constantly contradict each other. it was in allusion to their real affection for each other, and their perpetual disputing, that he called them the "snapping turtles." when the war of words waxed hottest at the dinner-table between his host and hostess, he would drive his hands through his shock of sandy hair, and say, with a comical glance out of his umber eyes, "don't flirt, my friends. it makes a bachelor feel awkward." and neither mr. nor mrs. skratdj could help laughing. with the little skratdjs his measures were more vigorous. he was very fond of children, and a good friend to them. he grudged no time or trouble to help them in their games and projects, but he would not tolerate their snapping up each other's words in his presence. he was much more truly kind than many visitors, who think it polite to smile at the sauciness and forwardness which ignorant vanity leads children so often to "show off" before strangers. these civil acquaintances only abuse both children and parents behind their backs, for the very bad habits which they help to encourage. the hot-tempered gentleman's treatment of his young friends was very different. one day he was talking to polly, and making some kind inquiries about her lessons, to which she was replying in a quiet and sensible fashion, when up came master harry, and began to display his wit by comments on the conversation, and by snapping at and contradicting his sister's remarks, to which she retorted; and the usual snap-dialogue went on as before. "then you like music," said the hot-tempered gentleman. "yes, i like it very much," said polly. "oh, do you?" harry broke in. "then what are you always crying over it for?" "i'm not always crying over it." "yes, you are." "no, i'm not. i only cry sometimes, when i stick fast." "your music must be very sticky, for you're always stuck fast." "hold your tongue!" said the hot-tempered gentleman. with what he imagined to be a very waggish air, harry put out his tongue, and held it with his finger and thumb. it was unfortunate that he had not time to draw it in again before the hot-tempered gentleman gave him a stinging box on the ear, which brought his teeth rather sharply together on the tip of his tongue, which was bitten in consequence. "it's no use _speaking_," said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair. * * * * * children are like dogs, they are very good judges of their real friends. harry did not like the hot-tempered gentleman a bit the less because he was obliged to respect and obey him; and all the children welcomed him boisterously when he arrived that christmas which we have spoken of in connection with his attack on snap. it was on the morning of christmas eve that the china punch-bowl was broken. mr. skratdj had a warm dispute with mrs. skratdj as to whether it had been kept in a safe place; after which both had a brisk encounter with the housemaid, who did not know how it happened; and she, flouncing down the back passage, kicked snap; who forthwith flew at the gardener as he was bringing in the horse-radish for the beef; who stepping backwards trode upon the cat; who spit and swore, and went up the pump with her tail as big as a fox's brush. to avoid this domestic scene, the hot-tempered gentleman withdrew to the breakfast-room and took up a newspaper. by and by, harry and polly came in, and they were soon snapping comfortably over their own affairs in a corner. the hot-tempered gentleman's umber eyes had been looking over the top of his newspaper at them for some time, before he called, "harry, my boy!" and harry came up to him. "show me your tongue, harry," said he. "what for?" said harry; "you're not a doctor." "do as i tell you," said the hot-tempered gentleman; and as harry saw his hand moving, he put his tongue out with all possible haste. the hot-tempered gentleman sighed. "ah!" he said, in depressed tones; "i thought so!--polly, come and let me look at yours." polly, who had crept up during this process, now put out hers. but the hot-tempered gentleman looked gloomier still, and shook his head. "what is it?" cried both the children. "what do you mean?" and they seized the tips of their tongues with their fingers, to feel for themselves. but the hot-tempered gentleman went slowly out of the room without answering; passing his hands through his hair, and saying, "ah! hum!" and nodding with an air of grave foreboding. just as he crossed the threshold, he turned back, and put his head into the room. "have you ever noticed that your tongues are growing pointed?" he asked. "no!" cried the children with alarm. "are they?" "if ever you find them becoming forked," said the gentleman in solemn tones, "let me know." with which he departed, gravely shaking his head. in the afternoon the children attacked him again. "_do_ tell us what's the matter with our tongues." "you were snapping and squabbling just as usual this morning," said the hot-tempered gentleman. "well, we forgot," said polly. "we don't mean anything, you know. but never mind that now, please. tell us about our tongues. what is going to happen to them?" "i'm very much afraid," said the hot-tempered gentleman, in solemn measured tones, "that you are both of you--fast--going--to--the--" "dogs?" suggested harry, who was learned in cant expressions. "dogs!" said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair. "bless your life, no! nothing half so pleasant! (that is, unless all dogs were like snap, which mercifully they are not.) no, my sad fear is, that you are both of you--rapidly--going--_to the snap-dragons_!" and not another word would the hot-tempered gentleman say on the subject. christmas eve. in the course of a few hours mr. and mrs. skratdj recovered their equanimity. the punch was brewed in a jug, and tasted quite as good as usual. the evening was very lively. there were a christmas tree, yule cakes, log, and candles, furmety, and snap-dragon after supper. when the company was tired of the tree, and had gained an appetite by the hard exercise of stretching to high branches, blowing out "dangerous" tapers, and cutting ribbon and pack-thread in all directions, supper came, with its welcome cakes and furmety and punch. and when furmety somewhat palled upon the taste (and it must be admitted to boast more sentiment than flavour as a christmas dish), the yule candles were blown out, and both the spirits and the palates of the party were stimulated by the mysterious and pungent pleasures of snap-dragon. then, as the hot-tempered gentleman warmed his coat-tails at the yule log, a grim smile stole over his features as he listened to the sounds in the room. in the darkness the blue flames leaped and danced, the raisins were snapped and snatched from hand to hand, scattering fragments of flame hither and thither. the children shouted as the fiery sweetmeats burnt away the mawkish taste of the furmety. mr. skratdj cried that they were spoiling the carpet; mrs. skratdj complained that he had spilled some brandy on her dress. mr. skratdj retorted that she should not wear dresses so susceptible of damage in the family circle. mrs. skratdj recalled an old speech of mr. skratdj's on the subject of wearing one's nice things for the benefit of one's family, and not reserving them for visitors. mr. skratdj remembered that mrs. skratdj's excuse for buying that particular dress when she did not need it, was her intention of keeping it for the next year. the children disputed as to the credit for courage and the amount of raisins due to each. snap barked furiously at the flames; and the maids hustled each other for good places in the doorway, and would not have allowed the man-servant to see at all, but he looked over their heads. "st! st! at it! at it!" chuckled the hot-tempered gentleman in undertones. and when he said this, it seemed as if the voices of mr. and mrs. skratdj rose higher in matrimonial repartee, and the children's squabbles became louder, and the dog yelped as if he were mad, and the maids' contest was sharper; whilst the snap-dragon flames leaped up and up, and blue fire flew about the room like foam. at last the raisins were finished, the flames were all but out, and the company withdrew to the drawing-room. only harry lingered. "come along, harry," said the hot-tempered gentleman. "wait a minute," said harry. "you had better come," said the gentleman. "why?" said harry. "there's nothing to stop for. the raisins are eaten, the brandy is burnt out--" "no, it's not," said harry. "well, almost. it would be better if it were quite out. now come. it's dangerous for a boy like you to be alone with the snap-dragons to-night." "fiddle-sticks!" said harry. "go your own way, then!" said the hot-tempered gentleman; and he bounced out of the room, and harry was left alone. dancing with the dragons. he crept up to the table, where one little pale blue flame flickered in the snap-dragon dish. "what a pity it should go out!" said harry. at this moment the brandy-bottle on the sideboard caught his eye. "just a little more," muttered harry to himself; and he uncorked the bottle, and poured a little brandy on to the flame. now of course, as soon as the brandy touched the fire, all the brandy in the bottle blazed up at once, and the bottle split to pieces; and it was very fortunate for harry that he did not get seriously hurt. a little of the hot brandy did get into his eyes, and made them smart, so that he had to shut them for a few seconds. but when he opened them again, what a sight he saw! all over the room the blue flames leaped and danced as they had leaped and danced in the soup-plate with the raisins. and harry saw that each successive flame was the fold in the long body of a bright blue dragon, which moved like the body of a snake. and the room was full of these dragons. in the face they were like the dragons one sees made of very old blue and white china; and they had forked tongues, like the tongues of serpents. they were most beautiful in colour, being sky-blue. lobsters who have just changed their coats are very handsome, but the violet and indigo of a lobster's coat is nothing to the brilliant sky-blue of a snap-dragon. how they leaped about! they were for ever leaping over each other like seals at play. but if it was "play" at all with them, it was of a very rough kind; for as they jumped, they snapped and barked at each other, and their barking was like that of the barking gnu in the zoological gardens; and from time to time they tore the hair out of each other's heads with their claws, and scattered it about the floor. and as it dropped it was like the flecks of flame people shake from their fingers when they are eating snap-dragon raisins. harry stood aghast. "what fun!" cried a voice close behind him; and he saw that one of the dragons was lying near, and not joining in the game. he had lost one of the forks of his tongue by accident, and could not bark for awhile. "i'm glad you think it funny," said harry; "i don't." "that's right. snap away!" sneered the dragon. "you're a perfect treasure. they'll take you in with them the third round." "not those creatures?" cried harry. "yes, those creatures. and if i hadn't lost my bark, i'd be the first to lead you off," said the dragon. "oh, the game will exactly suit you." "what is it, please?" harry asked. "you'd better not say 'please' to the others," said the dragon, "if you don't want to have all your hair pulled out. the game is this. you have always to be jumping over somebody else, and you must either talk or bark. if anybody speaks to you, you must snap in return. i need not explain what _snapping_ is. _you know._ if any one by accident gives a civil answer, a claw-full of hair is torn out of his head to stimulate his brain. nothing can be funnier." "i dare say it suits you capitally," said harry; "but i'm sure we shouldn't like it. i mean men and women and children. it wouldn't do for us at all." "wouldn't it?" said the dragon. "you don't know how many human beings dance with dragons on christmas eve. if we are kept going in a house till after midnight, we can pull people out of their beds, and take them to dance in vesuvius." "vesuvius!" cried harry. "yes, vesuvius. we come from italy originally, you know. our skins are the colour of the bay of naples. we live on dried grapes and ardent spirits. we have glorious fun in the mountain sometimes. oh! what snapping, and scratching, and tearing! delicious! there are times when the squabbling becomes too great, and mother mountain won't stand it, and spits us all out, and throws cinders after us. but this is only at times. we had a charming meeting last year. so many human beings, and how they _can_ snap! it was a choice party. so very select. we always have plenty of saucy children, and servants. husbands and wives too, and quite as many of the former as the latter, if not more. but besides these, we had two vestry-men; a country postman, who devoted his talents to insulting the public instead of to learning the postal regulations; three cabmen and two "fares"; two young shop-girls from a berlin wool shop in a town where there was no competition; four commercial travellers; six landladies; six old bailey lawyers; several widows from almshouses; seven single gentlemen and nine cats, who swore at everything; a dozen sulphur-coloured screaming cockatoos; a lot of street children from a town; a pack of mongrel curs from the colonies, who snapped at the human beings' heels; and five elderly ladies in their sunday bonnets with prayer-books, who had been fighting for good seats in church." "dear me!" said harry. "if you can find nothing sharper to say than 'dear me,'" said the dragon, "you will fare badly, i can tell you. why, i thought you'd a sharp tongue, but it's not forked yet, i see. here they are, however. off with you! and if you value your curls--snap!" and before harry could reply, the snap-dragons came in on their third round, and as they passed they swept harry along with them. he shuddered as he looked at his companions. they were as transparent as shrimps, but of a lovely cerulæan blue. and as they leaped they barked--"howf! howf!"--like barking gnus; and when they leaped harry had to leap with them. besides barking, they snapped and wrangled with each other; and in this harry must join also. "pleasant, isn't it?" said one of the blue dragons. "not at all," snapped harry. "that's your bad taste," snapped the blue dragon. "no, it's not!" snapped harry. "then it's pride and perverseness. you want your hair combing." "oh, please don't!" shrieked harry, forgetting himself. on which the dragon clawed a handful of hair out of his head, and harry screamed, and the blue dragons barked and danced. "that made your hair curl, didn't it?" asked another dragon, leaping over harry. "that's no business of yours," harry snapped, as well as he could for crying. "it's more my pleasure than business," retorted the dragon. "keep it to yourself, then," snapped harry. "i mean to share it with you, when i get hold of your hair," snapped the dragon. "wait till you get the chance," harry snapped, with desperate presence of mind. "do you know whom you're talking to?" roared the dragon; and he opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shot out his forked tongue in harry's face; and the boy was so frightened that he forgot to snap, and cried piteously, "oh, i beg your pardon, please don't!" on which the blue dragon clawed another handful of hair out of his head, and all the dragons barked as before. how long the dreadful game went on harry never exactly knew. well practised as he was in snapping in the nursery, he often failed to think of a retort, and paid for his unreadiness by the loss of his hair. oh, how foolish and wearisome all this rudeness and snapping now seemed to him! but on he had to go, wondering all the time how near it was to twelve o'clock, and whether the snap-dragons would stay till midnight and take him with them to vesuvius. at last, to his joy, it became evident that the brandy was coming to an end. the dragons moved slower, they could not leap so high, and at last one after another they began to go out. "oh, if they only all of them get away before twelve!" thought poor harry. at last there was only one. he and harry jumped about and snapped and barked, and harry was thinking with joy that he was the last, when the clock in the hall gave that whirring sound which some clocks do before they strike, as if it were clearing its throat. "oh, _please_ go!" screamed harry in despair. the blue dragon leaped up, and took such a claw-full of hair out of the boy's head, that it seemed as if part of the skin went too. but that leap was his last. he went out at once, vanishing before the first stroke of twelve. and harry was left on his face on the floor in the darkness. conclusion. when his friends found him there was blood on his forehead. harry thought it was where the dragon had clawed him, but they said it was a cut from a fragment of the broken brandy-bottle. the dragons had disappeared as completely as the brandy. harry was cured of snapping. he had had quite enough of it for a lifetime, and the catch-contradictions of the household now made him shudder. polly had not had the benefit of his experiences, and yet she improved also. in the first place, snapping, like other kinds of quarrelling, requires two parties to it, and harry would never be a party to snapping any more. and when he gave civil and kind answers to polly's smart speeches, she felt ashamed of herself, and did not repeat them. in the second place, she heard about the snap-dragons. harry told all about it to her and to the hot-tempered gentleman. "now do you think it's true?" polly asked the hot-tempered man. "hum! ha!" said he, driving his hands through his hair. "you know i warned you, you were going to the snap-dragons." * * * * * harry and polly snubbed "the little ones" when they snapped, and utterly discountenanced snapping in the nursery. the example and admonitions of elder children are a powerful instrument of nursery discipline, and before long there was not a "sharp tongue" amongst all the little skratdjs. but i doubt if the parents ever were cured. i don't know if they heard the story. besides, bad habits are not easily cured when one is old. i fear mr. and mrs. skratdj have yet got to dance with the dragons. old father christmas. old father christmas. an old-fashioned tale of the young days of a grumpy old godfather. chapter i. "can you fancy, young people," said godfather garbel, winking with his prominent eyes, and moving his feet backwards and forwards in his square shoes, so that you could hear the squeak-leather half a room off--"can you fancy my having been a very little boy, and having a godmother? but i had, and she sent me presents on my birthdays too. and young people did not get presents when i was a child as they get them now. _grumph_! we had not half so many toys as you have, but we kept them twice as long. i think we were fonder of them too, though they were neither so handsome nor so expensive as these new-fangled affairs you are always breaking about the house. _grumph_! "you see, middle-class folk were more saving then. my mother turned and dyed her dresses, and when she had done with them, the servant was very glad to have them; but, bless me! your mother's maids dress so much finer than their mistress, i do not think they would say 'thank you' for her best sunday silk. the bustle's the wrong shape. _grumph_! "what's that you are laughing at, little miss? it's _pannier_, is it? well, well, bustle or pannier, call it what you like; but only donkeys wore panniers in my young days, and many's the ride i've had in them. "now, as i say, my relations and friends thought twice before they pulled out five shillings in a toy-shop, but they didn't forget me, all the same. "on my eighth birthday my mother gave me a bright blue comforter of her own knitting. "my little sister gave me a ball. my mother had cut out the divisions from various bits in the rag-bag, and my sister had done some of the seaming. it was stuffed with bran, and had a cork inside which had broken from old age, and would no longer fit the pickle-jar it belonged to. this made the ball bound when we played 'prisoner's base.' "my father gave me the broken driving-whip that had lost the lash, and an old pair of his gloves, to play coachman with; these i had long wished for, since next to sailing in a ship, in my ideas, came the honour and glory of driving a coach. "my whole soul, i must tell you, was set upon being a sailor. in those days i had rather put to sea once on farmer fodder's duck-pond than ride twice atop of his hay-waggon; and between the smell of hay and the softness of it, and the height you are up above other folk, and the danger of tumbling off if you don't look out--for hay is elastic as well as soft--you don't easily beat a ride on a hay-waggon for pleasure. but as i say, i'd rather put to sea on the duck-pond, though the best craft i could borrow was the pigstye-door, and a pole to punt with, and the village boys jeering when i got aground, which was most of the time--besides the duck-pond never having a wave on it worth the name, punt as you would, and so shallow you could not have got drowned in it to save your life. "you're laughing now, little master, are you? but let me tell you that drowning's the death for a sailor, whatever you may think. so i've always maintained, and have given every navigable sea in the known world a chance, though here i am after all, laid up in arm-chairs and feather-beds, to wait for bronchitis or some other slow poison. _grumph_! "well, we must all go as we're called, sailors or landsmen, and as i was saying, if i was never to sail a ship, i would have liked to drive a coach. a mail coach, serving his majesty (her majesty now, god bless her!), carrying the royal arms, and bound to go, rough weather and fair. many's the time i've done it (in play you understand) with that whip and those gloves. dear! dear! the pains i took to teach my sister patty to be a highwayman, and jump out on me from the drying-ground hedge in the dusk with a 'stand and deliver!' which she couldn't get out of her throat for fright, and wouldn't jump hard enough for fear of hurting me. "the whip and the gloves gave me joy, i can tell you; but there was more to come. "kitty the servant gave me a shell that she had had by her for years. how i had coveted that shell! it had this remarkable property: when you put it to your ear, you could hear the roaring of the sea. i had never seen the sea, but kitty was born in a fisherman's cottage, and many an hour have i sat by the kitchen fire whilst she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean, and ever and anon she would snatch the shell from the mantelpiece and clap it to my ear, crying, 'there, child, you couldn't hear it plainer than that. it's the very moral!' "when kitty gave me that shell for my very own, i felt that life had little more to offer. i held it to every ear in the house, including the cat's; and, seeing dick the sexton's son go by with an armful of straw to stuff guy fawkes, i ran out, and in my anxiety to make him share the treat, and learn what the sea is like, i clapped the shell to his ear so smartly and unexpectedly, that he, thinking me to have struck him, knocked me down then and there with his bundle of straw. when he understood the rights of the case, he begged my pardon handsomely, and gave me two whole treacle-sticks and part of a third out of his breeches-pocket, in return for which i forgave him freely, and promised to let him hear the sea roar on every saturday half-holiday till farther notice. "and speaking of dick and the straw reminds me that my birthday falls on the fifth of november. from this it came about that i always had to bear a good many jokes about being burnt as a guy fawkes; but, on the other hand, i was allowed to make a small bonfire of my own, and to have eight potatoes to roast therein, and eight-pennyworth of crackers to let off in the evening. a potato and a pennyworth of crackers for every year of my life. "on this eighth birthday, having got all the above-named gifts, i cried, in the fulness of my heart, 'there never was such a day!' and yet there was more to come, for the evening coach brought me a parcel, and the parcel was my godmother's picture-book. "my godmother was a gentlewoman of small means; but she was accomplished. she could make very spirited sketches, and knew how to colour them after they were outlined and shaded in indian ink. she had a pleasant talent for versifying. she was very industrious. i have it from her own lips that she copied the figures in my picture-book from prints in several different houses at which she visited. they were fancy portraits of characters, most of which were familiar to my mind. there were guy fawkes, punch, his then majesty the king, bogy, the man in the moon, the clerk of the weather office, a dunce, and old father christmas. beneath each sketch was a stanza of my godmother's own composing. "my godmother was very ingenious. she had been mainly guided in her choice of these characters by the prints she happened to meet with, as she did not trust herself to design a figure. but if she could not get exactly what she wanted, she had a clever knack of tracing the outline of an attitude from some engraving, and altering the figure to suit her purpose in the finished sketch. she was the soul of truthfulness, and the notes she added to the index of contents in my picture-book spoke at once for her honesty in avowing obligations, and her ingenuity in availing herself of opportunities. "they ran thus:-- no. .--guy fawkes. outlined from a figure of a warehouseman rolling a sherry flask into mr. rudd's wine-vaults. i added the hat, cloak, and boots in the finished drawing. no. .--punch. i sketched him from the life. no. .--his most gracious majesty the king. on a quart jug bought in cheapside. no. .--bogy, _with bad boys in the bag on his back_. outlined from christian bending under his burden, in my mother's old copy of the _pilgrim's progress_. the face from giant despair. no. and no. .--the man in the moon, and the clerk of the weather office. from a book of caricatures belonging to dr. james. no. .--a dunce. from a steel engraving framed in rosewood that hangs in my uncle wilkinson's parlour. no. .--old father christmas. from a german book at lady littleham's. chapter ii. "my sister patty was six years old. we loved each other dearly. the picture-book was almost as much hers as mine. we sat so long together on one big footstool by the fire, with our arms round each other, and the book resting on our knees, that kitty called down blessings on my godmother's head for having sent a volume that kept us both so long out of mischief. "'if books was allus as useful as that, they'd do for me,' said she; and though this speech did not mean much, it was a great deal for kitty to say; since, not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought that 'little enough good comes of larning.' "patty and i had our favourites amongst the pictures. bogy, now, was a character one did not care to think about too near bed-time. i was tired of guy fawkes, and thought he looked more natural made of straw, as dick did him. the dunce was a little too personal; but old father christmas took our hearts by storm; we had never seen anything like him, though now-a-days you may get a plaster figure of him in any toy-shop at christmas-time, with hair and beard like cotton-wool, and a christmas-tree in his hand. "the custom of christmas-trees came from germany. i can remember when they were first introduced into england, and what wonderful things we thought them. now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars openly discuss whether the presents have been 'good' or 'mean,' as compared with other trees of former years. "the first one that i ever saw i believed to have come from good father christmas himself; but little boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement. they are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill--which i feel to this day--when the folding-doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of tapers, mamma, like a fate, advances with her scissors to give every one what falls to his lot. "well, young people, when i was eight years old i had not seen a christmas-tree, and the first picture of one i ever saw was the picture of that held by old father christmas in my godmother's picture-book. "'what are those things on the tree?' i asked. "'candles,' said my father. "'no, father, not the candles; the other things?' "'those are toys, my son.' "'are they ever taken off?' "'yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand round the tree.' "patty and i grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice murmured, 'how kind of old father christmas!' "by and by i asked, 'how old is father christmas?' "my father laughed, and said, 'one thousand eight hundred and thirty years, child,' which was then the year of our lord, and thus one thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great christmas day. "'he _looks_ very old,' whispered patty. "and i, who was, for my age, what kitty called 'bible-learned,' said thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, 'then he's older than methuselah.' "but my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty. "november and december went by, and still the picture-book kept all its charm for patty and me; and we pondered on and loved old father christmas as children can love and realize a fancy friend. to those who remember the fancies of their childhood i need say no more. "christmas week came, christmas eve came. my father and mother were mysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlour (we had only one parlour), and patty and i were not allowed to go in. we went into the kitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us. kitty was 'all over the place,' as she phrased it, and cakes, mince-pies, and puddings were with her. as she justly observed, 'there was no place there for children and book; to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be at the oven all along. the cat was enough for _her_ temper,' she added. "as to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out into the christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps, and a stupidity that was, i think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to fly at intervals, like a football, before kitty's hasty slipper. "we had more sense, or less courage. we bowed to kitty's behests, and went to the back door. "patty and i were hardy children, and accustomed to 'run out' in all weathers, without much extra wrapping up. we put kitty's shawl over our two heads, and went outside. i rather hoped to see something of dick, for it was holiday time; but no dick passed. he was busy helping his father to bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold sprigs of holly for the morrow--that was the idea of church decoration in my young days. you have improved on your elders there, young people, and i am candid enough to allow it. still, the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into life and leaf again for very christmas joy! "and, if one only knelt carefully, they did not scratch his nose," added godfather garbel, chuckling and rubbing his own, which was large and rather red. "well," he continued, "dick was busy, and not to be seen. we ran across the little yard and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or anybody. from this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping prettily away to a little hill about three-quarters of a mile distant; which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be a place of cure for whooping-cough, or 'kinkcough,' as it was vulgarly called. up to the top of this kitty had dragged me, and carried patty, when we were recovering from the complaint, as i well remember. it was the only 'change of air' we could afford, and i dare say it did as well as if we had gone into badly-drained lodgings at the seaside. "this hill was now covered with snow, and stood off against the grey sky. the white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk. the only gay things to be seen were the red berries on the holly hedge, in the little lane--which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the hall--and a fat robin redbreast who was staring at me. i was watching the robin, when patty, who had been peering out of her corner of kitty's shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and cried, "'look!' chapter iii. "i looked. an old man was coming along the lane. his hair and beard were as white as cotton-wool. he had a face like the sort of apple that keeps well in winter; his coat was old and brown. there was snow about him in patches, and he carried a small fir-tree. "the same conviction seized upon us both. with one breath we exclaimed, '_it's old father christmas!_' "i know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did not happen to be acquainted, and that he was taking a little fir-tree up to the hall, to be made into a christmas-tree. he was a very good-humoured old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by smiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, 'aye, aye, _to_ be sure!' at likely intervals. "as he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so affably, that i was bold enough to cry, 'good-evening, father christmas!' "'same to you!' said he, in a high-pitched voice. "'then you _are_ father christmas?' said patty. "'and a happy new year,' was father christmas's reply, which rather put me out. but he smiled in such a satisfactory manner, that patty went on, 'you're very old, aren't you?' "'so i be, miss, so i be,' said father christmas, nodding. "'father says you're eighteen hundred and thirty years old,' i muttered. "'aye, aye, to be sure,' said father christmas, 'i'm a long age.' "a _very_ long age, thought i, and i added, 'you're nearly twice as old as methuselah, you know,' thinking that this might not have struck him. "'aye, aye,' said father christmas; but he did not seem to think anything of it. after a pause he held up the tree, and cried, 'd'ye know what this is, little miss?' "'a christmas-tree,' said patty. "and the old man smiled and nodded. "i leant over the wall, and shouted, 'but there are no candles.' "'by and by,' said father christmas, nodding as before. 'when it's dark they'll all be lighted up. that'll be a fine sight!' "'toys too, there'll be, won't there?' screamed patty. "father christmas nodded his head. 'and sweeties,' he added, expressively. "i could feel patty trembling, and my own heart beat fast. the thought which agitated us both, was this--'was father christmas bringing the tree to us?' but very anxiety, and some modesty also, kept us from asking outright. "only when the old man shouldered his tree, and prepared to move on, i cried in despair, 'oh, are you going?' "'i'm coming back by and by,' said he. "'how soon?' cried patty. "'about four o'clock,' said the old man, smiling. 'i'm only going up yonder.' "and, nodding, and smiling as he went, he passed away down the lane. "'up yonder.' this puzzled us. father christmas had pointed, but so indefinitely, that he might have been pointing to the sky, or the fields, or the little wood at the end of the squire's grounds. i thought the latter, and suggested to patty that perhaps he had some place underground, like aladdin's cave, where he got the candles, and all the pretty things for the tree. this idea pleased us both, and we amused ourselves by wondering what old father christmas would choose for us from his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his christmas-trees. "'i wonder, patty,' said i, 'why there's no picture of father christmas's dog in the book.' for at the old man's heels in the lane there crept a little brown and white spaniel, looking very dirty in the snow. "'perhaps it's a new dog that he's got to take care of his cave,' said patty. "when we went indoors we examined the picture afresh by the dim light from the passage window, but found no dog there. "my father passed us at this moment, and patted my head. 'father,' said i, 'i don't know, but i do think old father christmas is going to bring us a christmas-tree to-night.' "'who's been telling you that?' said my father. but he passed on before i could explain that we had seen father christmas himself, and had had his word for it that he would return at four o'clock, and that the candles on his tree would be lighted as soon as it was dark. "we hovered on the outskirts of the rooms till four o'clock came. we sat on the stairs and watched the big clock, which i was just learning to read; and patty made herself giddy with constantly looking up and counting the four strokes, towards which the hour hand slowly moved. we put our noses into the kitchen now and then, to smell the cakes and get warm, and anon we hung about the parlour door, and were most unjustly accused of trying to peep. what did we care what our mother was doing in the parlour?--we who had seen old father christmas himself, and were expecting him back again every moment! "at last the church clock struck. the sounds boomed heavily through the frost, and patty thought there were four of them. then, after due choking and whirring, our own clock struck, and we counted the strokes quite clearly--one! two! three! four! then we got kitty's shawl once more, and stole out into the back-yard. we ran to our old place, and peeped, but could see nothing. "'we'd better get up on to the wall,' i said; and with some difficulty and distress from rubbing her bare knees against the cold stones, and getting the snow up her sleeves, patty got on the coping of the little wall. i was just struggling after her, when something warm and something cold coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs, made me shriek with fright. i came down 'with a run,' and bruised my knees, my elbows, and my chin; and the snow that hadn't gone up patty's sleeves, went down my neck. then i found that the cold thing was a dog's nose, and the warm thing was his tongue; and patty cried from her post of observation, 'it's father christmas's dog, and he's licking your legs.' "it really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel; and he persisted in licking me, and jumping on me, and making curious little noises, that must have meant something if one had known his language. i was rather harassed at the moment. my legs were sore, i was a little afraid of the dog, and patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall without me. "'you won't fall,' i said to her. 'get down, will you!' i said to the dog. "'humpty dumpty fell off a wall,' said patty. "'bow! wow!' said the dog. "i pulled patty down, and the dog tried to pull me down; but when my little sister was on her feet, to my relief, he transferred his attentions to her. when he had jumped at her, and licked her several times, he turned round and ran away. "'he's gone,' said i; 'i'm so glad.' "but even as i spoke he was back again, crouching at patty's feet, and glaring at her with eyes the colour of his ears. "now patty was very fond of animals, and when the dog looked at her she looked at the dog, and then she said to me, 'he wants us to go with him.' "on which (as if he understood our language, though we were ignorant of his) the spaniel sprang away, and went off as hard as he could; and patty and i went after him, a dim hope crossing my mind--'perhaps father christmas has sent him for us.' "this idea was rather favoured by the fact that the dog led us up the lane. only a little way; then he stopped by something lying in the ditch--and once more we cried in the same breath, 'it's old father christmas!'" chapter iv. "returning from the hall, the old man had slipped upon a bit of ice, and lay stunned in the snow. "patty began to cry. 'i think he's dead,' she sobbed. "'he is so very old, i don't wonder,' i murmured; 'but perhaps he's not. i'll fetch father.' "my father and kitty were soon on the spot. kitty was as strong as a man; and they carried father christmas between them into the kitchen. there he quickly revived. "i must do kitty the justice to say that she did not utter a word of complaint at this disturbance of her labours; and that she drew the old man's chair close up to the oven with her own hand. she was so much affected by the behaviour of his dog, that she admitted him even to the hearth; on which puss, being acute enough to see how matters stood, lay down with her back so close to the spaniel's that kitty could not expel one without kicking both. "for our parts, we felt sadly anxious about the tree; otherwise we could have wished for no better treat than to sit at kitty's round table taking tea with father christmas. our usual fare of thick bread and treacle was to-night exchanged for a delicious variety of cakes, which were none the worse to us for being 'tasters and wasters'--that is, little bits of dough, or shortbread, put in to try the state of the oven, and certain cakes that had got broken or burnt in the baking. "well, there we sat, helping old father christmas to tea and cake, and wondering in our hearts what could have become of the tree. but you see, young people, when i was a child, parents were stricter than they are now. even before kitty died (and she has been dead many a long year) there was a change, and she said that 'children got to think anything became them.' i think we were taught more honest shame about certain things than i often see in little boys and girls now. we were ashamed of boasting, or being greedy, or selfish; we were ashamed of asking for anything that was not offered to us, and of interrupting grown-up people, or talking about ourselves. why, papas and mammas now-a-days seem quite proud to let their friends see how bold and greedy and talkative their children can be! a lady said to me the other day, 'you wouldn't believe, mr. garbel, how forward dear little harry is for his age. he has his word in everything, and is not a bit shy! and his papa never comes home from town but harry runs to ask him if he's brought him a present. papa says he'll be the ruin of him!' "'madam,' said i, 'even without your word for it, i am quite aware that your child is forward. he is forward and greedy and intrusive, as you justly point out, and i wish you joy of him when those qualities are fully developed. i think his father's fears are well founded.' "but, bless me! now-a-days it's 'come and tell mr. smith what a fine boy you are, and how many houses you can build with your bricks,' or, 'the dear child wants everything he sees,' or 'little pet never lets mamma alone for a minute; does she, love?' but in my young days it was, 'self-praise is no recommendation' (as kitty used to tell me), or, 'you're knocking too hard at no. one' (as my father said when we talked about ourselves), or, 'little boys should be seen but not heard' (as a rule of conduct 'in company'), or, 'don't ask for what you want, but take what's given you and be thankful.' "and so you see, young people, patty and i felt a delicacy in asking old father christmas about the tree. it was not till we had had tea three times round, with tasters and wasters to match, that patty said very gently, 'it's quite dark now.' and then she heaved a deep sigh. "burning anxiety overcame me. i leant towards father christmas, and shouted--i had found out that it was needful to shout-- "'i suppose the candles are on the tree now?' "'just about putting of 'em on,' said father christmas. "'and the presents, too?' said patty. "'aye, aye, _to_ be sure,' said father christmas, and he smiled delightfully. "i was thinking what farther questions i might venture upon, when he pushed his cup towards patty, saying, 'since you are so pressing, miss, i'll take another dish.' "and kitty, swooping on us from the oven, cried, 'make yourself at home, sir; there's more where these came from. make a long arm, miss patty, and hand them cakes.' "so we had to devote ourselves to the duties of the table; and patty, holding the lid with one hand and pouring out with the other, supplied father christmas's wants with a heavy heart. "at last he was satisfied. i said grace, during which he stood, and indeed he stood for some time afterwards with his eyes shut--i fancy under the impression that i was still speaking. he had just said a fervent 'amen,' and reseated himself, when my father put his head into the kitchen, and made this remarkable statement-- "'old father christmas has sent a tree to the young people.' "patty and i uttered a cry of delight, and we forthwith danced round the old man, saying, 'oh, how nice! oh, how kind of you!' which i think must have bewildered him, but he only smiled and nodded. "'come along,' said my father. 'come, children. come, reuben. come, kitty.' "and he went into the parlour, and we all followed him. "my godmother's picture of a christmas-tree was very pretty; and the flames of the candles were so naturally done in red and yellow, that i always wondered that they did not shine at night. but the picture was nothing to the reality. we had been sitting almost in the dark, for, as kitty said, 'firelight was quite enough to burn at meal-times.' and when the parlour door was thrown open, and the tree, with lighted tapers on all the branches, burst upon our view, the blaze was dazzling, and threw such a glory round the little gifts, and the bags of coloured muslin with acid drops, and pink rose drops, and comfits inside, as i shall never forget. we all got something; and patty and i, at any rate, believed that the things came from the stores of old father christmas. we were not undeceived even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of old clothes which had been hastily put together to form his present. "we were all very happy; even kitty, i think, though she kept her sleeves rolled up, and seemed rather to grudge enjoying herself (a weak point in some energetic characters). she went back to her oven before the lights were out, and the angel on the top of the tree taken down. she locked up her present (a little work-box) at once. she often showed it off afterwards, but it was kept in the same bit of tissue-paper till she died. our presents certainly did not last so long! "the old man died about a week afterwards, so we never made his acquaintance as a common personage. when he was buried, his little dog came to us. i suppose he remembered the hospitality he had received. patty adopted him, and he was very faithful. puss always looked on him with favour. i hoped during our rambles together in the following summer that he would lead us at last to the cave where christmas-trees are dressed. but he never did. "our parents often spoke of his late master as 'old reuben,' but children are not easily disabused of a favourite fancy, and in patty's thoughts and in mine the old man was long gratefully remembered as old father christmas." the end. * * * * * _the present series of mrs. ewing's works is the only authorized, complete, and uniform edition published._ _it will consist of volumes, small crown vo, at s. d. per vol., issued, as far as possible, in chronological order, and these will appear at the rate of two volumes every two months, so that the series will be completed within months. the device of the cover was specially designed by a friend of mrs. ewing._ _the following is a list of the books included in the series_-- . melchior's dream, and other tales. . mrs. overtheway's remembrances. . old-fashioned fairy tales. . a flat iron for a farthing. . the brownies, and other tales. . six to sixteen. . lob lie-by-the-fire, and other tales. . jan of the windmill. . verses for children, and songs. . the peace egg--a christmas mumming play--hints for private theatricals, &c. . a great emergency, and other tales. . brothers of pity, and other tales of beasts and men. . we and the world, part i. . we and the world, part ii. . jackanapes--daddy darwin's dovecote--the story of a short life. . mary's meadow, and other tales of fields and flowers. . miscellanea, including the mystery of the bloody hand--wonder stories--tales of the khoja, and other translations. . juliana horatia ewing and her books, with a selection from mrs. ewing's letters. s.p.c.k., northumberland avenue, london, w.c. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) robert e. lee a story and a play little folks' plays of american heroes george washington benjamin franklin abraham lincoln ulysses s. grant robert e. lee john joseph pershing makers of america richard g. badger, publisher boston _little folks' plays of american heroes_ robert e. lee a story and a play ruth hill [illustration: arti et veritati] boston richard g. badger the gorham press copyright, , by richard g. badger all rights reserved made in the united states of america the gorham press, boston, u. s. a. contents the story-- page growing up a young soldier the mexican war a returned hero the civil war the college president the play-- act i act ii act iii act iv the story the story of robert e. lee growing up once upon a time in beautiful virginia there lived a little boy named robert edward lee. it was in the days before the civil war when, if we may believe all we hear, all the women were charming, and all the men were gentlemen. the boy's father was one of the most gallant of the gentlemen, for he was light horse harry of revolutionary war fame. he it was who said of washington, "first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen." mr. lee did not realize, then, how many people would apply this same remark to his own son. no doubt little robert got in and out of as many scrapes as any other active little boy, but all the time he was hard at work learning to control his temper. i started to say he was learning to be a gentleman, but that was something he did not have to learn. a gentleman he was by nature, as the lees of virginia had been for generations. he did not have a very happy boyhood. his father died when robert was only eleven. his mother was an invalid and robert was the one who did all the thoughtful little things that mean so much when one is sick. he would race home from school to take her out to ride. he would arrange all the pillows carefully and then tell her everything amusing he could think of, because he said unless she was cheerful the ride would do her no good. in her last illness he nursed her day and night. if robert left the room, she kept her eyes on the door until he returned, but she never had long to wait. a young soldier when the time came for robert to choose a profession he decided to be a soldier. he prepared himself for west point. his teacher said that everything robert started to do, he finished beautifully, even if it were only a plan drawn on his slate. when the time came, he received his appointment to west point through andrew jackson, who was greatly taken by the appearance of this straightforward young man. at west point he graduated second in his class, and better than that, he never received a demerit all the time he was there. right after graduation, he was made second lieutenant of engineers and for some time he was busy looking after our coast defenses. two years afterwards he married. who do you suppose the bride was? the granddaughter of washington's stepson. robert and mary park custis had played together as children. she was an heiress, while lieutenant lee was poor, but that did not lessen her pride in her husband. some years later, after he had been made captain the mississippi river threatened to flood st. louis. general scott was asked for help and he sent captain lee. "he is young," scott wrote, "but if the work can be done, he can do it." the city government grew impatient because they thought the young engineer was not working fast enough. they withdrew the money they had voted to spend on the work, but this did not stop captain lee. all he said was "they can do as they like with their own, but i was sent here to do certain work, and i will do it." and he did it. feeling in the city ran high, riots broke out, and it was said that cannons were placed ready to fire on the working force. but lee kept calmly on to the end, and his work still stands today. just as when he was a boy, anything he began, he finished beautifully. the mexican war later, when the mexican war broke out, of course captain lee was sent to the border. you know what sort of country that is, how easy it is for mexicans to hide in the mountains, and how hard it is for americans to find them. so successful was lee as a scout, however, that first he was made major, then lieutenant-colonel, and finally colonel, all in one year. general scott declared years afterward that lee was the very best soldier he had ever seen. early in the war, he started out with a single mexican guide whom he forced to serve at the point of a pistol. the americans had received a report that the mexicans had crossed the mountains and were near, ready to attack. lee started out to find how near the mexicans really were. soon lee and his frightened guide came upon tracks of mules and wagons in the road. this would have satisfied many scouts, but lee determined to press on until he reached the pickets of the enemy. to his surprise he found no pickets, but he saw large camp-fires on a hillside not far away. by this time, his guide was ready to die of fright and begged lee to return. but he was not quite satisfied and rode forward. soon he saw what carried out the report he had heard of the mountain side covered with the tents of the mexicans, for there it gleamed white in the moonlight. still riding on, he heard the loud talking and usual noises of a camp. but by this time he discovered that what others had taken for tents were,--well what do you suppose? why, nothing but sheep! riding into the herders' camp, he learned that the mexicans had not yet crossed the mountains, so he galloped back to his own camp with this important news,--much to the relief of his guide. at another time he set out in darkness in the midst of a terrible tropic storm, across lava beds where mexicans lurked. by carrying an important message, he forced the mexicans to retreat. seven officers were sent on the same errand, but all except lee returned without delivering the message. general scott called it the bravest act of the whole war. a story which shows how lee kept right on doing anything that he knew was right, is told of him when he was in mexico. he had been ordered to take some marines and make a battery to be manned by them afterwards. the sailors did not like to dig dirt and swore. even their captain said his men were fighters, not moles. lee simply showed his orders and made them keep on. when the firing began, the marines found their trenches very useful. the captain apologized to lee saying, "i suppose after all, your work helped the boys a good deal. but the fact is, i never did like this land fighting--it ain't clean." after the fall of mexico when the american officers were celebrating with a banquet in the palace, a health was proposed to the gallant young captain of engineers who had found a way for the army into the city. then they noticed that lee was not there, so one of them went in search of him. at last lee was found in a faraway room, hard at work studying a map. when his friend asked him why he was not at the banquet, he pointed to his work. then his friend told him that was just drudgery and that some one else could do it just as well. "no," said lee, "no, i am only doing my duty." a returned hero after the war with mexico, lee was one of the most popular war heroes. the cubans tried to get him to lead them in a revolution against spain. they offered him far more money then he could receive here, but he thought it dishonorable to accept service in a foreign army when he held a united states commission. three years later he was made superintendent of west point. when he learned of his new position, he wrote just what we might expect of him. he said he was sorry to learn that the secretary of war had decided on him, because he was afraid that he did not have skill and experience enough. as a matter of fact, he made a highly successful superintendent. one day when lee was out riding with his son, they caught sight of three cadets who were far out of bounds, and were going farther just as fast as they could. after a moment lee said, "did you know those young men? but no, if you did, don't say so. i wish boys would do what is right; it would be so much easier for all parties." after three years' service at west point, lee was made lieutenant-colonel in a new cavalry regiment, intended to keep peace in the south western territory which had been taken over from mexico. his time was spent in fighting indians. he happened to be in washington at the time of the famous john brown raid and he was sent to end it. lee captured john brown and then turned him over to the civil authorities. if it had not been for lee, john brown and his party would have been lynched. in talking with a friend afterwards lee said, "i am glad we did not have to kill him, for i believe he is an honest, conscientious old man." the civil war day by day the feeling between the northern and southern states grew more bitter. lee thought both sides were somewhat in the wrong but he kept right to his military duties. he said a soldier should not dabble in politics. at last the break came for lee when virginia decided to leave the union. can't you just imagine how the heart of lee was torn? here he was an officer in the united states army, and yet his beloved virginia was no longer to be a part of the nation. it is said that he was offered the position of commander-in-chief of the united states forces if he would remain loyal to the union, but he could not turn his back upon virginia. it was not as if he had felt bitterly against the north. it was not as if he felt strongly on the slave question. as a matter of fact he had freed his own slaves before. he wanted peace but since virginia had decided to withdraw from the union and so needed him, he was not the man to fail her. we still remember how he refused to take command in cuba because he was a united states officer. now he was obliged to resign his commission, but he said he hoped never to draw his sword again except in defence of his native state. as soon as it was known that lee had retired from the united states army, the governor offered him the position of commander-in-chief of the forces of virginia. the president of the virginia convention gave him his commission saying, "sir, we have by this unanimous vote expressed our convictions that you are at this day, among the living citizens of virginia, first in war, and we pray god that it may soon be said of you that you are first in peace, and when that time comes you will have gained the still prouder distinction of being first in the hearts of your countrymen." so, at the age of fifty-four, after thirty-two years of service in the united states army, lee accepted the command which he felt to be his duty. for four years, the life of general lee was a part of all men's history. you know how he took charge of raw recruits and in two months had sixty trained regiments ready for the service of his state. you know how hard it was for the south to get arms and ammunition. general lee called upon all the citizens to give up all the guns they owned and saw that factories turned out as much ammunition as possible. i don't have to tell you of lee's victories and defeats, because you have read of them all. he had not only to fight with the northern armies but he had also to battle against home sickness and measles (measles during the civil war were no joke) in his own camp. because the southern states were fighting for their separate rights, the feeling of independence was particularly strong among the southern officers, and general lee was sometimes seriously hindered by not having his orders carried out. then came the last terrible years and months of the war when the south could not get food or clothes or shoes for her army. but the men inspired by lee, continued to fight bravely on. they knew that their general was not feasting while they starved; for often one cold sweet potato would be all that general lee would have for a meal. you can see how great an influence lee had on the army, by the words that would pass from mouth to mouth before a battle. "remember, general lee is looking at us." before one of the later battles of war, lee was reviewing the troops. "these," said one of the officers, "are the brave virginians." without saying a word, lee removed his hat and rode the length of the line. one man said it was the most eloquent speech he had ever heard. a few minutes later as the men advanced to the charge one of the youngest called out, "any man who would not fight after what general lee said is a blame coward!" during battle, lee seemed not to know the meaning of fear. his officers were forever telling him to keep out of danger. on one occasion he was so determined to fight in the front of the battle, they had to refuse to advance until he went back. he said one time in his quiet vein of humor, "i wish some one would tell me what my place is on the battlefield, i seem never to be in it." another time, he was seen to advance in the midst of firing, stoop, and pick something up. he was replacing a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. finally with all supplies cut off, general lee saw all further fighting was useless, and he accepted arrangements for surrender. one of his officers told him that history would blame him for surrendering. he replied that it did not matter if he knew it was right. so at the courthouse at appomattox, lee proved himself as great as ever he had been in victory. it is easy enough to be great in the midst of victory, but the truly great man is the one who remains great in spite of defeat. that is the test. general grant was so much touched by the bravery and suffering of the southern army that by his orders no salutes of joy were fired. after signing the articles of surrender, lee came out of the courthouse, looked up for a moment at the virginia hills for which he had fought so bravely, struck his hands together just once in agony, then mounted his confederate grey horse, traveller, and rode calmly away. as he rode, he passed in view of his men,--as many as remained of them. news of the surrender had spread, so they were standing about in dejected groups, when they caught sight of lee. for a moment they forgot hunger and defeat and let out a mighty shout. then they crowded around their former commander kissing his hands through their tears. "men," he said, "we have fought through the war together. i have done my best for you. my heart is too full to say more." the college president the lees' beautiful home, arlington, across the river from washington, had been used as headquarters for the union army during the war. the country home they owned had been burned. the family was now living at richmond, and general lee went to join them there. you can imagine how glad they were to see each other after their long and terrible separation. but lee was not allowed the peaceful home life for which he longed. callers of every class crowded the house. one morning an irishman who had fought on the northern side came with a basket of provisions, and insisted upon seeing general lee. the servant could not put him off, so when the general appeared, pat said to him, "sure, sir, you're a great soldier, and it's i that knows it. i've been fighting against you all these years, and many a hard knock we've had. but, general, i honor you for it, and now they tell me you are poor and in want, and i've brought you this basket. please take it from a soldier." lee, of course, thanked him for it and told him that although he himself was not in need there were poor soldiers in the hospital who would be glad to be remembered by so generous a foe. with the death of president lincoln, feeling in the north against the south took new life. friends of lee began to fear for his safety. one day a confederate soldier in a tattered uniform called upon the general saying he was speaking for four other fellows around the corner who were too ragged to come to the house. they offered their loved general a home in the mountains where they would guard him with their lives. lee thanked them with tears in his eyes, but he said he could not live the life of an outlaw. he gave them some of his clothes and the soldier went back to his friends around the corner. because of mrs. lee's poor health, it became necessary to leave richmond. a friend offered them a country house near cartersville in cumberland county. but people followed him even here. an english nobleman offered him an estate abroad, but lee would not leave virginia now that she needed him more than ever. he received all sorts of offers of money, of land, of stock if he would allow business companies just to use his name. he was offered the presidency of an insurance company at a salary of $ , a year. he said he could not accept because he knew nothing about the insurance business. "but general, you will not be expected to do any work; what we wish is the use of your name." "don't you think," said general lee, "that if my name is worth $ , a year, i ought to be very careful about taking care of it?" as one of his daughters said, "they are offering my father everything but the only thing he will accept,--a chance to earn honest bread while engaged in some useful work." that speech made to a trustee of washington college, brought lee the offer of presidency of the college at a salary of $ , a year. at first lee would not accept, because he was afraid that because he was still a prisoner on parole it might hurt the college to have him as its head. when the trustees told him what an honor it would be to the college to have his name connected with it, he finally accepted. on his old war horse, traveller, he rode into lexington alone to take up his college duties. at first he was met with a reverent silence, but soon his old soldiers broke out into their far-famed rebel yell. he took his oath as president on october , , and from then until his death, he devoted himself to the needs of the college. when he took charge there were only four professors and forty students. don't you think most men who had been commanders-in-chief would have considered it beneath their dignity to accept a position like that? he put every student on his honor. if he found that a student was getting no good from the college, and that his influence might be bad on the others, the student was given the chance to leave instead of being expelled. even as the college grew bigger, lee knew every student personally, and even most of his marks. lee was still pursued by offers of large salaries for the mere use of his name. to one of these he replied what he might have said to all, "i am grateful, but i have a self-imposed task which i must accomplish. i have led the young men of the south in battle. i have seen many of them die on the field; i shall devote my remaining energies to training young men to do their duty in life." the trustees of washington college wanted to give him as a home, the house erected for him as president. but he insisted that the building be kept by the college, he said he could not allow himself or his family to be a tax on the college. because of poor health, lee went south during his last winter. while he was gone, the trustees voted to give his family three thousand dollars a year. but this, like everything else, lee refused. after lee's southern trip, it was hoped that he had regained his health, for he took up his college duties with such energy. on the morning of september , , general lee was at his desk promptly as usual. in the afternoon he went to a business meeting of the church officers. a steady rain was falling and the air was chilly. he presided at the meeting, sitting in the cold, damp church. when it was announced that the minister's salary had not been raised, lee said he would pay what was lacking. tea was waiting for him when he came home. he stood up as if to say grace, but he could not speak. when the doctor came, he told lee he would soon be up again riding his favorite gray, but lee only shook his head. then later in his delirium, he showed his mind had wandered back to the battlefields, for once he said, "strike the tents." and again speaking of one of his favorite officers who had been killed in the war, he said, "tell hill he _must_ come up." then at last lee passed peacefully away from all battlefields. one time a young student was called to the president's office and was told gently that only patience and industry would prevent the failure that would otherwise certainly come to him. "but, general, you failed." "i hope that you may be more fortunate than i," was the quiet answer. but it was only the general's great modesty that made him consider himself a failure. what greater success could come to any man than to be always a christian and always a gentleman? the play act i scene i _scene: alexandria, va., the garden in front of the lees' home in the spring of ._ characters robert lee, aged bud, his chum, aged slats, a friend, aged fat, another friend, aged (_enter robert and bud. bud has a fishing rod. robert is carrying his school books. slats follows tossing a ball in the air and catching it. fat trails along last, as usual._) bud--an say, rob, get your pole and come on fishing. they say they're biting great. have you asked your mother if you could go? robert--no, i haven't. slats--well what do you think she is, a mind reader or something? fat--no, probably he thinks if he waits long enough, somebody will ask her for him. bud--don't judge everybody by yourself. rob always does everything for himself and a lot of things for other people, and you know it, unless your head's too fat. slats--well, aren't you going to ask her rob? robert--no, i told you before, i couldn't go fishing. fat--well, how do you know you can't if you haven't even asked? talk about my head being fat! bud--you better be careful what you say to rob. he could trim the life out of you, and you know it. robert--i don't see what you boys are making all this fuss about. i just can't go fishing, that's all. you fellows go ahead and have a good time and tomorrow tell me all about that biggest fish that got away. bud--don't you want to go, rob? robert--of course i want to go, but i simply can't this afternoon, that's all. bud--aw what's the secret, rob? aren't you and i pardners? robert--there isn't any secret, bud. i'm just going to take mother out to ride just as i always do. slats--well say, can't she stay home just for once? robert--she does stay home all the time except when i take her out to ride. now be careful, or she might hear you, and not want me to take her out. fat--say, if i'd thought of that sooner, i'd have talked at the top of my lungs. bud--be careful, fat, or rob'll have you yelling at the top of your lungs. robert--good luck, boys. run along and have a good time. i hope the fish bite as fast as snapping turtles. (_he goes in the house._) bud--come on boys, no use trying to get rob. when he makes up his mind, you might just as well not try to budge him. fat--aw, he's tied to his mother's apron strings. slats--you shut up before i make you! bud (_to fat_)--say if you were half as manly as he is, no one would know you. fat--i didn't mean anything. i like rob just as well as the rest of you, but if i did all the things for my mother that he does for his, everyone'd call me a sissy. slats--yes, and probably they'd be right. come on, fat, i mean "sissy." (_bud, slats and fat go on their way. negro servant leads out horse and carriage. robert comes out of the house helping his mother down the stairs._) mrs. lee--don't strain yourself, robert. robert--you don't know how strong i am, mother. lean harder. i don't feel you at all. mrs. lee--i don't know what i'd do without you robert. you're both sons and daughters to me. (_robert helps her into the carriage._) robert--there, are you quite comfortable, mother? (_he arranges the cushions for her._) mrs. lee--yes thank you dear, but i do feel as if you ought to be out playing instead of taking an old invalid like me out to ride. robert--you aren't old and you must get well so fast that you won't be an invalid any longer, and both of us are going to have the best possible ride. (_they drive away._) scene ii _the harbor of st. louis, banks of the mississippi river, ._ characters captain robert e. lee first lieutenant smith buck brown, town bully coyote jim, his pal, a half-breed soldiers at work eight friends of buck and coyote jim buck--i'm a-lookin' for the boss of these diggin's. lieutenant--you want captain lee. (_pointing to him._) buck--be you captain lee? lee--that's my name. what can i do for you? buck--you can't do nothin' for me. me and my friends can do anything we want for ourselves. we ain't helpless, see? lee--that being the case, i wish you would proceed to your own affairs and allow me to attend to mine. buck--we'd be happy to have you, but this here you're doing now, don't happen to be none of your business. lee--evidently you are looking for trouble, but i am much too busy to oblige you. buck--unless you leave off being busy right here and now, you're pretty liable to land in a heap o' trouble. lee--i am not in the least interested in your threats and i will ask you to be kind enough to leave in order to save me the trouble of having you put out. buck--i reckon you don't know who you're talking to. i'm buck brown and this is coyote jim, my running mate, and all the rest of these here is our pals and have come to back us up in anything we say. lee--i am here to work not to argue. if you are not away from these works in three minutes, i will take means to see that you are. buck--did you know the city gov'ment wasn't going to give you no money for your work? lee--they can do as they like with their own, but i was sent here to do certain work, and i will do it. buck--(_pointing._) do you see them cannons up there? unless you quit your dirty meddlin', you'll have a chance to get acquainted with them. lee--do you think i'd be kept from doing my duty by a pack of bullies and cowards? go back and hide behind your cannon. you'll need more than those to protect you if you meddle again. (_buck and his friends skulk out._) scene iii _banquet hall of the palace, city of mexico, after its conquest by the american forces. officers sitting around the table._ characters general scott general wilcox general twiggs general magruder thirty other officers wilcox--well, i must say i'm thankful it's all over and i do hope it isn't long before we can get back to god's own country. furthermore, i for one am thankful enough to be sitting here enjoying myself. scott--i am inclined to believe that if it had not been for one captain robert e. lee, you and i would still be fighting those slippery mexicans. pierce--yes, i have the utmost confidence in the skill and judgment of captain lee. twiggs--his gallantry and good conduct deserve the highest praise. wilcox--(_rising and raising his glass._) gentlemen, i wish to propose a toast that i know you will all drink heartily. i propose the health of the captain of engineers who found a way for our army into the city. gentlemen, (_raising his glass again_) the health of captain robert e. lee! (_all the officers rise at once and lift their glasses. then look around for lee._) wilcox--why he isn't here. what can be the matter. magruder--i'll go and fetch him. scott--you might know lee would be first in the battle and last at a banquet. twiggs--i thought all of the crowd were here. scott--they are all here but lee. evidently we were all too much interested in our food to notice anything else. let's sing a song to welcome him. (_they sing two stanzas of "yankee doodle."_) twiggs--here comes magruder alone. (_magruder enters._) why, what's the matter? couldn't you find him? magruder--oh, i found him all right, but that was all the good it did me. scott--is he ill? magruder--if he is, i wish i had the same thing the matter with me. he's suffering from a sense of duty. twiggs--you don't have to worry then. wilcox--tell us all about it. magruder--you might as well sit down first because he isn't coming. (_they all sit down but magruder._) you see i found him in a little room in a corner of the palace hard at work on a map. i asked him why he wasn't at the banquet and he said he was too busy. i told him it was just drudgery and to let some one else do it, but he looked up at me with that mild, calm gaze we all know so well and said, "no, i'm just doing my duty." act ii scene i _general scott's office, washington, april , ._ characters colonel lee general scott scott--the nation is in a terrible condition. lee--as far as i can judge from the papers we are between a state of anarchy and civil war. may god avert from us both! i see that four states have declared themselves out of the union. four more apparently will follow their example. then if the border states are dragged into the gulf of revolution, one half of the country will be arrayed against the other. i must try to be patient and wait the end, for i can do nothing to hasten or retard it. scott--i don't quite see why conditions have become so serious. lee--the position of the two sections which they hold to each other has been brought about by the politicians of the country. the great masses of the people, if they understood the real question would avoid it. i believe that it is an unnecessary condition of affairs and might have been avoided, if forbearance and wisdom had been practised on both sides. scott--which side do you think is more to blame? lee--the south, in my opinion, has been aggrieved by the act of the north. i feel the aggression and am willing to take every proper step for redress. it is the principle i contend for, not individual or private interest. as an american citizen, i take great pride in my country, her prosperity, and her institutions. but i can anticipate no greater calamity for this country than a dissolution of the union. it would be an accumulation of all the evils we complain of, and i am willing to sacrifice everything but honor for its preservation. i hope, therefore, that all constitutional means will be exhausted before there is a resort to force. secession is nothing but revolution. still a union that can be maintained only by swords and bayonets, and in which strife and civil war are to take the place of brotherly love and kindness, has no charm for me. i shall mourn for my country and for the welfare and progress of mankind. scott--but do you think slavery is just? lee--if all the slaves of the south were mine, i would surrender them all without a struggle to avert this war. scott--then your sympathies are with the north? lee--though opposed to secession and war, i can take no part in an invasion of the southern states. scott--but surely you could not desert the united states army? lee--i deeply regret being obliged to separate myself from the service to which i have devoted the best years of my life and all the ability i possessed. scott--but i have been given to understand that in case you remained loyal, you would be given a very exalted command. lee--yes, blair has just been talking to me in regard to the matter, but no consideration on earth could induce me to act a part however gratifying to me, which could be construed into disregard of, or faithlessness to the commonwealth. if i am compelled to resign i cannot consult my own feelings in the matter. virginia is my country, her will i obey, however lamentable the fate to which it may subject me. if the union is dissolved and the government disrupted, i shall return to my native state and share the miseries of my people, and, save in her defence, will draw my sword no more. scene ii _convention of virginia, richmond, april , ._ characters robert e. lee mr. janney, president of the convention convention members and citizens janney--in the name of the people of our native state, here represented, i bid you a cordial and heartfelt welcome to this hall, in which we may almost hear the echoes of the voices of the statesmen, the soldiers, and the sages of bygone days who have borne your name and whose blood now flows in your veins. we met in the month of february last charged with the solemn duty of protecting the rights, the honor, and the interests of the people of this commonwealth. we differed for a time as to the best means of accomplishing that object, but there never was at any moment a shade of difference among us as to the great object itself; and now, virginia having taken her position, we stand animated by one impulse, governed by one desire and one determination, and that is, that she shall be defended, and that no spot on her soil shall be polluted by the foot of an invader. when the necessity of having a leader for our forces became apparent, all hearts and all eyes turned to the old county of westmoreland. we knew how prolific she had been in other days of heroes and statesmen; we knew she had given birth to the father of his country, to richard henry lee, to monroe, and last, though not least, to your own gallant father; and we knew well by your deeds that her productive power was not exhausted. sir, we watched with the most profound and intense interest the triumphal march of the army led by general scott, to which you were attached, from vera cruz to the capital of mexico. we read of the conflicts and blood-stained fields, in all of which victory perched upon our banners. we knew of the unfading lustre which was shed upon the american arms by that campaign, and we know also what your modesty has always disclaimed, that no small share of the glory of those achievements was due to your valor and your military genius. sir, one of the proudest recollections of my life will be that i yesterday had the honor of submitting to this body the confirmation of the nomination, made by the governor of this state, of you as commander-in-chief of the naval and military forces of this commonwealth. i rose to put the question and when i asked if this body would advise and consent to that appointment, there rushed from the hearts to the tongues of all the members an affirmative response, which told with an emphasis that could leave no doubt of the feeling whence it emanated. i put the negative of the question for form's sake, but there was an unbroken silence. sir, we have by this unanimous vote expressed our convictions that you are at this day, among the living citizens of virginia, first in war, and we pray god most fervently that you may so conduct the operations committed to your charge that it may soon be said of you that you are first in peace, and when that time comes you will have gained the still prouder distinction of being first in the hearts of your countrymen. yesterday your mother, virginia, placed her sword in your hands upon the implied condition--which we knew you will keep to the letter and in the spirit--that you will draw it only in defence, and that you will fall with it in your hand rather than the object for which it was placed there shall fail. (_long applause from convention members and citizens._) lee--mr. president and gentlemen of the convention: profoundly impressed with the solemnity of the occasion, for which i must say i was not prepared, i accept the position assigned me by your partiality. i would have much preferred it had your choice fallen upon an abler man. trusting in almighty god, an approving conscience, and the aid of my fellow-citizens, i devote myself to the service of my native state, in whose behalf alone will i ever again draw my sword. act iii scene i _general lee's tent._ characters general lee major w. h. fitzhugh lee, his son hon. b. h. hill general starke an orderly hill--i have come to ask your advice. do you think it would be wise to move the southern capital farther south? lee--that is a political question and you politicians must answer it. i am only a soldier. hill--that is the proudest name today. lee--yes, there never were such men in an army before. they will go anywhere and do anything if properly led. hill--they could have no commander equal to general lee. lee--no, we made a great mistake mr. hill in the beginning of our struggle, and i fear in spite of all we can do, it will prove to be a fatal mistake. hill--what mistake is that general? lee--why sir, in the beginning we appointed all our worst generals to command the armies, and all our best generals to edit the newspapers. as you know, i have planned some campaigns and quite a number of battles. i have given the work all the care and thought i could, and sometimes when my plans were completed, so far as i could see they seemed perfect. but when i have fought them through i have discovered defects, and occasionally wondered i did not see some of the defects in advance. when it was all over i found by reading a newspaper that these best editor-generals saw all the defects plainly from the start. unfortunately, they did not communicate this knowledge to me until it was too late. i have no ambition but to serve the confederacy and do all i can to win our independence. i am willing to serve in any capacity to which the authorities may assign me. i have done the best i could in the field, and have not succeeded as i should wish. i am willing to yield my place to the best generals, and will do my best for the cause in editing a newspaper. even as poor a soldier as i am can generally discover mistakes _after it is all over_. but if i could only induce these wise gentlemen, who see them so clearly _beforehand_, to communicate with me in advance, instead of waiting till the evil has come upon us--to let me know what _they knew all the time_--it would be far better for my reputation, and, what is of more consequence, far better for the cause. hill--don't let those waspish editors annoy you. the south is behind you to a man. they know what general lee cannot accomplish, no man can. (_orderly enters and salutes._) lee--what is it? orderly--general starke wishes to see you. hill--i must leave you general, i am grateful for the audience. lee--i am always glad to talk to those interested in our common cause. good day, mr. hill. hill--good day, general. (_exit._) lee--show general starke in. (_enter gen. starke. he salutes._) lee--(_saluting._) good morning, general, what can i do for you. starke--nothing for me sir, but a good deal for yourself. lee--this is no time to think of private benefits. starke--but general your reputation is suffering, the press is denouncing you, your own state is losing confidence in you, and the army needs a victory to add to its enthusiasm. lee--i cannot afford to sacrifice five or six hundred of my people to silence public clamor. when it is time to strike, we will strike with a will. starke--i wish those northerners were all dead. lee--how can you say so? now i wish they were all at home attending to their own business, and leaving us to do the same. they also are my countrymen. general, there is a good old book which says, "love your enemies." what a cruel thing is war; to separate and destroy families and friends, and mar the purest joys and happiness god has granted us in this world; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors and to devastate the fair face of the beautiful world. starke--but think of our men who have laid down their lives so bravely. lee--the loss of our gallant officers and men throughout the army causes me to weep tears of blood and to wish that i might never hear the sound of a gun again. starke--i am sorry to have worried you general, you are right, good day! (_salutes and exit. enter major w. h. fitzhugh lee._) w. h. f. lee--father! lee--fitzhugh, how good it is to see you. you don't know how much i have missed you and your mother and your brothers and sisters. w. h. f. lee--won't it be wonderful when the war will be over and we can all be together again. lee--god grant that it may be so! w. h. f. lee--i can't stay any longer, father. i just came in to see you a moment before starting. i must be about my duty. lee--i know that wherever you may be placed, you will do your duty. that is all the pleasure, all the comfort, all the glory we can enjoy in this world. duty is the sublimest word in the language. there is a true glory and a true honor, the glory of duty done, the honor of integrity of principles. (_they salute._) scene ii _battlefield, the southern lines. shells falling all around._ characters general lee general gordon general gracie general stuart northern prisoners soldiers (_enter squad of soldiers with three northern prisoners. one without a cap._) lee--(_addressing prisoner without cap._) where is your cap? did the rebels shoot it off? prisoner--(_saluting._) no, general, but one of them took it off. lee--(_noticing a blue cap on one of the confederate soldiers._) give him back his cap, even if your own is ragged. men, you had better go farther to the rear, they are firing up here, and you are exposing yourselves. (_exeunt soldiers and prisoners._) (_enter general gracie who places himself directly in front of general lee in the direction of the firing._) lee--why general gracie, you will certainly be killed. gracie--it is better, general, that i should be killed than you. when you go to the rear, i will. (_enter general gordon with company of men._) gordon--general lee, this is no place for you. do go to the rear. these are virginians and georgians, sir--men who have never failed--and they will not fail now--will you boys? is it necessary for general lee to lead this charge. soldiers--no! no! general lee to the rear. general lee to the rear! we will drive them back, if general lee will only go to the rear. gordon--forward! charge! and remember your promise to general lee. (_exeunt._) gen. stuart--general, this is no place for you, do go away at once to a safe place. lee--i wish i knew where my place is on the battlefield: wherever i go some one tells me it is not the place for me to be. lee--(_to soldiers._) soldiers, i am more than satisfied with you. your country will thank you for the heroic conduct you have displayed,--conduct worthy of men engaged in a cause so just and sacred, and deserving a nation's gratitude and praise. now you must go farther back, you are exposing yourselves unnecessarily. (_as they pass back a little, slowly and unwillingly, lee goes farther forward, stoops down and picks up something._) first soldier--what is he doing? second soldier--why he's picking up a little bird that had fallen from its nest. first soldier--"he who heeds the sparrow's fall." second soldier--i've heard of god, but here is general lee! scene iii _outside appomatox courthouse during lee's conference with grant._ _ragged confederate soldiers on one side. northern troops on the other._ st confederate--their uniforms don't look much like ours, do they? nd confederate--no, nor their general doesn't look much like ours either. rd confederate--didn't marse robert look wonderful when he went through that door? just naturally hating to go in, but going just the same, because he knew it was right. st confederate--of course he had to go in, we couldn't have stood another day without any rations. nd confederate--you mean you couldn't. i could have gone till i dropped without rations, if marse robert had said so. rd confederate--but he wouldn't let his men suffer any longer when he saw it was no use. sh! here he comes now. (_soldiers stand at attention. the door slowly opens and lee steps out. he looks up to the hills and sky. silently clasps his hands together, then slowly and almost bent, walks down the steps. for a moment the men are silent. then the sight of gen. lee is too much for them and they crowd around him cheering him._) lee--(_lifting his hand for silence._) men, we have fought through the war together. i have done my best for you. my heart is too full to say more. act iv _scene--lee's parlor at richmond._ characters gen. lee mrs. jackson, a family friend jack sharpe, a former confederate soldier sam, an old negro servant g. w. custis lee, gen. lee's son mr. brown, representative of an insurance company judge brockenborough, trustee of washington college pat--(_bursting through door with a huge basket of provisions, salutes._) sure, sir, you're a great soldier and it's i that knows it. i've been fighting against you all these years, and many a hard knock we've had. but, general, i honor you for it, and now they tell me you are poor and in want, and i've brought you this basket. please take it from a soldier. lee--i thank you comrade, but i'm glad to tell you i am not in need. but there are plenty of poor fellows over at the hospital who would be only too glad to get food from so generous a foe. pat--just as you say, sir, but if ever you are in need just let pat murphy know, that's all. (_exit._) (_enter mrs. jackson._) lee--how do you do, mrs. jackson. mrs. jackson--good morning general, and how are all the family? lee--we are all as usual, the women of the family very fierce and the men very mild. mrs. jackson--i think every woman of the south is fierce now. i am bringing up all my sons to hate the yankees. lee--madam, don't bring up your sons to detest the united states government. recollect that we form one country now. abandon all this local hatred and make your sons americans. mrs. jackson--how can you talk that way after the way you have been treated. lee--general grant has acted with magnanimity. mrs. jackson--if there ever was a saint on earth, you are one. now i must go upstairs and tell your wife so, but i reckon she knows it. good morning. (_exit mrs. jackson. enter jack sharpe dressed in ragged clothes, he looks all around, then goes up to lee and salutes._) sharpe--general, i'm one of your soldiers, and i've come here as the representative of four of my comrades who are too ragged and dirty to venture to see you. we are all virginians, general, from roanoke county, and they sent me here to see you on a little business. they've got our president in prison and now--they--talk--about--arresting--you. and, general, we can't stand--we'll never stand and see that. now, general, we five men have got about two hundred and fifty acres of land in roanoke--very good land, too, it is, sir--and if you'll come up there and live, i've come to offer you our land, all of it and we five men will work as your field hands, and you'll have very little trouble in managing it with us to help you. and, general, there are near about a hundred of us left in old roanoke, and they could never take you there, for we could hide you in the hollows of the mountains, and the last man of us would die in your defense. lee--i thank you and your friends, but my place is among the people of virginia. if ever they needed me, it is now. (_he goes to the door and calls sam. enter sam._) lee--sam i want you to find all the clothes i can do without and give them to this soldier for his friends. sharpe--i thank you general, and if ever you change your mind, just let jack sharpe hear from you. (_exit jack and sam. enter lee's oldest son, g. w. custis lee._) g. w. lee--well, father, hard at work entertaining visitors as usual, i suppose. lee--yes, i don't see how so many find the time to come here. g. w. c. lee--lots of the poor soldiers are out of work. lee--i am sorry. tell them they must all set to work, and if they cannot do what they prefer, do what they can. virginia wants all their aid, all their support, and the presence of all her sons to sustain her now. g. w. c. lee--i don't quite know what i'm going to do myself yet. lee--you can work for virginia, to build her up again. you can teach your children to love and cherish her. g. w. c. lee--you are right, father, all my life you have never failed to give me inspiration. (_exit. enter sam and hands lee a letter. he opens it and reads._) lee--"dear general: we have been fighting hard for four years, and now the yankees have got us in libby prison. the boys want you to get us out if you can, but, if you can't, just ride by the libby, and let us see you and give you a cheer. we will all feel better after it." sam--will you all go for to see 'em, marse robert? lee--they would make too much fuss over the old rebel. why should they care to see me? i am only a poor old confederate. (_exit sam, shaking his head. enter mr. brown, a well-dressed business man._) brown--i have not the honor of your acquaintance, general, except as all the world knows you. my name is brown and i represent a well known insurance company. lee--i am afraid my life is hardly worth insuring, mr. brown. brown--it is not about that i came to see you. i understand you are not as yet permanently employed and i have come, therefore, to offer you the presidency of our company at a yearly salary of $ , . lee--i thank you, sir, but i would be of no value to your company, as i know nothing whatever in regard to insurance. brown--but, general, you will not be expected to do any work, what we wish is the use of your name. lee--my name is not for sale. i thank you, sir. good morning. (_exit brown. enter judge brockenborough._) gen. lee--good morning, judge, what a pleasure to see an old friend! judge--good morning, general, i should not have dared to call on so busy a man if i did not have a special mission. i have come to offer you the presidency of washington college, at a salary of $ , a year. i am sorry we can offer no more, but the war has left the college in a wretched condition. lee--i am afraid because of my many enemies that my connection with the college would make its condition far more wretched. judge--no, general, the whole south loves and respects you, and if you will only accept this position you will make us the happiest of all colleges. lee--i would have much preferred that your choice had fallen upon an abler man. but if you really want me, i will be only too glad to come. i have led the young men of the south in battle. i have seen many of them die on the field. i shall try to devote my remaining energies to training young men to do their duty in life. **transcribers notes** minor punctuation errors corrected page dishonerable changed to dishonorable page appomattox and page appomatox both spellings left intact multiple use of defence/defense left intact _dr. hardhack's prescription_ _a play for children in four acts ..._ by _k. mcdowell rice_ "=dr. hardhack's prescription.=" typewritten suggestions for amateurs will be loaned on receipt of above price (six cents). terms for the plays are as follows:--when used to make money for any object, the royalty is one-tenth of whatever the play brings in (sale of tickets, entrance money, gifts at door, etc.), before any expenses are deducted. when no admission is charged and no money made by the play, the royalty (each representation) is from $ . up according to length of play and character of your entertainment. should you decide to produce any of the plays, kindly notify me at once, that no conflicting permissions may be issued. send name of church, hall, school or private house where play will be given, also approximate date of performance. if play is later postponed or abandoned, please send such information promptly, that all may be properly entered on permission books. katharine mcdowell rice, author and publisher of plays, worthington, mass. _by katharine mcdowell rice, worthington, mass._ dr. hardhack's prescription a play for children in four short acts a dramatization of the story, "little pussy willow," by harriet beecher stowe grandma proudie mamma proudie emily proudie aunt flighty aunt highty-tighty pussy willow mary, the maid dr. hardhack permission to act must be obtained of the author "a delightful little play, 'dr. hardhack's prescription,' was given by the junior endeavor society at lyceum hall, worthington, tuesday afternoon and evening. the audience was composed largely of children at the matinee, who were highly entertained, but no more so than the grown-ups in the evening. dr. hardhack was played by a lad of ten, who did an excellent piece of work. the other parts were all finely acted by children not much older. the play was directed by the author and made an entertainment long to be remembered and one too that netted a nice little sum for the juniors' work."--_hampshire gazette._ "one of the most charming little plays for children i ever have seen."--_mrs. g. j. thomas, chattanooga, tenn._ "we used 'dr. hardhack's prescription' for the nature study number in our annual program. it was given by the youngest pupils and was a delight to our audience. the play is complete in itself and perfectly charming, nevertheless i ventured to add an epilog. knowing the story of 'little pussy willow,' i adapted the gifts of the fairies ending with: 'good night, dearie.' we wish to thank the author for all her helpful suggestions and for such a sweet play."--_caroline reed thompson, head of department of expression, arizona school of music, phenix, ariz._ "a dear little play and we greatly enjoyed working it up. our audience was very enthusiastic and we are being urged to repeat."--_miss a. h. young, wilton, n. h._ "we gave 'dr. hardhack's prescription' as a thanksgiving entertainment by our younger pupils, and everyone was charmed with it."--_emma willard school, troy, n. y._ =price cents= all endorsements unsolicited all used by permission dr. hardhack's prescription a play for children in four acts by k. mcdowell rice author of "mrs. tubbs's telegram," "good king wenceslas," "mrs. bagg's bargain day," etc., etc. published by k. mcdowell rice worthington, mass. copyright by k. mcdowell rice all rights reserved price cents order of k. mcdowell rice worthington, mass. printed by gazette printing co. northampton, mass. in bringing out the play, dr. hardhack's prescription, the author wishes to acknowledge the kindness of houghton, mifflin company of boston, which allows her to publish it. this company holds the copyright of "little pussy willow" by harriet beecher stowe, on which the play is founded. the author of the play has taken much of the conversation verbatim from the book, as will be seen by reference to "little pussy willow," which charming story it is hoped may become better known to the public of to-day through this dramatization. the publishers houghton, mifflin co., will send the book to any address by mail post-paid for $ . . dramatis personae grandma proudie. mamma proudie. emily proudie. aunt flighty. aunt highty-tighty. pussy willow. mary, the maid. dr. hardhack. this is a royalty play and terms must be made with the author for its use. permission to act or make any use of this play must be obtained of k. mcdowell rice, worthington, massachusetts. dr. hardhack's prescription. _dr. hardhack makes a professional visit to the _proudie_ mansion, new york city. in the sitting-room are gathered grandma proudie (l), mamma proudie (c), aunt flighty (r)._ mamma proudie. i greatly fear our dear emily will never be restored to health. aunt flighty. oh, don't say that. i've known people to look terribly white and a great deal thinner than emily, and not die of it. grandma proudie. [_to mamma p._] i thought you were going to send for dr. hardhack. mamma p. i have sent for him. [_sighs, rises and comes forward, taking chair_] [_r_] but what can he do? someway it doesn't seem as if he could help. he's such a small man. grandma p. size doesn't matter if one has brains. it's brains that count, my dear. napoleon was small, but he will live forever. and look at alexander pope. [_waves hand_] aunt f. [_runs to window_] what! where is he? whom did you say to look at? grandma p. [_witheringly_] alexander pope, who has been dead one hundred and fifty years. aunt f. [_simpering_] oh, i thought you said to look at somebody going by. grandma p. i said "look at alexander pope," by which i meant "consider alexander pope"--a small man, not ever growing to be much larger than a child. but what a poet! brains, my dear, brains. in my day it was brains that decided a person's value. sometimes i think they have gone out of fashion. mamma p. but they will come in again, mother. all the old fashions come round in about so many years, they say. grandma p. [_who has returned to her knitting_] perhaps the time has come then for brains, for every one speaks so highly of dr. hardhack. _enter maid_ mary. dr. hardhack, madam. mamma p. you may bring him in, mary. [_maid turns to go, but finds dr. hardhack at her heels_] mamma and grandma p. [_gasp_] oh, dr. hardhack! aunt f. oh, oh! we did not know you really had come! dr. hardhack. good morning, ladies. couldn't stop to be formally announced. [_puts his hat absently in aunt f's sewing-basket. basket falls and all the things go tumbling out. dr. h. does not notice_] aunt f. [_simpers_] oh, oh! [_maid comes forward and assists aunt f. in picking up things_] dr. h. [_looks about circle_] which is my patient, please? mamma p. it is my daughter emily. i will send for her. [_to maid_] mary, will you ask miss emily to come? [_exit maid_] oh, dr. hardhack, before she comes i must say a word to you. [_dr. h. takes chair_] we would be willing to found a water-cure, to hire a doctor on purpose, to try homeopathy or hydropathy or allopathy or any other pathy that ever was heard of if our dear elegant emily could only be restored. it is her sensitive nature that wears upon her. she was never made for this world. she has an exquisiteness of perception that makes her feel even the creases in a rose leaf. dr. h. stuff and folderol, my dear madam! [_all start. aunt f. gasps and simpers_] mamma p. you are the nineteenth physician that has been called in to dear emily. dr. h. well, i hope that i may cut out number twenty! [_enter emily very pale and listless_] oh, here comes the young lady herself. [_bows to emily, which greeting e. very languidly returns_] humph! let me look at her. [_puts up his glasses and looks through them_] [_e. stands supporting herself by table as though very weak_] humph! a fashionable potato sprout! grown in a cellar! not a drop of red blood in her veins! grandma p. [_aside to mamma p._] what odd ways he has, to be sure. but then they say that's the way he talks to everybody. dr. h. my dear madam, you have tried to make a girl out of sugar and almond paste, and now you are distressed that she has not red blood in her veins and that her lungs gasp and flutter as she goes up-stairs. turn her out to grass, my dear madam, turn her out to grass! aunt f. [_with hands over ears_] oh, oh! dr. h. yes, i mean what i say. send her to old mother nature to nurse. mamma p. [_exultantly_] i have said all along, doctor, that i thought we ought to have a trained nurse for emily. dr. h. trained fiddlesticks! [_all start_] send her somewhere to a good honest farmhouse in the hills, and let her run barefoot in the morning dew, drink new milk from the cow-- mamma p. [_interrupts_] oh, doctor, not new milk! not unsterilized milk! [_aunt f. holds up hands in horror_] dr. h. i mean what i say, madam. let her drink new milk from the cow, romp in a good wide barn, learn to hunt hens' eggs, a few things like this, and i warrant me you'll see another pair of cheeks in a year. take off all whalebones and strings around her lungs. give her a chance, madam, give her a chance! mamma p. but what medicine shall she take, doctor? dr. h. [_roars his disapproval_] medicine? no medicine. medicine won't do her any good. you may make an apothecary's shop of her stomach-- aunt f. oh, oh! dr. h. [_turns toward aunt f._] yes, _stomach_,--make an apothecary's shop of her stomach, and matters will be only the worse. why, there isn't enough iron in her blood to make a needle. [_points to needle in aunt f's hand_] aunt f. [_simpers_] oh, oh! mamma p. iron in her blood! i never heard the like! dr. h. yes, iron, red particles, globules or whatever you please to call them. her blood is all water and lymph, and that is the reason that her cheeks and lips look so like a cambric handkerchief, why she pants and puffs if she goes up-stairs. [_motions to e. to come forward, puts head to examine heart_] her heart is all right if there were only blood to work it in, but it sucks and wheezes like a dry pump for want of vital fluid. [_emphatically_] she must have more blood, madam, and nature must make it for her. grandma p. we were thinking of going to newport, doctor. dr. h. [_derisively_] yes, to newport! to a ball every night and a flurry of dressing and flirtation every morning! no such thing! send her to an unfashionable old farmhouse where there was never a more exciting party than a quilting frolic heard of. let her learn the difference between huckleberries and blackberries, learn where checkerberries grow thickest and dig up sweet flag root with her own hands as country children do. it would do her good to plant a few hills of potatoes-- aunt f. _our_ emily! potatoes! oh, dreadful, dreadful! dr. h. yes, potatoes. plant a few hills of potatoes and hoe them herself as i once heard of a royal princess doing, because [_with emphasis_] _queens_ can afford to be sensible in the bringing up of _their_ daughters! mamma p. what you say is all very new, dr. hardhack. indeed, we had never thought of such a thing as sending emily into the _real_ country. but i will talk it over with mr. proudie, and see what he thinks of it. dr. h. well, ladies, i must be going. good-morning to you all. [_takes up hat and medicine case and makes exit in haste_] mamma p. what strange ways he has! aunt f. but then you know he's all the fashion. mamma p. people talk of his being small. i never once thought of it. grandma p. brains, my dear, brains, or in other words;--good common sense. curtain. act ii. _dr. hardhack ready to give his last directions. mamma proudie, aunt flighty, aunt highty-tighty, emily and dr. hardhack are all seated; e. reclining languidly in easy chair._ mamma p. well, doctor, we have decided to let emily go and stay in the country as you have directed. i have arranged everything and found a pleasant place for her with a companion of her own age who is called pussy willow. dr. h. h'm. pussy willow. well, that begins to sound right. wouldn't have found any girl named pussy willow at newport, i'll warrant you. aunt highty-tighty. do, pray, dear dr. hardhack, tell us just how she must be dressed for that cold mountain region. aunt f. it makes me shiver to think of it. aunt h.-t. must she have high-necked, long-sleeved flannels? aunt f. i will go right down and buy her half-a-dozen at once. [_starts to go, but is waved back by dr. h., and resumes seat_] dr. h. not so fast. let's see about this young lady. [_endeavors to introduce his forefinger under the belt of e's dress. belt snaps. dr. h. draws out his finger with a jerk_] i thought so. i supposed that there wasn't much breathing allowed behind there. mamma p. oh, i do assure you, doctor, emily never dresses tightly. emily. no, indeed! i despise tight lacing. i never wear my clothes any more than just comfortable. dr. h. never saw a woman that did! the courage and constancy of the female sex in bearing inconveniences is so great, however, that that will be no test at all. give me that thing. [_motions for e.'s belt_] [_e. hands him same_] you wouldn't catch a man saying he felt comfortable under such circumstances. [_holds up the tiny circle_] but only persuade a girl that she looks stylish and pretty with her waist drawn in, and you may lace her up till the very life leaves her, and with her dying breath she will tell you she is nothing more than "comfortable". so, my young lady, you don't catch me in that way! you must leave off belts and tight waists of all sorts for six months at least, and wear only loose sacques so that your lungs may have some chance to play and fill with the vital air that i am going to send you to breathe up in the hills. e. but, doctor, i don't believe i could hold myself up. [_droops as without any strength_] when i sit up in a loose dress i feel so weak i hardly know what to do. i need the support of something stiff around me. dr. h. that is because all those nice, strong muscles around your waist [_slapping his sides and holding himself very erect with his hands on his ribs_] which nature gave you to hold you up, have been bound down and bandaged and flattened [_emphasizes the words by each time striking his right fist in palm of left hand_] until they have no strength in them. e. do you suppose, doctor, if i should dress as you tell me for six months, that i would get my health again? dr. h. it would go a long way towards it. you fashionable girls are not good for much, to be sure, but if a doctor gets a chance to save one of you in the way of business, he can't help wishing to do it. so i just give you your choice. e. of course i would like to be well, and in the country up there nobody will see me, so it's no matter how i look. mamma p. [_comes forward and puts arm about e._] to be sure it's no matter. [_kisses her_] only get your health, my dear, and then we'll see. curtain. act iii. _mamma proudie, fearing emily is exerting herself too much up in the country, calls in dr. hardhack to have him send her some word of caution. in room are grandma p. [knitting] mamma p., aunt flighty and dr. h._ mamma p. i wish you would caution emily, doctor. i'm sure she's over-exerting herself, for she has sent home seven pats of butter of her own churning! dr. h. never fear, my dear madam. it's only that there is more iron getting into her blood, that's all. let her alone, or tell her to do it more yet! mamma p. but, doctor, may not the thing be carried too far? dr. h. for gentility, you mean? don't you remember marie antoinette made butter and king louis was a miller at marly? aunt f. but just read the doctor from emily's last letter. mamma p. yes, just hear what she has written, doctor. [_finds letter and reads_] "you have no idea how different life looks to me now that i live a little for somebody besides myself. why have i been so foolish as to suppose i was happy in living such a lazy, useless life as i have lived?" [_looks at dr. h. as she folds letter and shakes head_] dr. h. iron in her blood, my dear madam, iron in her blood! [_pounds table_] she'll come home a strong, bouncing girl. aunt f. oh, shocking! dr. h. [_turns to aunt f._] yes, _bouncing_! why shouldn't she bounce? i shall give you back a live niece in the fall instead of a half dead one, and you [_turns to mamma p._] a live daughter, madam, and i expect you will all scream and stop your ears and run under beds because you never saw a live girl before. mamma p. but, doctor, i can't see as we shall ever get her home again. i keep writing and writing, and still she says she isn't ready. there is always something ahead. dr. h. let her alone, madam, let her alone. give nature a good chance. you will all undo all the good she's getting as soon as you get her home. i insist upon it [_pounds table_] that she shall keep away from you all as long as she likes. _exit dr. hardhack._ mamma p. [_to grandma p._] did you ever see such a queer old dear as dr. hardhack? he does say the oddest things! isn't he _so_ original? grandma p. i haven't heard such good sense talked by any doctor in a long time. aunt f. and then you know, he's all the fashion now. curtain. act iv. _six months later than when emily went away. she has returned home, bringing her friend, pussy willow. in the room are gathered grandma p., mamma p., the two aunts, also emily and pussy and dr. hardhack._ mamma p. well, now, dr. hardhack, doesn't our emily look beautiful? aunt f. so healthy! aunt h.-t. such a splendid color! dr. h. pretty fair, pretty fair. a good summer's work, that. [_looks at e. much pleased_] aunt f. and now, doctor, we want you to tell us just what she may do, just how much. aunt h.-t. of course you know now she's got into a city, she can't dress exactly as she did up in the country. dr. h. i see, i see. aunt f. there isn't a thing of all her clothes she can wear. having been all summer in those loose sacques, she's sort o' _spread out_. [_motions with her hands_] dr. h. well, my advice is that you begin gradually screwing her up. get something with plenty of whalebones ready and a good tough lacer. but don't begin too hard, just tighten a little every day, and by and by she will get back to where her clothes will fit her exactly. aunt f. [_clapping her hands_] that's just what i said we would have to do. mamma p. but, doctor, won't that injure her health? dr. h. of course it will, but i fancy she will stand it for one winter. it won't quite kill her, and that is all we doctors want. emily. [_comes forward_] well, i have something to say on this point. i wouldn't lose my health again for anything that can be named. dr. h. oh, pooh, pooh! [_waves his hand incredulously at e._] when patients are first up from a sickness, how prudent they mean to be! aunt h.-t. but seriously, doctor, you must tell us how much it will be well to have emily do. aunt f. one doesn't want to give up the world entirely, and yet one doesn't want to lose one's health. dr. h. i appreciate the case fully. [_walks up and down considering_] let her begin with the opera twice a week and one dance kept up till daylight. in a week she will feel stronger than ever she did and declare nothing hurts her, then she can take two dances, then three, and so on. emily. but, doctor, i'm not going to dances at all. i know now what life is, and what health is worth, and i'm not going to waste it in that way. dr. h. oh, it's all very well to talk! i knew a rich girl once right in this city of new york who _would_ go round visiting the poor and sitting up with sick people, and there was no end to the remarks made about her. no, you mustn't breathe bad air, nor over-exert yourself unless you do so from a purely selfish motive. then, it's all right and proper. [_to pussy_] oh, you needn't sit over there, looking mischievous, miss! what do you know of life? you will soon learn to be ashamed of your rosy cheeks, and think it's pretty to have bad health. i'll bet a copper [_slaps his knee_] that by spring, if we manage right, we can send you back as white and withered as miss emily was. e. now, dr. hardhack, you dreadful man! you must stop this talk. i brought pussy down here on purpose to help me live better than i have lived. it's so interesting now in new york that pussy is here with me. i never knew what wonderful things there were here. pussy taught me to know the birds this summer at her home, and now we have been this morning to see a most wonderful collection at the museum. mamma p. [_anxiously_] is it wise, doctor, for them to go and look at those stuffed birds? to be sure the birds are under glass, but i'm so afraid they will breathe poison. dr. h. not nearly as much as they would breathe if they went to a crowded theatre, madam. e. it makes me shudder to think of all the hours i've spent at the theatre. as i think of it now, the rooms were so hot and overcrowded i wonder i ever lived through it. since i've been away, i have learned to love everything that is connected with out-door life. pussy has taught me. so now we have arranged that pussy shall spend the winter with me. she is to take singing and music lessons and have all the advantages of the city, and i shall go to her for the summer. of course, we shall take a peep or two at new york sights, but we are not going into the gay world, doctor, really, we're not! dr. h. ta, ta, ta! don't tell me. [_shakes finger warningly_] i shall hear of you yet. you'll see! _exit dr. h._ pussy. what a droll man he is! but i think he's just as nice as he can be. i hope he will come again while i'm here. i like to hear him talk. aunt f. it's his way to always run on in this strange style about everything. aunt h.-t. for my part, i never half know what he means. e. it is plain what he means. you must do exactly contrary to what he tells you, as i shall. so, auntie, don't trouble yourself to alter my things unless it be to let them out, for i'm going to keep all the breathing room i've got whether i have what's called "a pretty waist" or not. i'd rather have color in my cheeks and a cheerful heart than the smallest waist that was ever squeezed together. aunt h.-t. such a pity, one couldn't have both. aunt f. your cousin jane was in here last week with her new bismarck silk, and it fits her so beautifully! somebody said she looked as if she'd been melted and poured into it. there wasn't a crease or wrinkle. it did look lovely! e. well, auntie dear, i must try some other way of looking lovely. may be, if i'm cheerful and happy and always in good spirits and have a fresh, bright face as pussy always has, [_puts her arm affectionately about p._] it may make up for my not looking as if i had been melted and poured into my clothes. grandma p. [_delightedly as she comes forward and joins others who are now all standing_] this is just the way i thought things would turn out if we followed dr. hardhack's prescription. curtain. _by katharine mcdowell rice, worthington, mass._ charley's country cousin a comedy in four acts mrs. charles courtney carleton miss margaret moffat bridget mr. charles courtney carleton time--the present. place--home of mr. and mrs. carleton. cast may be enlarged by having the "at home" take place on the stage. this gives opportunity for individual talent in musical and other lines. permission to act must be obtained of the author "one of the most interesting occurrences of the season at worthington, mass., was the initial presentation last week of 'charley's country cousin,' the author's latest comedy. the play was enthusiastically received. there were some charming scenes between 'charley' and his 'country cousin,' especially that over the telephone, and some very natural and spicy dialogue between mr. and mrs. carleton over the arrangements for an afternoon 'at home.' bridget's various surprises and deductions kept the audience constantly laughing whenever she appeared."--_hampshire gazette._ "'charley's country cousin' was a great success here and we did not consider it at all hard to give. we had two persons for topsy and counterpart and each did a monologue in the place where she was supposed to be rehearsing. topsy also did a colored song very well. all who heard the play said it was the best we had had of the short ones and remarkably well suited to any entertainment given under the auspices of the church."--_miss elisabeth g. day, colchester, conn._ "the geneva club of the y. w. c. a. gave 'charley's country cousin' with great success. the play proved very entertaining indeed, and the club was most pleased with the result."--_miss daisy d. brown, detroit, mich._ "we gave the play 'charley's country cousin' as a d. a. r. entertainment. many thought it one of the best that had ever been given in the town."--_miss clara davis, framingham, mass._ "it is with genuine pleasure and satisfaction that i enclose the royalty and report our great success with 'charley's country cousin,' given at our high school midwinter reunion. it was most enthusiastically received. i was increasingly impressed with its dignity and charm, sparkling humor and cleverly wrought out situations. nothing but the highest praise was accorded it."--_anna l. smith, bellevue, ohio._ =recommended by drama league of america, chicago, in two of its annual bulletins. by ladies' home journal in articles entitled, "entertainments for teachers," and "best plays for amateurs."= price cents all endorsements unsolicited all used by permission charley's country cousin a comedy in four acts dramatis personæ mrs. charles courtney carleton miss margaret moffat bridget mr. charles courtney carleton time--the present. place--home of mr. and mrs. carleton. "one of the most interesting occurrences of the season at worthington, mass., was the initial presentation last week of 'charley's country cousin,' the author's latest comedy. the play was enthusiastically received. there were some charming scenes between 'charley' and his 'country cousin,' especially that over the telephone, and some very natural and spicy dialogue between mr. and mrs. carleton over the arrangements for an afternoon 'at home.' bridget's various deductions and surprises kept the audience constantly laughing whenever she appeared."--_hampshire gazette._ "miss rice has in the comedy, 'charley's country cousin,' added another to her list of delightful plays. the author is not only very well known in this city socially, but also as a writer of clever and original comedies, her 'mrs. bagg's bargain day,' which was presented several times last season, meeting with the greatest favor. this latest play met a most appreciative audience at every production. there were enthusiastic calls for the author both evenings."--_albany argus._ "'charley's country cousin' was a great success here and we did not consider it at all hard to give. we had two persons for topsy and counterpart and each did a monologue in the place where she was supposed to be rehearsing. topsy also did a colored song very well. all who heard the play said it was the best we had had of the short ones and remarkably well suited to any entertainment given under the auspices of the church."--_miss elisabeth g. day, colchester, conn._ "in view of other amateur plays which i have seen, there is not anything that so perfectly meets the need as your plays. in the matter of adaptibility to amateur talent, in action, in humor (at once emphatic and fresh and clean) and in simple natural literary style your writings cannot be excelled."--_rev. w. h. garth, st. michael's rectory, naugatuck, conn._ price cents. good king wenceslas a christmas play for children in two acts this play was written to meet a request of church workers for a christmas entertainment of dramatic character to be given within one hour and with no change of scene. the author, therefore, has arranged act i to be read aloud to an audience with no acting, which reading shall be followed by the rise of curtain and the presentation of the two scenes of act ii. the dramatic parts for the play, as thus arranged, are those only that are found in act ii, and are given below. all may be readily taken by children. dame goody (hedwig) gretchen violet } alfred } children of mrs. collingwood bernice } kenneth } pauline } louise } esther } olive } dorothy } friends of the collingwood children laurence } ralph } david } other children may be added, if desired, or the above number lessened. (see notes.) "we had a most successful christmas entertainment. the applause was so loud we feared the children would forget to finish their parts."--_miss alice f. danforth, springfield, mass._ "a great success for a christmas entertainment, there is so much life and color in it, so much song and emotion. it is well and carefully done with both the proportion of moderation and the charm of deep sentiment."--_david s. muzzey, ph.d., yonkers, n. y._ "it is difficult to find words to express my admiration for the play 'good king wenceslas.' i believe it will be far-reaching in its influence."--_miss n. h. cottrell, albany, n. y._ "it is splendid."--_rev. wm. h. garth, st. michael's rectory, naugatuck, conn._ price cents. good king wenceslas (see foregoing page.) this play may be given more elaborately by the representing on the stage of act i. this arrangement will call for the addition of the following characters: helen armstrong, a girl of , afterward mrs. collingwood four school girls edwin, a footman man, a thief woman, a thief boy train announcer gateman, who inspects tickets other r. r. officials, passengers, etc., etc. scene laid at new york r. r. station "simple and picturesque, bright and pathetic in turn."--_rt. rev. alexander h. vinton, d. d., bishop, springfield, mass._ "it breathes the christmas spirit and has a true dramatic interest that holds one to the end."--_miss eleanor meneely, albany, n. y._ "i have greatly enjoyed 'good king wenceslas.' the introduction of the carols is a beautiful feature of the play. your work along these lines is a work that has long been needed."--_rev. fredk. j. sawers, christ church cathedral, montreal, canada._ "the play is splendid and the first act is great. i hope we can give 'good king wenceslas,' for your plays are so 'playable,' it is a joy to work over them."--_miss marion h. sterns, instructor in elocution and physical culture, staten island academy, staten island, n. y._ price cents. mrs. tubbs's telegram a comedy in one act dramatis personæ mrs. tubbs rowena } amelia } tommy } children of mrs. tubbs teddy } and } other little tubbs } mrs. raven } mrs. donnell } neighbors of mrs. tubbs miss simpkins } and others } as few or many neighbors as desired telegraph messenger place--kitchen of mrs. tubbs at cinder corner. if given as an out-door play, action takes place on mrs. tubbs's back piazza. time in representation minutes to hour. given by all ages with equal success as following endorsements will show. the parts of "teddy" and "tommy" may be taken by girls dressed as boys or names may be changed to those of girls. "a little comedy designed to supply a real demand--that of a wholesome, amusing play to be used in school or home theatricals."--_the outlook._ "we heartily commend the capital little play, 'mrs. tubbs's telegram,' as a very natural and amusing comedietta, which is quite within the acting capacities of every-day boys and girls."--_editorial notes st. nicholas._ "our club presented your very clever little play, 'mrs. tubbs's telegram,' last evening before an audience of persons who were most enthusiastic."--_mrs. richard farmer wood, concord, mass._ "the best chapter play ever given at vassar to my knowledge."--_an instructor for many years at the college. quoted by mabel h. baldwin, vassar college, poughkeepsie, n. y._ "the play was just what we wanted and proved the greatest kind of a success."--_charlotte w. passmore, morris house, smith college, northampton, mass._ "the little chapel was filled and 'mrs. tubbs' was greatly enjoyed. it was a genuine satisfaction to give such a pure, clean little play with life and fun from beginning to end."--_miss georgiana clinton, south norwalk, conn._ "everyone spoke of it as a very bright little play and just the thing for a church. we got along nicely without a curtain."--_mrs. f. s. field, shattuckville, mass._ "we gave the comedy to a very large audience in the town hall, who received it with the wildest enthusiasm."--_principal high school, windsor, conn._ "given five times for five different charities by y. w. c. a. of poughkeepsie, n. y. our last audience was larger and if possible even more enthusiastic than our first."--_miss emma mott, general secretary y. w. c. a._ "a crowded house and everyone highly entertained. it is just the thing for home entertainments where children are to take part."--_miss lillian fischer, fulton, missouri._ "just the right sort of play for boys and girls to give."--_mrs. f. w. davis, cumberland, maine._ price, cents. mrs. bagg's bargain day a comedy in two acts dramatis personae mrs. bagg madelaine bagg benny bagg younger baggs mrs. tagg mrs. ragg mrs. fagg mrs. lagg mrs. pettit mrs. short mrs. grand mr. bagg mr. talkhard cash boys, clerks, shoppers, maid, workmen, etc., etc. act. i.--interior of a department store. act ii.--mrs. bagg's home. time in representation to - / hours, as preferred. "the charming little comedy 'mrs. bagg's bargain day,' was given most successfully last night before the fortnightly club of this place, and all were in hearty appreciation of its delightful merit. the play was in the hands of gifted amateurs, so the humor and pertinence of the text were in no way impaired."--_eleanor havens grant, jamestown, n. y._ "given by unity dramatic club, springfield, mass. the chapel was packed full of people and so many turned away that the performance will be again presented. a remarkably bright little play."--_springfield republican._ given by alumnæ of albany academy for girls, benefit of endowment fund, $ realized. later repeated by same amateurs for various charities, seven performances in all being given. "a tremendous success from start to finish. large and enthusiastic audiences at every representation."--_albany argus._ "i am delighted with 'mrs. bagg's bargain day' and know it will meet with success wherever presented."--_miss adele ripont, instructor in elocution and physical culture, central high school, buffalo, n. y._ "'mrs. bagg's bargain day' was by far the greatest hit of anything ever tried here. we found the parts very easy to take."--_miss edith irwin, president y. w. c. a., iberia academy, iberia, missouri._ "the young people are carried away with 'mrs. bagg's bargain day,' and want to commence work right away."--_miss lois b. warner, salisbury, conn._ "given by the young people of st. paul's church, poughkeepsie, n. y. not a dull line in it."--_rev. francis whitcome, rector._ "we presented 'mrs. bagg's bargain day' last friday night at the schoolhouse to a very appreciative audience. we were so well pleased that we shall probably want to give another of your plays in the autumn."--_harry mcculloch, class president, freeport high school, freeport, ill._ "the play succeeded excellently. we received considerable applause and what we most wanted, lots of laughter."--_kennebunk festival chorus, kennebunk, maine._ price cents. good as gold (second edition with notes) a comedy in four acts the title, "their rich relative," may be substituted if preferred. dramatis personæ mrs. rogers marie } hester } dorothy } daughters of mrs. rogers theodora } mrs. laura vose sister of mrs. rogers miss lucinda phelps distant cousin of mrs. rogers rosa the maid janet } isabel } little school girls baggage-man musicians as many male characters as desired may be introduced in act ii as travelers, newsboys, ticket agent, boot black, etc., etc. (see notes). play may be given by female characters only if preferred. a stewardess may be substituted for the baggage-man or baggage-man eliminated. (see notes). time--the present. place--new england village. time in representation, longer form hours; shorter form - / hours. given with equal success by girls' schools and women's clubs. "original and clever with interest sustained to the very end."--_rt. rev. wm. croswell doane, d. d., ll. d., bishop, albany, n. y._ "the best play i have yet seen for girls."--_miss tebbetts, principal of st. margaret's school, san mateo, california._ "every one pronounced it one of the prettiest plays ever seen."--_miss josephine m. taft, greenville, n. h._ "thank you for a play which is so bright and charming and so full of good wholesome fun."--_miss susan e. borthwick, portsmouth, n. h._ "enclosed find our program of 'gentlemen's night,' which passed off very pleasantly. all evidently appreciated the comical situations in 'good as gold,' and the ladies certainly made the most of them. the gentlemen seemed greatly to enjoy the play, and we were all agreed that it was a bright, clean comedy, very suitable for occasions like ours."--_amherst woman's club, amherst, mass._ "we presented the play, 'good as gold,' at our summer residence before an audience of a hundred and fifty people. the tickets were sold at seventy-five cents apiece and the proceeds given to a local charity. the parts were taken by ten girls from twelve to fourteen years of age and they did themselves, as well as those who had instructed them, great credit. many pronounced it the best piece of amateur acting they ever had seen. the play, itself, was highly commended by all as being extremely refined, free from all foolish ideas, bright and interesting from beginning to end."--_mrs. eugene n. foss, cohasset, mass._ price cents. a successful stratagem a comedy in one act dramatis personæ colonel wentworth retired army officer colonel ashmore in active service caroline wentworth an only daughter, aged nora a maid time hour "a charming, brilliant little comedy."--_charles eliot norton._ "bright and entertaining, compact and manageable, lending itself to the conditions of almost any home in our land."--_mrs. l. f. selfridge, foot's cray, kent, london, england._ "if you happen to need a little play that may be easily acted by amateurs in a home evening, send to k. mcdowell rice, worthington, mass., and procure her list of original plays. they are clever and droll, and the stage properties and setting come within the means of a little company of high school girls, or of a charitable association or guild. they have not one objectionable feature and have many good ones."--_mrs. margaret e. sangster, in sunshine bulletin._ "i have seen your booklet containing the comedy, 'a successful stratagem,' which i find wonderfully clever, and as i am thinking of giving a little dramatic entertainment in my home for the woman's club, i think this play will be most entertaining."--_mrs. myron dickson, martinsville, indiana._ "the choicest comedy in your collection."--_miss isadelle c. couch, instructor of vocal training, mt. holyoke college, mass._ "any sunshiner seeking a clean, bright play for college, school or home theatricals, will not do better than to try 'good as gold' and 'a successful stratagem.'"--_mary d. beattie in sunshine bulletin._ "i need always some bit of humor in my programs, and it is difficult to find pure light humor that is not plebeian. your plays are most excellent in this very particular, that they are entirely above coarseness."--_miss m. m. davis, instructor in expression and oratory, hillsdale college, hillsdale, michigan._ "your plays are most attractive. the best thing of the kind i have seen. you have my permission, most heartily granted, to use my endorsement, as it is such a pleasure to find plays that are fresh, interesting and 'playable,' after looking over quantities of the silly, inane trash that is published to-day."--_e. b. merrill, walla walla, washington._ "i regard your comedies as admirably adapted to school and church entertainments and hope to use another at some future date."--_rev. c. f. porter, corinth, n. y._ "i am delighted with 'a successful stratagem,' and with all your plays."--_mrs. salome cutler fairchild, vice-director library school, albany, n. y._ "a successful stratagem" has been given by smith college students at morris house and belmont house, northampton, mass.; also by the pupils of miss liggett's home and day school, detroit, mich., and by many others. price cents. uncle joe's jewel a comedy in three acts comedy given at worthington. initial performance of miss rice's "uncle joe's jewel" a success. the initial performance of a three-act comedy at worthington, "uncle joe's jewel," the latest play of miss katharine mcdowell rice, took place friday. the parts were all excellently taken as follows: molly armstrong mrs. o. b. ireland grace horton the author nora, the janitor's daughter miss rachel ely mr. winthrop ("uncle joe") w. g. rice, jr. jack wetherbee raymond buck karl pfeffer donald stevens postman raymond laird stage manager--miss susan rice. the audience was a most appreciative one, the play being received with constant laughter and applause. among those from out of town who came especially for the play were mr. and mrs. goddard of new york, mrs. and miss gardner and mr. henry carter of albany, mr. and mrs. mellor of philadelphia, mrs. william bryant of montclair, n. j., mrs. lyman james of williamsburg, mrs. harry williams and mrs. h. r. hinckley of northampton, mrs. and miss merritt and mr. merritt of brooklyn, mrs. gillette of hudson, prof. wellington of amherst, and dr. and mrs. gibbs of huntington. word was received from senator and mrs. crane that they had hoped to be present, but were unavoidably detained. there were also large parties from middlefield, south worthington, littleville and chesterfield. between acts i and ii some charming novelties from paris were sold by mrs. w. g. rice for benefit of new scenery and curtains, about $ being realized. between acts ii and iii mrs. rice delighted the audience with some french songs, accompanied by miss julia rogers of springfield. after the play the audience went largely out of doors to enjoy the charming afternoon. here miss rice received many congratulations on the success of the play; $ was received at the door, to which was added $ from friends present, making a total of $ for the library. the play was repeated in the evening for the benefit of the woman's benevolent society and parish work; $ was taken at the door, to which was added the money received from sale of candy and refreshments, making a total of about $ for this benefit.--_springfield republican._ _by katharine mcdowell rice, worthington, mass._ uncle joe's jewel a comedy in three acts molly armstrong grace horton nora, the janitor's daughter mr. winthrop ("uncle joe") jack wetherbee karl pfeffer postman place: apartment of misses horton and armstrong permission to act must be obtained of the author "i am delighted to express my appreciation of 'uncle joe's jewel,' given by our woman's guild of st. peter's church. it is a very bright, clever little comedy."--_mrs. h. a. field, springfield, mass._ "we and our audience greatly enjoyed your charming 'uncle joe's jewel.' every one was most enthusiastic. i think you will be interested to know that i never had so little trouble in drilling girls for a play, which was to me psychological evidence that it was so true to girl nature that they did it all naturally and spontaneously. our play was such a success that at request we repeated it before the mothers' club of christ church, who were highly entertained, appreciating all the points to the full. give us more plays as clever and wholesome as 'uncle joe's jewel.'"--_clara l. bostwick, miss porter's school, "the elms," springfield, mass._ "we gave 'uncle joe's jewel' as a church entertainment and believe you would have been proud of your work. every word you write is to the point and the actors brought it all out so well."--_m. k. royal, plymouth, mass._ "we have chosen 'uncle joe's jewel' as our freshman play."--_all around club, jackson college._ "we gave 'uncle joe's jewel' as our class play, and had such success that we believe it will inaugurate the giving of a play each year as a part of senior prom."--_new bedford, mass., high school._ price cents all endorsements unsolicited all used by permission dr. hardhack's prescription a play for children in four short acts dramatis personae grandma proudie mamma proudie emily proudie aunt flighty aunt highty-tighty pussy willow mary, the maid dr. hardhack price cents. golfer goop's gauntlet for children entertainment to be given with punch and judy puppets manuscript loaned an entertainment of new wax works with up-to-date figures and original speeches a modern adaptation of the old and well-known mrs. jarley's wax works manuscript loaned children's classics in dramatic form a reader for the fourth grade by augusta stevenson formerly a teacher in the indianapolis public schools to miss n. cropsey assistant superintendent indianapolis public schools [illustration: "the moon changes into the red beard of the old soldier"] foreword this book is intended to accomplish three distinct purposes: first, to arouse a greater interest in oral reading; second, to develop an expressive voice--sadly lacking in the case of most americans; and third, to give freedom and grace in the bodily attitudes and movements which are involved in reading and speaking. the stories given are for the most part adaptations of favorite tales from folklore,--andersen, grimm, aesop, and the arabian nights having been freely drawn upon. children are dramatic by nature. they _are_ for the time the kings, the fairies, and the heroes that they picture in their imaginations. they _are_ these characters with such abandon and with such intense pleasure that the on-looker must believe that nature intended that they should give play to this dramatic instinct, not so much formally, with all the trappings of the man-made stage, but spontaneously and naturally, as they talk and read. if this expressive instinct can be utilized in the teaching of reading, we shall be able both to add greatly to the child's enjoyment and to improve the quality of his oral reading. in these days when so many books are hastily read in school, there is a tendency to sacrifice expression to the mechanics and interpretation of reading. those acquainted with school work know too well the resulting monotonous, indistinct speech and the self-conscious, listless attitude which characterize so much of the reading of pupils in grades above the third. it is believed that this little book will aid in overcoming these serious faults in reading, which all teachers and parents deplore. the dramatic appeal of the stories will cause the child to lose himself in the character he is impersonating and read with a naturalness and expressiveness unknown to him before, and this improvement will be evident in all his oral reading, and even in his speech. the use of the book permits the whole range of expression, from merely reading the stories effectively, to "acting them out" with as little, or as much, stage-setting or costuming as a parent or teacher may desire. the stories are especially designed to be read as a part of the regular reading work. many different plans for using the book will suggest themselves to the teacher. after a preliminary reading of a story during the study period, the teacher may assign different parts to various children, she herself reading the stage directions and the other brief descriptions inclosed in brackets. the italicized explanations in parentheses are not intended to be read aloud; they will aid in giving the child the cue as to the way the part should be rendered. after the story has been read in this way, if thought advisable it can be played informally and simply, with no attempt at costuming or theatric effects. it will often add to the interest of the play to have some of the children represent certain of the inanimate objects of the scene, as the forest, the town gate, a door, etc. occasionally, for the "open day," or as a special exercise, a favorite play may be given by the children with the simplest kind of costuming and stage-setting. these can well be made in the school as a part of the manual training and sewing work. in giving the play, it will generally be better not to have pupils memorize the exact words of the book, but to depend upon the impromptu rendering of their parts. this method will contribute more largely to the training in english. the best results will usually be obtained by using these stories in the fourth grade. in some schools, however, the stories in the first part of the book may profitably be used in the third grade. the author has been led to believe from her own experience and from her conversation with many other teachers that there is a pronounced call for this kind of book. she therefore hopes that in the preparation of this book she may have been of service to the teachers and children who may be led to use it. a. s. contents the travellers and the hatchet _adapted from aesop's fable, the travellers and the hatchet._ the old man and his grandson _adapted from grimm's the old man and his grandson._ the crow and the fox _suggested by aesop's fable, the crow and the fox._ the miller, his son, and their donkey _suggested by aesop's fable, the miller, his son, and their ass._ each in his own place _suggested by grimm's the mouse, the bird, and the sausage._ what the goodman does is always right _adapted from hans andersen's what the goodman does is always right._ the cat and the mouse _suggested by grimm's the cat and the mouse._ the girl who trod on the loaf _suggested by hans andersen's the girl who trod on the loaf._ the ugly duckling _suggested by hans andersen's the ugly duckling._ the red shoes _suggested by hans andersen's the red shoes._ the story of ali cogia _adapted from the story of ali cogia from the arabian nights' entertainments._ the wild swans _suggested by hans andersen's the wild swans._ the two countrymen _suggested by an oriental legend; source unknown._ the man and the alligator _from a folk-tale of spanish honduras._ the song in the heart _suggested by grimm's the three spinners._ the emperor's test christopher columbus illustrations the moon changes into the red beard of the old soldier. the travellers and the hatchet "we have lost our donkey" what the goodman does is always right the cat and the mouse "'t is sinking! what shall i do?" the ugly duckling "a thousand pieces at least" the two countrymen "help! help!" the prince sees the three great-aunts the travellers and the hatchet time: _last week_. place: _a high road_. * * * * * first traveller. second traveller. the carpenter. * * * * * [_the_ two travellers _journey along the road. a hatchet lies in the dust at one side._][footnote: the explanations in _brackets_ may be read by the teacher.] first traveller (_seeing the hatchet, taking it up_).[footnote: the words in _parentheses_ are not intended to be read aloud; they will give the child the cue as to how the part should be rendered.] ah, see what i have found! second traveller. do not say _i_, but rather, what _we_ have found. first traveller. nonsense! did i not see the hatchet first? and did i not take it up? second traveller. well, then, claim the hatchet, since that is plainly your wish. [_enter the_ carpenter.] carpenter (_to first traveller_). aha, thief! now i have caught you! [_he seizes the first traveller._] first traveller. no thief am i, sir! [illustration: the travellers and the hatchet] carpenter. but my own hatchet is in your hand, sir. come along to the judge, sir! first traveller (_to second traveller_). alas, we are undone! second traveller. do not say _we_. you are undone, not i. you would not allow me to share the prize; you cannot expect me to share the danger. i bid you good day, sir. the old man and his grandson time: _now_. place: _a certain_ man's _house_. * * * * * the man. his wife. their son--little hans. the grandfather. * * * * * [_the_ man, _his_ wife, _little_ hans, _and the_ grandfather _sit at the table eating the noon meal._] man. be careful, father! you are spilling the soup on your coat. grandfather (_trying to steady his trembling hand_). yes, yes, i'll be careful. [_short pause._] wife (_sharply_). grandfather! you have spilled the soup on my clean tablecloth! grandfather (_embarrassed_). dear me! dear me! [_short pause._] man. here, father, is your plate of meat. [_the old man takes the plate, but lets it fall._] wife (_angrily_). there now! just see what you have done! grandfather. my hand shook so--i'm sorry--so sorry! wife. that won't mend the plate! man. nor buy a new one! wife (_to her husband_). he should eat from wooden dishes. man (_nodding, pointing to a wooden dish_). let him have that one for his meat. [_the grandfather sighs sadly. the wife gets a wooden dish and fills it with meat. little hans leaves the table and plays with his blocks on the floor._] wife (_handing the wooden dish to the grandfather_). here's one you can't break. go now and sit in the corner behind the oven. you shall eat there hereafter. i cannot have my tablecloths soiled--that i cannot! [_the grandfather takes his wooden plate and goes to the seat in the corner behind the oven. his eyes are filled with tears._] man. come, little hans, and finish your dinner. wife (_turning to hans_). bless me! what are you making, child? hans. a wooden trough for you and father to eat out of when i grow big. [_the man and his wife look at each other; there is a pause._] man (_showing shame_). he will treat us as we have treated father! wife (_weeping_). 't will serve us right! man (_kindly_). father, throw that wooden dish out of the window. i am ashamed of what i have done; forgive me! wife (_kindly_). father, come back to the table. i too am ashamed. forgive me, dear father. the crow and the fox time: _yesterday noon_. place: _a high tree in a grove_. * * * * * madam crow. miss crow, _her daughter_. master fox. * * * * * [madam crow _sits in the tree. enter_ miss crow. _she carries a large piece of cheese in her mouth._] madam. o joy! o joy! come, dear daughter, come! we'll dine as if we were queen and princess! [_miss crow flies to madam crow. enter_ master fox.] fox. i bid you good morning, dear madam. madam. good morning to you, dear sir. fox (_sitting under tree_). with your permission, i'll speak with your daughter. madam. she'll be pleased to listen, that she will--you are so clever. fox (_modestly_). nay, madam, not so clever, only thoughtful. [_he sighs deeply twice._] madam. you have something on your mind. fox (_sighing_). yes, dear madam,--i am thinking of your daughter. madam. then speak! speak now, sir!--at once, sir! fox. i speak. o sweet miss crow, how beautiful your wings are! madam (_pleased_). do you hear that, daughter? [_miss crow nods, spreading her wings proudly._] fox. i speak again. how bright your eye, dear maid! how graceful your neck! madam. bend your neck, child! now bend it well that he may better see your grace. [_miss crow bends neck twice._] fox. but oh, that such a sweet bird should be dumb!--should be so utterly dumb! [_he weeps gently in his little pocket handkerchief._] madam (_indignantly_). do you think, sir, she cannot _caw_ as well as the rest of us? fox. i must think so, dear madam. alas! [_weeping again in his little pocket handkerchief._] madam. you shall think so, then, no longer! caw, child, caw, as you have never cawed before! miss crow (_opening mouth; dropping cheese_). caw! caw! [_fox quickly snaps up the cheese._] fox (_going_). thank you, miss crow. remember, dear madam, that whatever i said of her beauty, i said nothing of her brains. [_he goes, waving the crows a farewell with his little pocket handkerchief._] the miller, his son, and their donkey time: _this morning_. place: _a bridge, near a town and not far from a fair_. * * * * * the miller and his son. first maid. second maid. third maid. first old man. second old man. third old man. first goody. second goody. third goody. the mayor. his first clerk. his second clerk. * * * * * [_the_ miller _and his_ son _are driving their donkey across the bridge. they go to the fair._] son. do you expect to get a good price for our donkey, father? miller (_nodding_). aye, lad; the fair is the place to take your wares. son. our donkey is not so young, though. miller. neither is he so old, though. son. but he is not so fat, though. miller. neither is he so lean, though. son. truly he might be worse. miller. better or worse, he must be sold. [three maids _enter the bridge. they go to the fair._] first maid (_pointing to the miller and his son_). look there! did you ever see such geese? second maid. as i live!--walking when they might ride! third maid (_to the miller_). you'll get a laugh at the fair, old man! [_the maids pass on._] miller. this may be true. get you upon the beast, lad. [_the boy mounts the donkey. enter_ three old men. _they talk together earnestly. they go to the fair._] first old man (_pointing to the miller and his son_). look you there! that proves what i was saying. second old man (_nodding_). aye! there's no respect shown old age in these days. third old man (_nodding_). aye! there's that young rogue riding while his old father has to walk! [_the old men pass on._] miller. get down, lad. 't would indeed look better should i ride. [_the lad dismounts; the miller mounts. enter_ three goodies; _they go to the fair._] first goody (_indignantly, pointing to the miller and his son_). look, goodies, look! did you ever see anything so cruel? second goody (_to the miller_). you lazy old fellow! how can you ride while your own child walks in the dust? third goody (_to the lad_). you poor, poor child! [_the goodies pass on, shaking their heads and their canes indignantly._] miller. come, lad, get up behind me. son. why, father, i'm not tired! miller. i know, but we must try to please them. come. [_the lad mounts, sitting behind his father. enter the_ mayor _and his_ clerks. _they go to the fair._] mayor (_turning to his clerks; pointing to the miller and his son_). look, will you! (_he turns to the miller._) pray, honest friend, is that beast your own? miller. yes, my lord mayor. mayor. one would not think so from the way you load him. say you not so, my clerks? first clerk (_bowing_). just so, my lord mayor. second clerk (_bowing_). even so, my lord mayor. the mayor (_to the miller and his son_). why, you two fellows are better able to carry the poor donkey than he you! say you not so, my clerks? first clerk (_bowing_). just so, my lord mayor. second clerk (_bowing_). even so, my lord mayor. miller. come, my son, to please them, we'll carry the donkey. [_they dismount and try to lift the donkey. this frightens the poor beast. he tries to get away, and falls over the bridge into the deep river._] miller (_weeping_). i have tried to please every one! i have pleased no one! son (_weeping_). and we have lost our donkey in the bargain! [illustration: "we have lost our donkey"] each in his own place time: _yesterday_. place: _in a tiny house_. * * * * * the straw _who brings in the wood_. the coal _who makes the fire_. the snowflake _who draws the water_. the sugar loaf _who lays the table_. the sausage _who cooks the meals_. * * * * * [_the tiny kitchen is seen. the_ sausage _is stirring the pot. the_ coal _is tending the fire. the_ sugar loaf _is laying the table. enter_ straw _with a load of wood._] straw (_throwing down wood_). think you'll need more wood for the dinner, sausage? [_sausage does not answer. she gets into the pot to flavor the vegetables._] coal (_whispers to straw_). sausage is quite put out. straw. what's the trouble? coal. no one knows. [_enter_ snowflake _with a pail of water._] snowflake (_looking about_). where's sausage? straw. she is flavoring the vegetables. [_sausage comes out of the pot._] snowflake. here is the water, sausage. [_sausage does not answer._] snowflake (_speaking louder_). will you come for the water, sausage? sausage (_sharply_). no, madam, i will not! the others (_with surprise_). sausage! sausage. i've been slave here long enough! the others (_as before_). sister sausage! sausage. i mean just what i say! snowflake. have i not done my share of the work? coal. have i not done my share? straw. have i not done my share? sugar loaf. and have i not done my share? sausage. please to tell me what you do. straw. i bring in wood that coal may make the fire. coal. i make the fire that the pot may boil. snowflake. i draw the water and bring it from the brook. sugar loaf. i lay the table nicely. sausage. what do i? eh? what do i? i must stand over the fire. i must not only stir the dinner, i must flavor it with myself. for each of you there is one duty. for me there are plainly three. straw. but, sister-- sausage (_interrupting_). don't "sister" me! snowflake. sausage, dear, would you break up our pretty home? sugar loaf. and we all so happy here! sausage. there must be a change! some one else can stand over the fire--can stir the pot--can flavor the vegetables. coal. if i flavored them, they could not be eaten. sausage. that's what you're always saying, but i'm not so sure of it. snowflake. if i stirred the pot, 't would be the end of me. sausage. yes, you say that often enough, but i'm not so sure that it is true. straw. should i stand over the fire, i'd be no more. sausage (_scornfully_). excuses! excuses! sugar loaf. 't is plain that i should not get into the pot. sausage. and why not, miss? why not? sugar loaf. 't would be good-by for me, if i should! sausage. excuses! excuses! i say there must be a change! 't is i who will bring the wood or draw the water. coal. but, sausage, you should stay within. sausage. not i, sir! i'll out of the pot and out of the house, i will! i'll see a bit of the world, i will! sugar loaf (_sighing_). well, if she will, she will! sausage (_getting slips_). come, now, and draw for it. [_she holds the slips for the others to draw._] straw (_drawing; reading from slip_). "who gets this must make the fire." sugar loaf (_drawing; reading from slip_). "who gets this must draw the water." snowflake (_drawing; reading from slip_). "who gets this must stir the pot and flavor it with herself." coal (_drawing; reading from slip_). "who gets this must lay the table nicely." sausage (_reading from last slip_). "who gets this must bring the wood." well, that pleases me! straw, see if the fire needs wood. (_straw hesitates._) come, come, do your duty! [_straw crosses the hearth and looks into the fire. he is very careful, but the fire reaches him and he is gone in a puff!_] snowflake. poor straw! well, 't is my duty to stir the pot and to flavor it with myself. [_she crosses to the hearth, but just as she reaches it, she disappears without so much as a cry._] sugar loaf. poor snowflake! well, 't is my duty to draw the water. [_she forgets that the pail is full, falls into it, and is seen no more._] coal. poor sugar loaf! well, 't is my duty to lay the table nicely. [_he forgets that he is still burning from having lately tended the fire. as he places the plates, the tablecloth catches fire and wraps itself around him._] coal (_from inside the burning cloth_). this is the end of me! sausage (_weeping_). dear me! dear me! who would have thought 't would turn out so badly! well, 't is my duty to bring in wood. [_she opens the door and is face to face with a hungry dog who is sniffing about._] dog. ah, i thought you'd be coming out soon! sausage (_pleased_). do you want to see me, sir? dog. why, yes, i've been waiting for you. sausage. how good to be out in the world! they always said my place was within. dog. they did, eh? well, just to please them, i'll put you there. [_he swallows her quickly, which ends both sister sausage and our story._] what the goodman does is always right scene i time: _early one morning_. place: _a very old farmhouse_. * * * * * the goodman. his wife. * * * * * [_the_ goodman _and his_ wife _are seated in their spare room because it is fair-day._] wife. yes, i think it would be as well to sell our horse. or, as you say, we might exchange him for something more useful. goodman. what shall we exchange him for? wife. you know best, goodman. whatever you do will be right. goodman (_starting out_). it is fair-day. i will ride into town and see what can be done. wife. wait till i fasten your neckerchief! you shall have a pretty double bow this time, for you are going to the fair. (_she ties the neckerchief. the goodman starts out._) wait till i have smoothed your hat! (_she smooths his old hat._) now you are ready. goodman (_going_). be at the window, wife. wife (_nodding_). yes, surely, and i will wave at you as you ride by. scene ii time: _two hours later_. place: _near the toll-gate on the road to the fair_. * * * * * the goodman. first peasant. second peasant. third peasant. toll-keeper. hostler. * * * * * [_the_ goodman _is seen riding his horse. enter, from a country lane, a_ peasant, _driving a cow._] goodman (_stopping; calling_). halloo, there--you with the cow! peasant (_stopping_). yes, goodman. goodman. your cow gives good milk, i am certain. peasant (_nodding_). none richer in this country! goodman. a horse is of more value than a cow, but i don't care for that. a cow will be more useful to me; so if you like, we'll exchange. peasant. to be sure i will. here is your cow. goodman. here is your horse. [_the peasant goes off riding the horse. a_ second peasant, _driving a sheep, enters from a field near by._] goodman (_sees him and calls_). halloo, there--you with the sheep! second peasant (_stopping_). yes, goodman. goodman. i should like to have that sheep. second peasant. she is a good, fat sheep. goodman. there is plenty of grass for her by our fence at home, and in the winter we could keep her in the room with us. second peasant. do you wish to buy her? goodman. will you take my cow in exchange? second peasant. i am willing. here is your sheep. goodman. here is your cow. [_the second peasant goes off driving the cow. enter, from a farmyard near by, a_ third peasant _carrying a goose._] goodman. what a heavy creature you have there! third peasant (_stopping_). she has plenty of feathers and plenty of fat. goodman. she would look well paddling in the water at our place. third peasant (_stopping_). she would look well in any place! goodman. she would be very useful to my wife. she could make all sorts of profit out of her. third peasant. indeed she could, goodman! goodman. how often she has said,--"if now we only had a goose!" third peasant. well, this goose is for sale. goodman. i will give my sheep for your goose and thanks into the bargain. third peasant. i am willing; here is your goose. goodman. here is your sheep. [_the peasant goes off with the sheep. the goodman discovers a hen in the_ toll-keeper's _potato field._] goodman (_calling_). that's the finest fowl i ever saw, toll-keeper! toll-keeper. you're right about that, goodman. goodman. she's finer than our pastor's brood-hen! upon my word she is! i should like to have that fowl! toll-keeper. she is for sale. goodman. i think it would be a good exchange if i could get her for my goose. toll-keeper. well, it wouldn't be a bad thing. goodman. then here is your goose. toll-keeper. here is your fowl. [_enter a_ hostler _carrying a sack._] goodman (_to hostler_). what have you in that sack, friend? hostler. rotten apples--to feed the pigs with. goodman. why, that will be a terrible waste. i should like to take them home to my wife. hostler (_astonished_). to your wife? goodman (_nodding_). you see, last year our old apple tree bore only one apple, which we kept in the cupboard till it was quite rotten. it was always property, my wife said. hostler. what will you give me for the sackful? your wife would then have a great deal of property. goodman. well, i will give you my fowl in exchange. hostler. here is your sack of rotten apples. goodman. here is your fowl. [_the hostler goes with the fowl._] toll-keeper. toll, goodman! goodman. i will not go to the fair to-day. i have done a great deal of business, and i am tired. i will go back home. scene iii time: _two hours later_. place: _the old farmhouse_. * * * * * the goodman. his wife. * * * * * [_enter the_ goodman, _carrying the sack. the_ wife _waits for him in the spare room, because he has been away._] goodman. well, wife, i've made the exchange. wife. ah, well, you always understand what you're about. goodman. i got a cow in exchange for the horse. wife. good! now we shall have plenty of milk and butter and cheese on the table. that was a fine exchange! goodman. yes, but i changed the cow for a sheep. wife. ah, better still! we have just enough grass for a sheep.--ewe's milk and cheese! woolen jackets and stockings! the cow could not give all those. how you think of everything! goodman. but i changed the sheep for a goose. wife. then we shall have roast goose to eat this year. you dear goodman, you are always thinking of something to please me! goodman. but i gave away the goose for a fowl. wife. a fowl? well, that was a good exchange. the fowl will lay eggs and hatch them. we shall soon have a poultry-yard. ah, this is just what i was wishing for! goodman. yes, but i exchanged the fowl for a sack of rotten apples. wife. my dear, good husband! now, i'll tell you something. do you know, almost as soon as you left me this morning, i began thinking of what i could give you nice for supper. i thought of bacon with eggs and sweet herbs. goodman. but we have no sweet herbs. wife (_nodding_). for that reason, i went over to our neighbor's and begged her to lend me a handful. goodman. that was right; they have plenty. wife (_nodding_). so i thought, but she said, "lend? i have nothing to lend, not even a rotten apple." now i can lend _her_ ten or the whole sackful. it makes me laugh to think of it. i am so glad. goodman. so you think what i did was right? wife. what the goodman does is always right. the cat and the mouse time: _perhaps this minute_. place: _perhaps your own garret_. * * * * * mother mouse. her daughter, miss mouse. the cat. * * * * * [mother mouse _and_ miss mouse _are in their spare room because mother mouse is getting ready for a journey. miss mouse helps her. the_ cat _is outside, peeping now and then through the window, but so slyly that the mice do not see her._] mother mouse (_going_). now mind you keep one eye on our grease-pot, child. miss mouse. that i will, dear mother! mother mouse. let no one in,--no one! no one! miss mouse. no one, dear mother! mother mouse. i'll not be long away. good-by, my child. (_starting out; stopping._) mind you show no one the grease-pot, child,--no one! no one! miss mouse. no one, dear mother! [_mother mouse goes out of the front door._] cat (_calling through window_). oh, miss mouse! oh, miss mouse! miss mouse (_showing alarm_). who calls? cat (_very sweetly_). only i! will you please let me in? miss mouse (_shaking head_). mother said-- cat (_interrupting quickly_). 't is a matter of business! miss mouse (_shaking head_). but mother said-- cat (_interrupting_). 't is most important! miss mouse (_as before_). but mother said-- cat (_interrupting_). i wish your advice--you are so clever! miss mouse (_showing she is pleased; starting to window_). oh, do you truly think so? cat (_nodding_). every one thinks so! miss mouse (_showing she is more pleased; going to the window_). oh, do they, truly? cat. oh, truly they do! miss mouse (_showing she is most pleased; opening window_). what else nice say they? cat (_jumping in_). that i'll tell you by and by. (_sniffing about._) there must be a grease-pot about! am i not right? miss mouse. mother said-- [illustration: the cat and the mouse] cat (_interrupting_). only tell me if i be right! 't will do no harm! miss mouse (_hesitating_). well--then--yes. but 't is put away for our winter stores. cat (_nodding_). just so! now, i can't decide where to keep my grease-pot when i have bought one. won't you give me your advice? you are so wise. miss mouse. do you truly think i'm wise? cat (_nodding_). aye, and if you will tell me where to keep my grease-pot when i have bought it, i'll tell you something more. miss mouse (_greatly pleased_). about me? cat (_nodding_). yes,--what every one says about your being so beautiful. but first i must know where to keep my grease-pot. miss mouse. then listen--you must keep it, when you have bought it, in the northwest corner. [_the cat runs quickly to the northwest corner._] miss mouse (_in alarm_). come away! come away! cat. why, here is your grease-pot! miss mouse (_as before_). come away, i say! cat (_looking into the pot_). truly, the fat is kept hard and cool here. miss mouse. i pray you come away! mother does not so much as let me look into it. 't is not yet time, she says. cat (_looking again into pot_). exactly! (_she leaves the pot and joins miss mouse._) 't is just what i'll tell my kittens about my grease-pot when i have bought it. miss mouse. ah, then you have kittens at home? cat (_nodding_). such beautiful kittens! the eldest is white, with brown marks. miss mouse. he must be charming! cat. i've a mind to tell you his name. first, though, run out to see if your dear mother is not coming. [_miss mouse nods and runs out. the cat quickly creeps to the grease-pot and licks the top off. she crosses to the window just as_ miss mouse _returns._] miss mouse. mother is nowhere to be seen. now what did you name your eldest child? cat. top-off. miss mouse. top-off? why, that is a curious name! is it common in your family? cat. oh, no! my second child has a white ring around his neck. miss mouse. remarkable! cat. very! miss mouse. what did you name him? cat. i gave him an unusual name. i will tell you what it is. first, though, run out to see if your dear mother is coming. [_miss mouse nods and runs out. the cat creeps to the grease-pot and eats half the fat; then crosses to window._ miss mouse _returns._] miss mouse. mother is nowhere to be seen. now what did you name your second child? cat. half-out. miss mouse. half-out? i never heard such a name! 't is not in the calendar, i'm sure. cat. what does that matter, if it pleases me? now the last child is really a wonder. he is quite black and has little white claws, but not a single white hair on his body. miss mouse. what have you named him? cat. i'm afraid that will please you no better than the others, but still i will tell you. first, though, run to see if your dear mother is not coming. [_miss mouse nods and runs out. the cat creeps to the pot and eats all the fat. she then crosses to the window._] cat. what one begins one must needs finish. [miss mouse _returns._] miss mouse. mother is nowhere to be seen. now tell me what you named your youngest child. cat. all-out. miss mouse. all-out? why, that is more curious than the others. i have never seen it in print. cat (_glaring at miss mouse_). you never will! miss mouse (_frightened_). what do you mean? cat (_preparing to spring_). i mean to put you down with the fat! miss mouse. help! help! [_enter_ mother mouse _just as the cat clutches her daughter and jumps out of the window with her. mother mouse crosses and looks into the empty grease-pot._] mother mouse (_sighing sadly_). 't was ever thus! show your grease-pot, and you'll go with it! the girl who trod on the loaf scene i time: _the day before christmas_. place: _ingé's mother's home_. * * * * * ingÃ�. her mother. * * * * * [_the_ mother _stands at the kitchen window, watching for ingé._] mother. ah, here she comes at last! (_short pause. enter_ ingÃ�.) i have waited long for you, my child. where have you been? (_ingé is silent._) have you been to the elf hill? tell me. ingÃ� (_hesitating_). just for a little while, mother. mother. ingé! ingé! what have i ever told you? ingÃ�. i thought i'd go just this once. mother (_showing sorrow_). ah, ingé, that's what you always say. ingÃ�. there's no harm talking with the elves. mother. and i, your mother, say there is harm. ingÃ�. but, mother,--they talk so prettily. mother (_nodding_). aye! and that's the harm. they've put such silly ideas into your head. ingÃ�. they say 't is friendship makes them talk as they do. mother (_indignantly_). friendship! 't is friendship, is it, to tell you not to fetch the wood? ingÃ�. they say 't will spoil my hands. mother. out upon them and their pretty talk! you shall go there no more. do you hear me, ingé? ingÃ� (_pouting_). i hear. mother. now take this loaf of bread to your sick aunt. say to her 't is her christmas gift. ingÃ�. but, mother, i must cross the muddy road to go there. mother. well, you are neither sugar nor salt. ingÃ�. i'll spoil my shoes! mother. you think of your shoes, and your aunt lies ill? ingÃ�. wait till spring and the mud will be gone. mother. wait till spring and your aunt will be gone! here is the loaf--now off with you! [_ingé takes the loaf and goes, but not willingly._] scene ii time: _a few minutes later_. place: _the muddy road_. * * * * * ingÃ�. the wicked elf. * * * * * [ingÃ� _is seen stopping at the muddy road._] ingÃ�. 't is too wide to leap! [_the_ wicked elf _suddenly appears on the opposite side of the road._] wicked elf. good day to you, pretty maid! ingÃ�. good day to you, dear elf! wicked elf. wilt cross this muddy road? ingÃ�. i must. wicked elf. then i'll tell you how to do it and not so much as wet your shoe. ingÃ�. oh, thank you, dear elf! wicked elf. throw down your loaf and-- ingÃ�. (_showing surprise; interrupting_). throw down the loaf? wicked elf. why, yes,--to use it for a stepping-stone. ingÃ�. but 't will spoil the bread! wicked elf. but 't will save your shoes! ingÃ�. well, that's true-- wicked elf. a pretty maid ne'er wears a muddy shoe. ingÃ�. that's true, too-- wicked elf. come, then, throw down the loaf! ingÃ�. well, i'll do it! (_she throws the loaf and steps upon it._) 't is sinking! what shall i do? wicked elf. why, then, jump off! ingÃ� (_trying to jump_). i can't! don't you see i can't? wicked elf. ha, ha! you're fastened to it! ingÃ�. 't is drawing me down! help me! help me! wicked elf. there's no help for you. ingÃ�. no help? what do you mean? wicked elf. you must go down with the loaf. ingÃ�. i pray you help me! see how i'm sinking! the mud will soon be over my shoes! wicked elf. the mud will soon be over your head! ingÃ� (_weeping_). save me! save me! wicked elf. will you be saved by magic? ingÃ�. yes, yes! wicked elf. listen, then--i'll change you into a bird. are you willing? ingÃ�. yes, yes! quick now, before i sink deeper! wicked elf (_nodding head three times_). a sparrow shall you be! change, now change! [_ingé changes into a_ sparrow, _with a tuft of white feathers, just the shape of a loaf of bread, upon its head. the sparrow flies from the mud._] sparrow. now change me back into ingé. wicked elf. you shall remain as you are. sparrow (_showing surprise_). remain as i am? wicked elf (_nodding_). until you can change yourself back. sparrow. and when will that be? wicked elf. when the loaf has gone from your head. sparrow. the loaf from my head? what do you mean? wicked elf (_going_). fly away to the brook and see! ha, ha, ha! (_she runs away, calling back._) fly away to the brook and see! ha, ha, ha! [illustration: "'t is sinking! what shall i do?"] scene iii time: _the day following christmas day_. place: _an old stone wall by a brook_. * * * * * the sparrow. the peasant. gretel. first stone. second stone. third stone. * * * * * [_the_ sparrow _sits in a hole in the wall._] first stone. come, come, be not so sad, little sparrow! second stone. come, lift up your head and sing! third stone. come, sing us your christmas song! sparrow. sing! i have nothing to sing about. first stone. sing of your friends. second stone. sing of their love for you. third stone. sing of their kindness to you. sparrow. talk not to me of friends, or love, or kindness! there's none in the world. [_enter a_ peasant _with his little_ gretel. _the peasant carries two ears of corn._] peasant. now, my gretel, we'll place the corn here on the old wall. gretel. mother thought you brought too much. peasant. well, 't is true there are only three ears left at home, but the birds must have their christmas dinner. [_he places the corn on the wall._] gretel. there's none about to see it! peasant. oh, some bird will soon find it! gretel. but will it call the others? peasant. we'll wait to see. come, we'll sit there on the log. [_they go to a log near by._] first stone. there, little sparrow, say you now there is no kindness? second stone. or love? third stone. or friendship? sparrow. no, no! i can never say that again. the peasant's heart is full of kindness and love and friendship. i will sing of it! 't will be my christmas song! [_the sparrow leaves the hole and flies to the corn._] gretel. look, father, there is a sparrow! and hear it sing! just hear it! peasant. it is calling the other birds. gretel. why, it doesn't even touch the corn! peasant. it's waiting to share it with the others. is it not a pretty sight? come, we must go to tell mother. scene iv time: _one month later_. place: _same as_ scene iii. * * * * * our sparrow. the very old sparrow. the old sparrow. the young sparrow. the very young sparrow. the wicked elf. * * * * * [_all the_ sparrows _except our sparrow sit on the stone wall._] young sparrow. i say the stranger should be driven away! very young sparrow. so say i! old sparrow. the stranger is a sparrow, but still not a sparrow. very old sparrow. and yet she is only different by a tuft of white feathers. young sparrow. and such a tuft! for all the world like a loaf of bread! very young sparrow. i'd think it shame to carry such on _my_ head! old sparrow. i fear 't will shame us all to have this stranger about. very old sparrow. and yet we are not ashamed to eat the crumbs this stranger brings. old sparrow. well, 't is true she has been most kind. very old sparrow. 't is a hard winter! shall we drive away the one who finds food where we find none? young sparrow. and calls us every time! very young sparrow. and never eats till we have come! very old sparrow. i've kept in mind the crumbs she has found us. now, how many do you think? old sparrow. i cannot say, for i did not think to notice. very old sparrow. there only lacks two or three now of being a loaf. other sparrows (_greatly surprised_). a loaf? very old sparrow (_nodding_). a loaf. very young sparrow. here comes the stranger now! old sparrow. she brings a crust! [our sparrow _flies up with a crust in its bill._] our sparrow. come, friends, 't is for all of you! very old sparrow. do you know, stranger bird, that, with these crumbs, you have brought us in all one loaf? [_our sparrow drops the crust for the others. at once it changes into_ ingÃ�. _the birds fly away frightened._] ingÃ�. ah! now i understand. the loaf had to be made up, crumb by crumb. [_the_ wicked elf _suddenly appears._] wicked elf. come, pretty maid, come to the elf hill! ingÃ�. no, no! i will not! wicked elf. but we have such pretty things to tell you! ingÃ�. i care not for your pretty things! i go to fetch wood for my mother. i go to walk in the mud if need be. away with you! i'll have none of you! away, away, i say! the ugly duckling scene i time: _one summer morning_. place: _the farmyard of the moor farm_. * * * * * madam duck. first duckling. second duckling. the ugly duckling. third duckling. turkey. gray gander. white goose. plymouth rock hen. red rooster. * * * * * [madam duck _enters the farmyard with her new brood of_ ducklings. _the other fowls approach._] turkey (_showing displeasure_). a new brood of ducks! look you all--a new brood of ducks! gray gander (_also displeased_). as if there were not enough of us here already! white goose (_likewise displeased_). true enough,--i can scarce find a corner for my afternoon nap! red rooster. it seems to me, madam duck, that you should not have brought us a new brood this summer. madam duck. what is that you are saying? turkey. it seems to all of us, madam, that there is no room here for a new brood. plymouth rock hen. friends, be just. madam duck has a perfect right to bring her ducklings here. besides, the children are quite pretty. madam duck. they are beautiful! you shall all see that for yourselves. come, children, into a row with you! [_the ducklings form themselves into a row. the ugly duckling is last._] madam duck. legs wide apart! toes out! now speak prettily to my old friends. ducklings (_all but the last_). quack! quack! madam duck. there now--are they not charming? gray gander (_looking down row_). why, yes, they all seem graceful enough--here--wait a moment! does that last one there belong to you? [_all the fowls look at the last duckling._] madam duck. oh yes! he is larger than the others and perhaps not so pretty, but-- turkey (_interrupting_). make no excuses for him, madam. we can see for ourselves what he is. gray gander. in all my life i never saw anything so ugly! white goose. he is neither duck nor goose! plymouth rock hen. nor duck nor chick! turkey. i'd be 'shamed to have a turkey look like that! red rooster. i'd allow no hen of mine to claim him! madam duck. come now, come now, friends. the poor child is not pretty, but he is good, and he can swim even better than the others. turkey. that he can swim well is nothing to me! red rooster. nor to me! he should be driven out, i say! madam duck. let him alone; he is not doing any harm. first duckling. but, mother, no one will look at us if he stays with us! madam duck (_thoughtfully._) now perhaps it may turn out that way. second duckling. i'll not walk about with him! third duckling. nor i! madam duck. well, well! he must be uglier than i thought! first duckling. besides, dear mother, he will not quack. madam duck. what is this? did he not quack but just a moment ago? second duckling. he turned his toes out, but quack he would not. third duckling. 't is true, dear mother. madam duck (_to the ugly duckling_). quack! quack now--at once! [_the ugly duckling tries to quack, but chokes. the fowls laugh and jeer at him._] gray gander. ha, ha! there's a "quack" for you! white goose. ha, ha! plymouth rock hen. ha, ha! red rooster. ha, ha! turkey. ha, ha! madam duck (_angrily_). once more i tell you--quack! [_the ugly duckling tries again; chokes._] all fowls. ha, ha, ha, ha! ugly duckling (_weeping_). i'm sorry--i'd quack if i could. madame duck. ah, if you were only far away! [illustration: the ugly duckling] first duckling. i wish the cat would eat you! second duckling. i wish the swans would kill you! white goose. and they will when they see him--you may be sure of that. gray gander (_nodding_). aye, they'll not suffer such an ugly creature to swim in the brook! red rooster. we must drive him off--that's clear! (_running at the ugly duckling._) come now, out with you! plymouth rock hen (_pecking duckling_). out with you! ugly duckling. mother, save me! madam duck. call not on me! gray gander (_striking duckling with his wings_). out with you! ugly duckling (_running to ducklings_). brothers, sisters, save me! first duckling. come not to us! second duckling. we'll not save you! third duckling. away with you! turkey. at him, hens to peck him! at him, geese to beat him! at him, all of you! [_they all rush upon the ugly duckling, who escapes them, running out of the farmyard into the moor._] scene ii time: _the next winter_. place: _the peasant's cottage_. * * * * * the peasant. his wife. elizabeth. the cat. the hen. the ugly duckling. * * * * * [_the_ peasant _enters the cottage, carrying the_ ugly duckling.] peasant. see what i'm bringing you! wife. why, 't is a duckling--half frozen, too! peasant. i found him frozen in the pond. i had to break the ice to get him out. elizabeth. give him to me, father. i will put him behind the stove. peasant (_giving duckling to elizabeth_). that's a good child. wife. handle him tenderly, daughter. elizabeth (_taking off her shawl_). he shall lie upon my shawl. you poor, dear, ugly little duckling! [_she places the duckling upon the shawl behind the stove, near the_ cat _and_ hen.] peasant. 't is the duckling i told you of! wife. the one you saw on the pond yesterday? peasant. aye, and the day before, and all winter long, for that matter. yesterday i saw him try to join the wild ducks on the river, but they drove him back to the pond. elizabeth. poor duckling! the pond was freezing then! peasant (_nodding_). then he tried to find a place among the rushes on the moor, but the birds drove him from there. elizabeth. why did they all treat him so, father? peasant. i do not know, unless it is because he is so ugly. wife. come now to dinner, father--elizabeth. by the time we have finished, our duckling will be warmed and awake. [_they go into the kitchen. the duckling stirs and looks about._] hen. can you lay eggs? duckling (_politely_). no, madam. cat. can you set up your back? duckling. no, dear sir. cat. can you purr? duckling (_frightened_). no. hen. then you can't stay here. duckling. do not drive me out, i pray you! cat. will you learn to purr? hen. and to lay eggs? duckling (_sadly_). alas, i can do nothing but swim. cat. swim! well, i must say that is very queer. duckling. oh, no, dear sir! it is most pleasant when the waters close over your head and you plunge to the bottom. cat. plunge to the bottom, indeed! i'd never think of doing such a silly thing! hen. nor i! cat. 't is clear you can't remain here. duckling. where am i to go? cat. go lie in the rushes. the birds flew south this morning. duckling. i shall starve there. cat. it would really be a good thing for you if i should eat you. duckling. i'd thank you to do so, dear sir. hen. eat him, since he is so willing. he is too ugly to live. cat (_turning away_). i can't, he is too ugly to eat. (_to the duckling._) come, out with you! hen (_running at him_). yes, yes! out with you! out with you! [_they push the duckling out of the door into the snow._] duckling. alas! what shall i do? where shall i go? why was i made so ugly that every one despises me! scene iii time: _the next spring_. place: _the brook on the moor farm_. * * * * * the ugly duckling. the mole. the father. the mother. the children. the swans. * * * * * [_the_ ugly duckling _sits on the hill of a_ mole _near the brook which winds through the moor farm._] mole (_from the mole hill_). will you please move? i wish to come out. duckling (_rising quickly_). why, 't is a mole hill i've been sitting on! (_the mole comes out from the hill._) i'm sorry, friend mole, i didn't notice your hill. mole. who are you? duckling. madam duck of this farm is my mother. mole. that can't be! you are no duck. duckling. yes, but i am. only, i am uglier than any duck in the world. mole. you have not the voice of a duck. you do not speak with the quack of which they are so proud. and then, if you are truly a duck, why are you not with your family? duckling. they drove me out last summer because i was ugly and could not quack. mole. then why have you come back? duckling. to let the swans kill me. mole. what! to let them kill you? duckling. i would rather be killed by those beautiful birds than pecked by the hens, beaten by the geese, or starved with hunger in the winter. mole. perhaps you are not so ugly now as you were then. duckling. i have not looked at myself in the water since spring came and took the ice away. but i know well enough how dark and badly formed i am. the swans will kill me if i dare to approach them. [_a noise is heard in the distance._] mole. they are coming! go, while there is yet time. duckling. there is no place to go to. all winter long i was driven from moor to moor. i could not make a friend--i no longer wish to live. [_the_ swans _are seen swimming down the brook._] mole. they are here! do not go to them, i pray you! duckling (_shaking head_). farewell! [_he flies to the water and swims toward the swans. they see him and rush to meet him with outstretched wings._] duckling. kill me! kill me! first swan. kill you! why, we have come to welcome you, beautiful stranger. second swan. we saw you from afar, and came to meet you. third swan. we are so happy to have you with us! [_enter several_ children.] first child. see, there is a new swan! second child (_calling_). father, mother, come! there is another swan! [_enter the_ father _and_ mother.] father. what were you calling? third child. a new swan has come! look! mother. i see him! he is beautiful! father. he is very young, but he is the most beautiful of all! fourth child. see how the others stroke him with their beaks! mother. they are showing him how glad they are to have him with them. see how they swim around him and how gently they touch him! father. i have never seen anything so pretty. how happy the new swan is! see how he rustles his feathers! see how proudly he curves his slender neck! first child. and see how he looks at himself in the water! second child. let's get bread and cake for him! third child. yes, yes! fourth child. yes, yes! [_the children run off, followed by the father and mother._] mole (_going into his hill_). 't was not so bad after all--not to have the family quack! the red shoes scene i time: _one morning_. place: _the shoemaker's shop_. * * * * * grandmother. karen. shoemaker. * * * * * [_the_ grandmother _and_ karen _enter the shop of the_ shoemaker.] grandmother. this is my little granddaughter karen, shoemaker. please to take her measure for a pair of shoes. shoemaker. what kind do you wish, madam? grandmother. morocco, the finest you have, karen is to wear these shoes to church. shoemaker. what color do you wish, madam? grandmother. black. karen (_whispering to shoemaker_). red. shoemaker (_puzzled_). eh? grandmother (_louder_). black. karen (_whispering to shoemaker_). red. shoemaker. of course, madam, if you say black, black they shall be. karen. the little princess wore red shoes, grandmother. shoemaker (_nodding_). that is true; i saw them myself. grandmother. red shoes? karen (_nodding_). of beautiful red morocco. the queen let the princess stand at a window so every one could see her new shoes. shoemaker. it is all true, madam. grandmother. no matter; karen is to have black shoes. (_taking up a pair of shoes._) here, this pair suits me exactly. shoemaker (_surprised_). but, madam, those shoes are-- karen (_interrupting; whispering_). hush, shoemaker! do not tell her. she can't see very well. grandmother (_giving shoes to karen_). are they of polished leather? they shine as if they were. karen. yes; they do shine. (_trying on the shoes._) and they just fit me, grandmother. grandmother. i will take them, shoemaker. shoemaker. but, madam-- karen (_interrupting; whispering_). hush, shoemaker! she will never know the difference. grandmother. here is the money, shoemaker. come, karen. shoemaker. but, madam-- karen (_interrupting_). i am ready, grandmother. grandmother. good day, shoemaker. shoemaker. but, madam-- karen (_interrupting_). good day, shoemaker. [_the grandmother and karen go._] scene ii time: _the next sunday, after church_. place: _the grandmother's home_. * * * * * the grandmother. karen. the neighbors { _first_. { _second_. { _third_. { _fourth_. * * * * * [_the_ neighbors _sit with the_ grandmother _in the spare room because it is sunday._] first neighbor. i did not see you at church to-day, grandmother. grandmother. i could not go, but i sent little karen. second neighbor (_mysteriously_). oh, yes; we saw her! everybody saw her! grandmother (_proudly_). people do look at her; she is so pretty. third neighbor. people didn't look at her face to-day. grandmother (_alarmed_). what do you mean? third neighbor. ask karen when she returns. we're not the ones to carry tales. grandmother (_looking out window_). here she comes now! fourth neighbor. just ask her about the sermon and the hymns! grandmother (_proudly_). she will tell me almost every word the pastor said. she is a smart girl--that karen. [_enter_ karen.] karen. well, grandmother, here i am! good morning, neighbors. neighbors (_coldly_). good morning, karen. grandmother. now tell me about the sermon, karen. what was the text? karen (_with confusion; stammering_). the text? it was--it was--oh, i will tell you all about it by and by, grandmother. our neighbors want to talk with you now. first neighbor. oh, no! we would rather hear you tell your grandmother about the sermon and the music. grandmother. what hymns did they sing, karen? karen (_as before_). hymns? they sang--let me see--they sang-- [_she stops in confusion._] grandmother. why, karen! are you ill? second neighbor. no, grandmother, karen is not ill. she is ashamed. she was not thinking of the beautiful music nor of the sermon this morning. is that not true, karen? karen (_ashamed_). y-e-s-- grandmother. what is this? third neighbor. tell your grandmother what you were thinking about in church, karen. karen. i was thinking about--about--my new shoes. grandmother. a great thing to think about in church--a pair of plain black shoes! fourth neighbor. she did not wear her black shoes; she wore _red shoes!_ grandmother (_gasping_). red shoes--to church? first neighbor (_nodding_). every one was terribly shocked! grandmother (_still gasping_). red shoes to church! second neighbor. even the pastor looked at her shoes! grandmother (_indignantly_). red shoes to church! third neighbor. the choir looked! all fixed their eyes on karen's red shoes. grandmother. it is the most shocking thing i ever heard! do you hear me, karen? karen (_hanging her head in shame_). yes, grandmother. grandmother. you must never, never, so long as you live, wear red shoes to church again. it is not at all proper. do you hear me, karen? karen (_as before_). yes, grandmother. fourth neighbor. do you think she should have her sunday dinner? grandmother. not one bite! she shall stay in her room all day. do you hear me, karen? karen. yes, grandmother. grandmother. thank you for telling me, neighbors. to think of it! red shoes to church! scene iii time: _the following sunday, after church_. place: _the churchyard_. * * * * * the grandmother. karen. the old soldier. the coachman. * * * * * [_the_ grandmother _and_ karen _come from the church. the_ old soldier _stands near the church door. he tries to speak to the grandmother, but she does not hear him._] karen. wait a moment, grandmother! the old soldier wants to speak with you. grandmother (_turning_). what do you want, old soldier? old soldier. i want to dust your shoes, madam. grandmother. that is very good of you. (_old soldier dusts her shoes_). thank you; now i will go to my carriage while you dust karen's shoes. [_she goes._] old soldier. stretch out your foot, little karen. (_karen thrusts out her foot._) what is this? red shoes for church? karen. i looked at my old black shoes-- old soldier (_interrupting_). and then at your new red ones? karen (_nodding_). yes, and then at my black ones again-- old soldier (_interrupting_). and then put on your red ones! karen. sh-h! grandmother must not know. old soldier. she can't hear, for i am talking through my long red beard. karen. why is your beard so red, old soldier? old soldier. to make more light for my eyes--that i may see without looking. karen. see without looking? old soldier (_nodding_). i was not in the church, yet i saw you clearly when you knelt at the altar and raised the golden cup to your lips. karen (_surprised_). you saw that? old soldier (_nodding_). and more--i saw your thoughts. karen. you saw my thoughts? old soldier (_nodding_). it was to you as if your red shoes passed before your eyes in the cup. am i not right? karen (_showing fear_). y-e-s-- old soldier. and i saw by the light of my beard that you forgot to sing the hymns; eh, karen? karen. y-e-s-- old soldier. and that you forgot to say your prayers; eh, karen? karen. y-e-s-- old soldier. you were thinking of your red shoes all the time. karen. y-e-s, old soldier. old soldier (_holding karen and stooping until his beard covers her shoes_). cover and touch and change, my beard! cover and touch and change! karen. what are you doing? let me go! old soldier (_holding her firmly_). i am turning your red shoes into dancing shoes! karen. i am afraid of you! let me go! old soldier (_slapping soles of her shoes with hand_). now i have made them stick fast to your feet! karen (_calling_). grandmother! grandmother! old soldier. now you may go! ha, ha! karen. why! i am dancing! i can't stop! grandmother! grandmother! grandmother. what is this? mercy on me! she is dancing down the street! run after her, coachman! quick! stop her! coachman (_running after karen_). stop, mistress karen! i'm after you! old soldier. ha, ha, ha! you will never catch her! grandmother (_calling after coachman_). there she goes around the corner! coachman (_calling off_). i'll get you, mistress karen! just stop a bit! old soldier. ha, ha, ha! you will never catch her! grandmother. my poor karen! my poor karen! coachman (_returning_). i couldn't catch her, madam! she danced right out of the town gate! grandmother. out of the town gate? coachman. yes, madam, and straight for the dark wood. grandmother. we will drive after her! [_coachman jumps to his seat._] old soldier. ha, ha, ha! you will never catch her! grandmother. quick, coachman, quick! we must catch her before she gets to the dark wood. my poor karen! my poor karen! [_the carriage dashes off._] scene iv time: _three days later; evening_. place: _the dark wood. a hut is seen among the vines_. * * * * * the forester. his son. karen. the executioner. the old soldier. the fairy queen. moon. * * * * * [_the_ forester _and his_ son _are felling a tree._] karen (_heard calling off_). stop me! stop me! son. heard you that cry? forester (_looking off_). mercy on us! 't is the dancing girl i told you of! [_enter_ karen, _dancing._] karen. stop me, forester! forester. no, no! i dare not! karen (_to son_). stop me, i pray you! three days have i danced! i can endure it no longer! son (_to forester_). come, let us help her! forester. do not touch her! she is bewitched! karen. 't is my shoes are bewitched--not i! son. i say, little maid, pull off your shoes! karen. they will not come off. see! [_she pulls at her shoes._] son (_starting towards karen_). i'll get them off, bewitched or not bewitched! forester (_seizing son_). would you get yourself into trouble? come home with me! [_forester runs from wood with son. the_ moon _arises suddenly in a fir tree._] karen. o moon, see how i dance below you! pray tell me how to break this spell! moon. ha, ha, ha! [_the moon changes into the red beard of the_ old soldier.] old soldier. my beard makes moonlight for me that i may watch you dance. karen. mercy, old soldier! i pray you break your spell! old soldier. you forgot to say the prayers! you thought only of your red shoes! karen. i will go barefoot to church! old soldier. you whispered "red" to the shoemaker! karen. i will never deceive my dear grandmother again! have pity! old soldier. you shall dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold! by night and by day you shall dance; in sunshine and in rain; in snow and in sleet. over highways and byways shall you dance; in dark swamps and on mountain tops. you shall go on dancing, dancing, dancing, forever and ever! [_he disappears._] karen. i cannot dance on forever! i cannot! i cannot! (_weeping; pause._) well, i know a way to break the spell, and i'll do it! (_crossing to hut of the_ executioner; _knocking._) come out! come out! executioner (_from within the hut_). come in! karen. i cannot come in; i must dance. executioner. then i will come out. (_the executioner comes out from hut._) well, do you know me? karen. you are the executioner. executioner. i am the executioner. i cut off the heads of wicked people with this great ax. karen. do not strike off my head! executioner. and why not strike off your head, pray? karen. i must have that to repent of my sin. so please to cut off my feet. executioner. it shall be as you say. thrust out your foot, maid. [_enter_ fairy queen.] fairy queen. stay, executioner, stay! i've come to save you, karen! karen. to save me? fairy queen. whenever a child repents of a sin, lo, i am there to save. karen. will you remove this spell from me? fairy queen. will you give up your red shoes? karen. gladly! gladly! i wish i might never see them again! fairy queen. then dance to me that i may touch you with my wand. [_fairy queen touches karen's shoes with her wand. the shoes fall off._] karen. dear fairy queen! dear fairy queen! i thank you! i thank you! fairy queen. look, karen, your shoes are dancing away! soon they will be lost to you forever. shall i not bring them back? karen. no, no! let them go! now i am free! now i can rest! fairy queen. then come, dear child, i will guide you to your home. the story of ali cogia scene i time: _one evening_. place: _the house of a merchant in bagdad_. * * * * * the merchant. the merchant's wife. * * * * * [_the_ merchant _and his_ wife _are at supper._] wife. our neighbors bought some fine olives to-day. it has been a long time since we have had olives. i am quite hungry for them. merchant. now you speak of olives, you put me in mind of the jar which ali cogia left with me. wife (_pointing to a jar in another part of the room_). there is the very jar waiting for him against his return. merchant. certainly he must be dead, since he has not returned in all this time. give me a plate; i will open the jar, and if the olives be good, we will eat them. wife. pray, husband, do not commit so base an action. you know nothing is more sacred than what is left to one's care and trust. merchant. but i am certain all cogia will never return. wife. and i have a strong feeling that he will. what will he think of your honor if he finds the jar has been opened? merchant. surely a jar of olives is not to be guarded so carefully, year after year. wife. that is ali cogia's affair, not ours. besides, the olives can't be good after all this time. merchant (_taking a plate_). i mean to have a taste of them, at least. wife (_indignantly_). you are betraying the trust your friend placed in you! i will not remain to witness it. [_she leaves the room. the merchant crosses and takes cover from jar._] merchant (_looking in jar_). my wife was right--the olives are covered with mould, but those at the bottom may still be good. [_he turns the jar up and shakes out the olives. several gold pieces fall out._] merchant. what is this? gold pieces! as i live! gold! gold! [_he shakes the jar again; a shower of gold pieces fall._] merchant (_dropping the jar in astonishment_). a thousand pieces at least! the top of the jar only was laid with olives! (_he puts the gold into his pockets._) to-night, when my wife is asleep, i will fill the jar entirely with fresh olives, for these show they have been disturbed. and i will make up the jar so that no one, except ali cogia himself, will know they have been touched. [illustration: "a thousand pieces at least!"] scene ii time: _one month later; a moonlight night_. place: _a small court opening upon a narrow street of bagdad_. * * * * * the caliph. the grand vizier. first child, _who plays he is the cauzee_[footnote: a mohammedan judge.] second child, _who plays he is the officer_. third child, _who plays he is ali cogia_. zeyn, _who plays he is the merchant_. two boys, _who play they are olive merchants_. many other children, _who look on_. * * * * * [_the_ caliph, _accompanied by his_ grand vizier, _enters the narrow street upon which the court opens. they are in disguise, appearing as merchants._] caliph. perhaps we may hear some talk of this affair of ali cogia and the merchant, as we go through the city to-night. vizier. it is possible, o commander of the true believers! the affair has made a great noise in bagdad. caliph. ali cogia carried the merchant before the cauzee, i believe. vizier. yes; he claimed that the merchant had taken from him one thousand pieces of gold. caliph. proceed; i would know all. vizier. ali cogia left with this merchant, so he says, a jar in which he had placed this money. upon his return, which was but yesterday, he went to the merchant, and, having received the jar, opened it. to his surprise he found that the gold, which he had hidden below a layer of olives, was no longer there. caliph. ah, that is what ali cogia says. what says the merchant? vizier. the merchant made oath before the cauzee that he did not know there was money in the jar, and so of course could not have taken it. caliph. and the cauzee dismissed the merchant, i believe. vizier. yes, commander of the faithful, the merchant was acquitted. caliph. this ali cogia presented a petition to me to-day, and i promised to hear him to-morrow. would that i could know the truth of the matter that i may give a just sentence! [_they arrive at the court where several_ children _are playing in the moonlight. the caliph stops to watch them._] first child. let us play that the cauzee is trying the merchant. second child (_joyfully_). yes, yes! third child (_joyfully_). yes, yes! all children (_clapping their hands_). yes, yes! caliph (_softly to vizier_). let us sit on this bench. i would know what these children are playing. [_they sit, but are not seen by children._] first child (_taking his seat with great dignity_). i choose to be the cauzee! second child (_taking his place behind the cauzee_). i choose to be the officer! third child. i choose to be ali cogia! cauzee. who chooses to be the merchant? [_long pause; all the children hang back._] cauzee. come, zeyn, you be the merchant. zeyn. not i! the part does not please me. officer. would you spoil everything, zeyn? zeyn. oh, well, then, i'll be the merchant this time. cauzee. officer, bring in the accused and his accuser. [_the officer presents the merchant and ali cogia before the cauzee._] cauzee. ali cogia, what charge have you to make against this merchant? ali cogia (_bowing_). sir, when i journeyed from bagdad seven years ago, i left with this merchant a jar. now, into this jar i had put, with some olives, a thousand pieces of gold. when i opened the jar, i found that it had been entirely filled with olives; the gold had disappeared. i beseech your honor that i may not lose so great a sum of money! cauzee. merchant, what have you to say to this charge? merchant. i confess that i had the jar in my house, but ali cogia found it exactly as he had left it. did he ever tell me there was gold in the jar? no. he now demands that i pay him one thousand pieces of gold. i wonder that he does not ask me for diamonds and pearls instead of gold. i will take my oath that what i say is the truth. cauzee. not so fast! before you come to your oath, i should be glad to see the jar of olives. (_turning to ali cogia._) ali cogia, have you brought the jar? ali cogia. no; i did not think of that. cauzee. then go and fetch it. [_ali cogia goes._] cauzee (_to the merchant_). you thought the jar contained olives all this time? merchant. ali cogia told me it contained olives at the first. i will take oath that what i say is the truth. cauzee. we are not yet ready for your oath. [ali cogia _enters. he pretends to set a jar before the cauzee._] cauzee. ali cogia, is this jar the same you left with the merchant? ali cogia. sir, it is the same. cauzee. merchant, do you confess this jar to be the same? merchant. sir, it is the same. cauzee. officer, remove the cover. (_the officer pretends to remove the cover._) these are fine olives! let me taste them. (_pretending to eat an olive._) they are excellent! but i cannot think that olives will keep seven years and be so good. therefore, officer, bring in olive merchants, and let me hear what is their opinion. officer (_announcing_). forward, two olive merchants! [_two_ boys _present themselves_]. cauzee. are you olive merchants? boys (_bowing_). sir, we are. cauzee. tell me how long olives will keep. first olive merchant. let us take what care we can, they will hardly be worth anything the third year. second olive merchant. it is true, for then they will have neither taste nor color. cauzee. if it be so, look into that jar and tell me how long it is since those olives were put into it. [_both merchants pretend to examine and taste the olives._] first olive merchant. these olives are new and good. cauzee. you are mistaken. ali cogia says he put them into the jar seven years ago. second olive merchant. sir, they are of this year's growth. there is not a merchant in bagdad that will not say the same. cauzee. merchant, you stand accused. you must return the thousand pieces of gold to ali cogia. merchant. sir, i protest-- cauzee (_interrupting_). be silent! you are a rogue. take him to prison, officer. [_all the children seize the merchant and run from the court, laughing and shouting._] caliph (_rising_). i know now what will be a just trial. i have learned it from the child cauzee. do you think i could give a better sentence? vizier. i think not, if the case be as these children played it. caliph. take care to bid ali cogia bring his jar of olives to-morrow. and let two olive merchants attend. vizier. it shall be done, o commander of true believers! caliph. if the olives be indeed fresh, then the merchant will receive his punishment and ali cogia his thousand pieces of gold. (_starting off; stopping._) take notice of this street, and to-morrow present the boy cauzee with a purse of gold. tell him it is a token of my admiration of his wisdom and justice. the wild swans scene i time: _a long time ago_. place: _on the seashore_. * * * * * eliza. the goody. * * * * * [_the_ goody _is seen walking along the shore._ eliza _enters from the forest._] goody. bless me! what is the little girl doing in this lonely place? and alone, too! eliza. i seek my eleven brothers. goody. ah! then you must be the princess eliza! eliza (_sadly_). yes, goody. goody. and the eleven brothers you seek are the eleven little princes! eliza. yes; do you know them? goody. i saw them in school one day. each prince wore a golden crown on his head, a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. eliza (_nodding_). they studied very hard, just as princes should. goody. they wrote on gold slates with diamond pencils. i myself saw them! eliza. i sat on a little stool of plate-glass. did you know that? goody. oh, yes! and i know about your picture-book worth half a kingdom. eliza. we were all so happy then! our dear mother was alive and sometimes went to school with us. now all is changed. goody. what has happened? eliza. they have driven us from the palace. goody (_indignantly_). i said so! on the day of that wedding i said so. eliza. then you know that my father married again? goody. yes, i know. i wept when i heard our good king had married that wicked queen. eliza. she drove my brothers away, the very day of the wedding feast. goody. and now she has driven you away! eliza (_nodding_). if only i could find my dear brothers! goody. you may hear something about them very soon. eliza (_quickly_). do you know where they are? tell me! i pray you tell me! goody (_shaking her head mysteriously_). i cannot say where they are. i only know what they are. eliza. i do not understand-- goody. the wicked queen has turned your brothers into wild swans. eliza. wild swans? goody (_nodding_). i saw them yesterday, at sunrise, flying out over the sea. each swan wore a gold crown on his head. eliza. the queen could not take their crowns from them! goody. as the swans flew upward, their eleven crowns glittered like eleven suns. my eyes were dazzled. i was obliged to look away. at that moment the swans disappeared. eliza (_sadly to herself_). my poor brothers! i shall never see them again. goody (_suddenly_). do you see those great blue bluffs to the south? eliza. yes; the sea is dashing against them. goody. in those bluffs, back from the shore, is a cave. go at once to that cave and enter. eliza. and what shall i do there, good woman? goody. perhaps you may learn how to break the spell over your brothers. eliza (_surprised_). how to break the spell? goody. ask no questions, but go at once to the cave. eliza (_going_). thank you, good woman. you are very kind to me. goody. go now, child, and fear nothing. [_eliza goes; the goody disappears._] scene ii time: _a half-hour later_. place: _the cave_. * * * * * eliza. the fairy. * * * * * [eliza _is seen at entrance of cave. she stops; is afraid to enter._] eliza. i am afraid to enter! it is so dark--i know not what is within! it may be the den of some wild animal. (_listening._) not a sound do i hear! but wild animals are cunning. they know how to lie as still as death and then to leap quickly. (_pause._) well, be it so. i will enter, for i must save my brothers. [_she enters the cave._ fairy _is within the cave, but invisible._] fairy. you have courage, little eliza. eliza (_showing relief_). oh! are you here, good woman? fairy. behold! [_the cave is filled with light; a beautiful fairy is seen._] eliza. ah! i thought it was the goody. fairy. no matter, dear child. i knew you were to come here. eliza. i was afraid to enter. fairy. but you did enter. your love for your brothers was greater than your fear. eliza. it was that which gave me courage. fairy. it was a test of your courage. and now i can tell you how to break the spell over your brothers. eliza. i will do whatever you say. fairy. you will suffer greatly. eliza. what matter, if i save my brothers! fairy (_nodding_). then listen. do you see the stinging nettles which i hold in my hand? eliza. yes, dear fairy. fairy. you must gather great quantities of these. eliza. i noticed many of the same sort growing near this cave. fairy (_shaking head_). you must gather only those that grow in graveyards. eliza. it shall be exactly as you say, dear fairy. fairy. the nettles will make blisters on your hands. eliza. i will not think of myself; i will think only of my brothers. fairy. break the nettles into pieces with your hands and feet, and they will become flax. from this flax you must spin and weave eleven coats with long sleeves. if these eleven coats can be thrown over the eleven swans, the spell will be broken. eliza. it shall be done. fairy. but remember, that from the moment you begin your task, until it is finished, you must not speak. even though it should occupy years of your life, you must not speak. eliza. i shall remember. fairy. the first word you utter will pierce through the hearts of your brothers like a dagger. their lives hang upon your tongue. go now and begin your task. eliza (_going_). i go, dear fairy. fairy. remember all i have told you, dear child. farewell! [_eliza goes; the cave becomes dark; the fairy disappears._] scene iii time: _two days later_. place: _a distant country; the king's palace_. * * * * * the king. his wicked uncle. eliza. guardsmen. servants. * * * * * [_the_ wicked uncle _stands waiting to receive the king. enter the_ king _with_ eliza. _she is pale and sad._] wicked uncle. welcome, your majesty! welcome home from your hunt! but who is this maiden? king. i know not, my uncle. wicked uncle. what? king. my huntsmen found her in a cave in a far-off country. wicked uncle. in a cave? alone? king (_nodding_). alone; spinning coats out of flax. wicked uncle. this is very strange. (_to eliza._) why were you all alone in a cave, and why were you spinning coats? (_eliza shakes her head._) king. she is dumb, uncle. not a word has she uttered since we found her. wicked uncle. why did you bring her with you? king. i will make her my queen. wicked uncle (_angrily_). your queen? king. see how beautiful she is. wicked uncle (_whispering to king_). she is a witch! king. nonsense! she is as good as she is beautiful. wicked uncle (_whispering as before_). she has bewitched your heart! king. nonsense, i say! she did not want to leave the cave. she wept bitterly when i put her on my horse. (_he turns to the servants._) let the music sound! prepare the wedding feast! (_he turns to eliza, who weeps._) do not weep, my beautiful maid. wicked uncle (_whispering to king_). she is not beautiful. she has bewitched your eyes. king. i will not listen to you! go, bid them ring the church bells. wicked uncle (_going; speaking aside_). i must poison his heart against her in some way; else i'll never wear the crown. [_wicked uncle goes._] king (_to eliza_). do not weep. you shall be dressed in silks and velvets and i will place a golden crown upon your head. (_eliza weeps and wrings her hands._) well, then, i know how to make you smile. [_the king opens a door into an inner room. eliza looks in, smiles, and claps her hands for joy._] king. i thought 't would make you happy! 't is very like your cave--i had it made so. (_eliza tries to thank king with her eyes._) but no more spinning! your fingers shall be covered with diamonds instead of blisters. (_eliza sighs very sadly._) something troubles you, little queen. if you could only tell me of your grief! (_eliza shakes her head sadly._) well, i can at least save you from a life of labor. you shall be most tenderly cared for. (_calling._) ho, there, guardsmen! (_enter_ guardsmen.) guardsmen, behold your queen! (_guards kneel before eliza._) guardsmen, arise and hear my commands. (_guards rise._) your queen is never to do any of the work about the castle. do you hear me, guardsmen? guardsmen (_bowing_). we hear, o king! king. not even the spinning or weaving. do you hear me, guardsmen? guardsmen (_bowing_). we hear, o king! king. those are my commands. now attend us to the banquet-hall. (_to eliza, who is weeping._) weep no more, little queen. i wish only your happiness. come, give me your hand. we go now to the wedding feast. [_they go out, the guards attending._] scene iv time: _two weeks later; sunrise_. place: _the open just without the town gate_. * * * * * the goody. the wicked uncle. the king. eliza. her eleven brothers. the executioner. first citizen. second citizen. third citizen. fourth citizen. guards. * * * * * [_enter crowds of people from the town gate. enter the_ goody _from the forest. enter the_ wicked uncle _from the town gate._] goody (_to wicked uncle_). why these crowds so early, sir? wicked uncle. do not call me 'sir.' goody. what shall i say, sir? wicked uncle. say, 'your highness.' goody. but you are not the king, sir. wicked uncle. i'm very near it, old woman. goody. not so near, sir, as you were, sir. there is the new queen, sir. wicked uncle. the new queen is about to die. goody (_alarmed_). about to die? wicked uncle (_nodding_). aye, because she's a witch. they're bringing her out here now. goody. the king permits it? wicked uncle (_nodding_). he soon found out the truth about her. goody. and what was that? wicked uncle. just what i told him the first time i saw her. "she's a witch," said i, but he would not believe me. goody. what has so changed him? wicked uncle. 't was i who saw her slip forth from the castle one midnight. i followed her; straight to the graveyard she went. goody. to the graveyard? wicked uncle (_nodding_). in she went--i following. i saw her gather the stinging nettles that grow there. goody. but they would blister her hands. did she not cry out? wicked uncle. not a sound did she utter! that would prove her a witch, were there nothing more. goody. ah, there is something more, then? wicked uncle (_nodding; mysteriously_). i followed her back to the castle; through the marble halls and up to the little cave room. i saw her break up the nettles. then i saw her spin and weave this flax into a magic coat. goody. bless me! a magic coat? wicked uncle (_nodding_). there were ten of them hanging from the ceiling. goody. of course you told the king? wicked uncle. just as soon as i could waken him, but he would not believe me. he said there was but one coat when they brought her here, and that there could be but one now. goody. she worked at night, then, while the castle slept. wicked uncle. true queens do not work--nay, can't be made to work. every one knows that. goody. but how did the king find out the truth? wicked uncle. i persuaded him to watch with me the next night. just at midnight the queen came out. we followed her to the graveyard. "that is enough," said his majesty, "she is a witch and must die." [_the_ citizens _rush to the gates._] citizens (_calling_). see the witch! goody. is she coming? wicked uncle (_looking_). yes, she is just within the gate. she rides in an old cart drawn by an old horse--quite good enough for a witch. [_enter the_ king _with servants and_ guards. _behind them is the cart. in the cart sits_ eliza. _she is spinning and weaving, never once looking up._] goody. how pale she is! bless me! she is spinning and weaving. wicked uncle. it is the eleventh coat and it will be the last. goody. how she hurries to finish it! [_the cart stops._] king (_to eliza_). once again i ask you,--are you a witch? (_eliza shakes her head._) then give up the coats. they are of no use to any one. [_eliza again shakes her head._] wicked uncle. that proves her a witch! else, she would give up the coats. king (_to eliza_). once more,--will you not give them up? [_eliza shakes her head. the king turns away. he is very sad; his eyes are filled with tears._] first citizen (_calling_). see the witch! second citizen (_calling_). see her magic coats! third citizen (_calling_). let us tear them to pieces! fourth citizen (_calling_). at them, citizens! tear them to shreds! goody (_looking up; speaking aside_). here come the wild swans! now we shall see what we shall see! [eleven wild swans _descend from the sky and alight on the cart. each wears a golden crown._] first citizen. back, citizens, back! wild swans have alighted on the cart! fourth citizen. what do we care for wild swans? forward, citizens! first citizen. back, i say! the swans are beating us with their strong wings! second citizen. back! back, citizens! we dare not approach the cart! goody (_calling to the people_). the swans have come to save the queen! 't is a sign from heaven that she is innocent! wicked uncle (_angrily_). be silent, old woman! (_he turns to the executioner._) executioner, do your duty! executioner. out of the cart, witch! (_eliza shakes her head; takes up coats from floor of cart. the executioner turns to the wicked uncle._) she will not come! wicked uncle. seize her--i command you! first citizen. seize her! seize her! goody. look, citizens, look! she is spreading the coats over the swans! [_eliza throws the eleven coats over the eleven swans, who turn to eleven little princes, but the youngest has a swan's wing instead of an arm, for the last sleeve was not finished._] first citizen. do you see that, citizens? they are princes! she has saved them! second citizen. she is no witch! third citizen. she is an angel from heaven! the eleven brothers. dear sister, you have saved us! eliza. now i may speak--i am innocent! eldest brother (_to king_). yes, she is innocent! ninth brother. how you have suffered for us, dear eliza! citizens (_to eliza_). forgive us! king (_to eliza_). forgive me! i did not understand. wicked uncle (_annoyed, but trying to conceal it_). and i did not understand, i-- king (_sternly_). be silent! (_to guards._) seize him! (_the guards seize the wicked uncle._) take him to the mountains where the stinging nettles grow. wicked uncle. mercy! mercy! king. you had no mercy on brave little eliza! now you shall gather nettles for the rest of your life. away with him, guardsmen! (_the guards take the wicked uncle away. the king turns to his servants._) let the music sound! bring forth the queen's golden crown! (_to eliza._) my whole kingdom shall do you honor! this land has never seen a more beautiful thing than your love for your brothers. goody (_whispering aside_). ring, church bells! ring of yourselves! [_all the church bells are heard ringing._] citizens. hear the church bells! they ring of themselves! king. they ring for this sweet queen whose heart is as good as her face is beautiful. come, citizens! away now to the castle! away to the banquet-hall! the two countrymen scene i time: _evening_. place: _a large city; a quiet corner with a high wall back_. * * * * * first countryman. second countryman. first city wag. second city wag. merchant. * * * * * [_great crowds of people are seen in the streets. the_ two countrymen _have just arrived. they find a quiet corner where they place their blankets and baskets of gourds which they carry._] first countryman. i fear something most dreadful must have happened in that street. see what crowds of people pass that way! second countryman. perhaps there is a fire. and yet-- [_he stops, showing he is puzzled._] first countryman (_anxiously_). what troubles thee? second countryman. look thou into that other street! it, too, is full of people, and yet none are gone from here. first countryman. some awful accident hath called them from all parts of the city. we must find out what it may be. [_a_ merchant _passes._] second countryman (_to merchant_). i pray thee stop, citizen. (_the merchant stops._) canst thou tell us what dreadful thing hath befallen this city? merchant. what do you mean? [two city wags _pass; they stop to listen._] second countryman. whither do they go, these vast multitudes? what dreadful thing go they to see? first countryman. perhaps they flee from some monster just come out of the sea? merchant. it is ever thus--always the great crowds surging through the streets. [_the merchant goes._] second wag (_to countrymen, winking aside at first wag_). this is your first visit to a city, i take it? both countrymen (_bowing_). it is, good sirs. first wag (_winking aside at second wag_). you know what happens to strangers in our city, of course? first countryman (_anxiously_). no, good sir. second countryman (_anxiously_). pray tell us what it may be. first wag. 't is said they become so dazed by the noise of the city and the rush of such countless numbers, they forget who they are. first countryman. eh? forget who they are? first wag (_nodding_). aye. (_he winks aside at second wag._) you have heard of this, dear friend? second wag (_winking aside_). to be sure; 't is quite common. second countryman. forget their own faces? second wag. aye,--their faces. at least, they are not certain as to whose faces theirs may be. first countryman. then we dare not leave this corner! first wag. i would not advise it. second wag. it would be most unsafe,--at least for to-night. first wag. of course there is this danger,--when you awake in the morning you may not know whether you are yourselves. second countryman. would that i had never left my farm! first countryman. would that i had never left my wife! second wag. do not despair; there is a way out of your troubles. both countrymen. tell us, we pray thee! second wag. each of you must take a gourd from his basket there and tie it around his ankle. then, in the morning, when you awake, you will each know that it is yourself and none other. first countryman (_to second countryman, joyfully_). dost thou hear? by our gourds we shall know! second countryman (_joyfully_). i hear! thanks and yet again more thanks to thee, good sir! [_the wags turn to go._] first wag. may you know yourselves in the morning for what you truly are! [illustration: the two countrymen] [_they go, laughing aside. each countryman ties a gourd around his ankle, wraps his blanket round him, and lies down. they sleep. pause. enter the_ wags _softly, each carrying a small flag. they remove the gourds from countrymen's ankles and hide them under their blankets. they then tie the flags around countrymen's ankles and go, greatly pleased with their joke._] scene ii time: _the next morning_. place: _same as scene i_. * * * * * first countryman. second countryman. first city wag. second city wag. * * * * * [_the_ wags _are seen peeping around the corner._] first wag (_softly_). they are sound asleep. second wag (_softly_). then come. [_they enter and throw the two baskets of gourds over the wall. they then retire around the corner, peeping as before._] first countryman (_waking; shaking second countryman_). wake up! wake up! [_each yawns; stretches; throws off his blanket; arises._] first countryman (_remembering_). ah, the gourds! [_each looks at his ankle, then at the other's ankle._] second countryman. how's this! first countryman. did we not tie gourds around our ankles? second countryman (_nodding_). why, surely we did. first countryman (_looking about_). did we not have two baskets of gourds with us? second countryman (_nodding_). surely; there in the corner. first countryman (_holding up foot to which flag is tied_). is this a gourd or is it not a gourd? second countryman. of a surety it is a flag. (_holding up his foot with flag._) and if this be not a gourd, keep thy silence. [_the first countryman stares at the flag, placing his finger on his closed lips._] second countryman. then it hath indeed happened! first countryman. what hath happened? second countryman. the dreadful thing foretold by the citizens. i am not i! thou art not thou! first countryman (_trembling with fear_). how can that be? second countryman. i know not. i only know that it is. first countryman (_weeping_). i cannot think i am not myself! second countryman (_weeping_). thou needst must think it, whether thou wouldst or no. first countryman. dost thou indeed think thou art some other person? second countryman. if i were myself, would not the gourd still be around my ankle? first countryman. then who art thou? and who am i? second countryman. alas! i know not. [_enter the_ wags.] first countryman (_joyfully_). here come those who will know whether we are ourselves! [_the wags pretend not to know the countrymen who are bowing before them. they pass on._] second countryman. stop, good sirs! first countryman. a word with thee! [_the wags stop._] second countryman. dost thou not know us? first wag. i have not that pleasure. first countryman. thou didst talk with us but yester-eve! second wag. some mistake, i fear, my good man. [_the wags start off._] second countryman (_weeping_). wait! i pray thee, wait! (_the wags stop._) canst thou not tell us who we are? first wag. do you not know yourselves? second countryman. alas! we are not ourselves. first countryman. thou wouldst know us were we as we were once. second wag. perhaps those flags will solve the riddle. first wag. true enough; let us look at them. [_the countrymen remove flags and hand them to wags, who look at them intently._] second wag (_mysteriously_). can it be? first wag. it is! it is! first countryman. eh? second countryman. eh? second wag (_to countrymen_). your pardon! i do crave your pardon! first wag (_taking a ring from his finger; turning to second countryman_). please to accept this ring. i shall then know i am forgiven for not recognizing you at first. second countryman (_accepting ring; putting it on the first finger of his right hand_). why, yes, i forgive thee. second wag (_to first countryman, taking off his gold chain_). please to accept this chain. by that i shall know i too am forgiven. first countryman (_accepting chain; putting it on_). thou art forgiven. now tell me what great person i have become. second wag (_gravely_). jest with us no more! first wag. we go now to announce your arrival to the lord mayor. second wag. presently, we will return. await us here. [_they go, laughing aside._] first countryman. dost thou know, i have always felt that i was really a great person. hast thou not always noticed something unusual about me? second countryman. i cannot say that i have. there is, however, certainly something wonderful about me. i have noticed it for a long time. hast thou not felt it when in my company? first countryman. i have not. second countryman (_indignantly_). thou hast not? first countryman. never! thou silly goose! [_the second countryman snatches first countryman's chain and throws it over the wall._] second countryman. mind how thou callest me names, thou booby! first countryman (_tearing off second countryman's ring and throwing it over the wall_). silly goose! second countryman. i will now depart for my home. i do not desire thy company. first countryman. i likewise will return, and likewise i wish to journey alone. [_they take up their blankets and discover the gourds._] first countryman. eh? second countryman. eh? first countryman. let us tie them around our ankles. we may then discover whether we are ourselves. [_they tie the gourds around their ankles._] second countryman (_joyfully_). i am myself! first countryman (_joyfully_). and i am myself! second countryman. come, let us journey back together. [_they go out. pause. enter the_ wags. _they remain at entrance, not knowing countrymen have gone._] first wag (_whispering_). do you think the musicians should follow them? second wag (_whispering_). no, they should follow the music. what a joke it is! [_they look around and discover that the countrymen have gone._] first wag (_sadly_). my ring! second wag (_sadly_). my chain! the man and the alligator scene i time: _the morning after the cyclone_. place: _the man's garden_. * * * * * the man. the alligator. * * * * * [_the_ man _enters the garden carrying his big stick and small net. the garden has been almost destroyed by the_ alligator, _who still wallows among the beds._] man. there should be enough apples on the ground to fill my net. 't was a fierce storm last night! (_he looks about; sees the alligator; shows indignation._) thou--within my garden! alligator (_meekly_). be not angry with me, o master! by accident i-- man (_indignantly_). accident! thou hast wallowed among my flowers by accident, hast thou? alligator. it is true; not of my own will came i hither. man (_more indignantly_). thou hast broken my fruit trees by accident, i suppose! alligator (_nodding_). it was not of my own intentions, i assure you. i-- man (_interrupting_). thou art this moment crushing my strawberry plants beneath thy great body! i've a mind to beat thee with my big stick! alligator. do not beat me, o master! the cyclone is at fault. man (_surprised_). the cyclone? alligator (_nodding_). aye, it blew me here from the river last night. man. ha, ha! a likely story! alligator. i speak the truth. a great waterspout lifted me out of the river. then a fierce wind caught me and blew me about as if i were a feather. finally, i was dropped here within thy garden. man (_only half convinced_). well, there's no cyclone to blow thee back. wilt thou be good enough to walk thyself out? alligator. alas! i can scarcely move me. i fear some of my ribs are broken. man. nonsense! out with thee! alligator. but see how the wind has crippled me! it has even blown some of my claws loose-- man (_interrupting_). i am sorry for thee, but thou canst not remain here. alligator. i will go now, if thou wilt help me. man (_surprised_). _i_ help thee? alligator (_nodding_). i will be so grateful to thee! man. oh, i know how grateful thou canst be! the other animals have told me that! alligator. what say they? man. that thou art the most cruel of all the animals--that thou never dost any one a favor-- alligator (_interrupting_). nonsense! no one could be more grateful for favors than i! i'll prove it to thee! man. prove it? how? alligator. if thou wilt help me to the river, i'll show thee where to find the biggest fish. man. well--that's something-- alligator. and when thou wouldst cross the river, i'll carry thee. man. of a surety, that's good of thee! perhaps, after all, thou art not so black as thou art painted. i'll help thee this time. alligator. thanks to thee, master. i will never forget thy kindness; i will always be thy friend. man. why, i am glad to help thee. now how am i to get thee to the river? alligator. carry me, please, o master! man. what! carry thee? alligator (_nodding_). i'll get into thy net. man. thou get into my small net! alligator. only hold thy net open! man (_holding his net open_). i tell thee, thou canst never get in! alligator. see how i fold my arms! my legs go under--so! now i roll myself up and up and up! and now i am in--all in! man. well, seeing is believing! alligator. please to tie up thy net, master, that i may not fall out. man (_tying net_). 't is done! (_throwing net over shoulder._) thou art heavy! alligator. i know, it will be hard work for thee, but some day thou wilt see how grateful i am. [_the man goes, carrying the alligator over his shoulder and his big stick in his hand._] scene ii time: _the afternoon of the same day_. place: _the river bank_. * * * * * the man. the alligator. the wolf. the leopard. the rabbit. * * * * * [_enter the_ man _carrying the_ alligator _over his shoulder. he stops, throws down his big stick and places the alligator carefully on the bank._] man. our journey is ended, brother. (_untying net._) now then, roll thyself out! (_the alligator comes out of the net._) well, how dost thou feel now? alligator. much better, thanks to thee; but i'm very hungry and i find i'm still quite weak. i pray thee help me down the bank, o master! man (_helping the alligator down the bank_). now, then, thou art close to the water. [_he turns to go._] alligator. just a little farther, please. i am still so weak! man. then i'll help thee into the water. (_he helps the alligator into the water._) now thou art in; and now i will depart. [_he turns to go._] alligator (_seizing the man's leg_). not yet! man. let go of my leg! alligator. why? man (_indignantly_). why! why! alligator (nodding_). why and wherefore? man. thou art hurting me! alligator. it will soon be over. man. what dost thou mean? alligator. what i have just spoken. man. why dost thou look at me so? alligator (_slowly_). because--i--mean--to--eat--thee. man. eat me! alligator (_nodding_). eat thee. man. me? alligator (_nodding_). thee. man. thou didst promise to be my friend. alligator. i was only fooling thee. man. but i helped thee out of trouble. alligator. no matter--i mean to eat thee. man. is that the way to repay a favor--by doing a wrong? alligator (_nodding_). that's the way of all the animals. man. thou art surely mistaken--not all the animals-- alligator (_interrupting_). there's not one of them remembers a favor or a friend when hungry. man. i cannot think that! suppose we ask the first animal that comes to drink? alligator. ask any of them--i know what they will say. [_enter the_ wolf. _he comes down the bank to drink._] man. wolf, i would question thee. wolf (_gruffly_). well? man. how dost thou repay the one who doth thee a favor? wolf (_gruffly, as before_). by doing him a wrong. [_the wolf drinks and goes._] alligator. ha, ha, ha! just what i said! now i shall eat thee forthwith! man. i can't believe that every animal would so answer. alligator. i don't intend waiting for thee to find out. man. i pray thee wait till the next animal comes to drink! alligator (_impatiently_). have i not told thee of my hunger? man. listen! some animal comes through the forest now. [_enter the_ leopard. _he comes down to drink._] leopard, i would question thee. leopard (_curtly_). well? man. how dost thou repay the one who doth thee a favor? leopard (_curtly, as before_). by doing him a wrong. [_he drinks and goes._] alligator. ha, ha, ha! it is just as i said! i will now eat thee forthwith! man. i pray thee-- alligator (_interrupting_). it is now all over with thee! man (_calling_). help! help! [_enter the_ rabbit.] rabbit. a word with thee, ally dear! alligator. i shall be busy for a few minutes, brother rabbit. rabbit (_going down bank quickly_). who is this thou art about to dine upon? why, 't is the man! man. how dost thou repay a favor, brother rabbit? rabbit. why dost thou ask? man. i found the alligator in my garden this morning. he had destroyed my plants, my fruits, and-- alligator (_interrupting_). i was blown in by the cyclone last night. man. he said he had been hurt and begged me to help him to the river. he promised me his friendship if i would do so. alligator. ha, ha, ha! i told him i'd show him where to find the biggest fish. rabbit. and now thou wilt not? alligator. but i will. he'll find it after he is _inside_ of me. ha, ha! rabbit. ha, ha! a good joke! alligator. i told him i'd carry him across the river. i didn't explain he'd go _inside_. ha, ha! rabbit. what a joker thou art, ally dear! (_he turns to the man._) but how didst thou get him here? man. i carried him in this small net. rabbit (_looking surprised_). thou art trying to fool me! man. no, brother rabbit, it is quite true. alligator (_nodding_). yes, it is true. rabbit. but, ally, try as thou mightst, thou couldst not so much as get thy head into that net. [illustration: "help! help!"] alligator. but i tell thee i did! rabbit. ha, ha, ha! that's too funny! alligator (_angrily_). i do not like thy manners, young man. rabbit. but it's such a joke! ho, ho, ho! alligator. cease thy laughing or i shall eat thee some day! rabbit. i laugh because i must laugh! ha, ha, ho, ho! alligator. thou wilt not believe it, eh? rabbit. well, not unless i see it. man. we can prove it to thee, brother rabbit. rabbit. oh, that's good too! ha, ha, ho! alligator. dost thou think we cannot? rabbit. of course thou canst not! if thou couldst, thou wouldst. alligator. and we will! get thy net ready, man. man. but how? thou art holding my leg. alligator (_freeing the man; turning to the rabbit_). we'll show thee just how it was done, young man. rabbit. seeing is believing. [_the man brings his net; opens it._] alligator. see! i put my legs under--so! then i fold my arms--so! now i roll myself up and up and up. and now i am in--all in! rabbit. as i live--thou art! well, seeing is believing. but how couldst thou remain within the net? it is quite open. alligator. tie it up, man. show him exactly how we did it. man (_tying net_). i tied it tight--like this, brother rabbit. rabbit. is it quite tight? alligator. let him try the knot, man. rabbit (_trying knot_). most truly, it is tight. (_turning to the alligator._) thou dost look as if thou couldst not move, ally dear. alligator. of a surety--i cannot. rabbit. well, brother man, now that thou hast him, don't be foolish enough to let him go. get thy big stick and beat him to death. alligator (_surprised_). eh? man (_not heeding the alligator_). that is just what i will do, that i will! thanks to thee for helping me, brother rabbit. alligator. have pity! rabbit (_not heeding the alligator_). no thanks are necessary, brother man. i haven't forgotten the good turnips thou didst give me last winter when the ground was covered with snow. some of us know how to return favor for favor. the song in the heart scene i time: _once upon a time_. place: _in the house of the poor spinner_. * * * * * the dame. isabel, _her daughter_. flat-foot } hanging-lip } _the three great-aunts_. broad-thumb } the queen. * * * * * [_the living-room in the dame's cottage is seen. the_ dame _and the_ three great-aunts _are spinning._ isabel _sits at her spinning-wheel, but has stopped work and looks out of the open door._] dame (_sharply_). isabel! you gaze without! isabel (_nodding_). upon those great trees, mother. how beautiful they are! how like sentinels they stand at our door guarding us! flat-foot (_growling_). what nonsense! you'd better be spinning. isabel (_not heeding_). mother, see you that old oak! see how proudly it lifts its head up into the sky! 't is the king of the forest! hanging-lip (_growling_). i never heard such foolish talk! isabel (_not heeding_). mother, a song has come to me,--'t is a song to the beautiful trees. let me stop to write it down, while my heart is full of it. broad-thumb (_to the dame_). do not permit it, sister! she should be working. she can scarcely spin at all. dame (_showing much feeling_). isabel! isabel! not a maid in the village thinks of anything but spinning. isabel. mother, let me stop! soon the song will leave me. i may ne'er hear it again. flat-foot (_to the dame_). sister, she will bring you to shame. hanging-lip. already the village folk laugh at her! broad-thumb (_nodding_). aye! they call her "the dreamer." i myself have heard them. isabel. i care not what they call me! dame (_raising her voice_). nay, but i care. i'll not have you different from other folk. hanging-lip. _we_ were never seen gazing upon trees! broad-thumb (_nodding_). aye! _we_ never heard songs within _us_! flat-foot (_nodding_). aye! _we_ think only of our work! isabel. what's your work may not be mine! dame (_decidedly_). there's no other work for a maid than spinning. isabel (_sighing_). i like it not! though every other maid in all the world did love to spin, i'd say the same--i like it not! dame (_to flat-foot; showing alarm_). sister, close the door, that none without may hear such words. [_flat-foot rises, but is too late. the_ queen _enters from the street._] queen (_showing displeasure_). how now! what's all this noise? i heard it from the street! [_all are frightened; isabel weeps._] dame (_bowing_). 't will not happen again, your majesty. queen (_looking at isabel_). have they beaten you, my child? isabel (_still sobbing_). n--o--, your majesty. queen (_to the dame_). tell me why your daughter weeps. dame (_more frightened_). she weeps because--because-- [_she stops in confusion._] queen. well--well? dame. because--because--i will not let her spin. queen (_showing surprise_). because you will not let her spin? dame (_nodding_). yes, your majesty. queen. why, this is most strange. dame (_nodding_). would i but let her, she'd spin from morn till night, and from then on till morn again. queen. i see how it can be so. there's nothing i like better than spinning. dame. she weeps whenever i make her leave off. queen. 't is because she loves it! i am never more pleased than when the wheels are whirring. dame. but stop she must, for to-day at least. there is no more flax. queen. i have rooms full of flax. let your daughter come to my castle. she may spin there as much as she pleases. dame (_now, most frightened_). i--i fear she would be a trouble to you. queen. why, no! in fact, i am so pleased with your daughter's industry i will have my son marry her. dame (_so frightened she can scarcely breathe_). o your majesty-- queen (_interrupting_). but first she must spin all my flax. there are three rooms full of it--from top to bottom. isabel (_showing alarm_). three rooms full! queen (_nodding_). aye, my dear, and when you have spun it all, you shall become a princess! (_turning to the dame._) bring your daughter to my castle to-morrow. dame (_bowing_). yes, your majesty. queen (_going_). to-morrow, mind you. dame (_bowing_). yes, your majesty. [_all bow to the queen, who goes._] isabel. mother, how could you tell the queen i love to spin? dame. think you i'd let the truth be known? i'd not shame myself so! isabel. i could not spin three rooms of flax in three hundred years. dame. alas! alas! what shall we do? flat-foot (_to hanging-lip and broad-thumb_). sisters, let us speak together. [_the three great-aunts whisper together for a moment._] hanging-lip. isabel, we will help you-- flat-foot (_interrupting_). on one condition! broad-thumb (_nodding_). aye,--on a certain condition! isabel. what do you mean? hanging-lip. we'll spin the flax for you-- flat-foot (_interrupting_). on one condition. broad-thumb (_nodding_). aye,--on a certain condition! dame. you speak in riddles, sisters. hanging-lip. 't is this--if isabel will invite us to her wedding, we'll spin the flax. flat-foot. that's the condition. broad-thumb (_nodding_). aye,--that's the certain condition. isabel. 't will be deceiving the queen and the prince, both. dame. there's no other way to mend things. go now! since you are so soon to be a princess, i'll give you leave to write down your song. isabel (_sadly_). the song is no longer in my heart. dame. 't is well. now listen--you must never let the prince know about your songs. he'd send you from the castle. broad-thumb (_nodding_). besides, 't would bring great shame upon us, for we are a family of spinners. flat-foot (_nodding_). aye, aye! hanging-lip (_nodding_). aye, aye! scene ii time: _one week later_. place: _the queen's castle_. * * * * * the queen. the prince. isabel. the three great-aunts. * * * * * [_the_ three great-aunts _are working at the last heap of flax in the third room._ isabel _watches them anxiously._] isabel. think you to finish before the queen comes? flat-foot (_nodding as she treads the wheel_). aye, if treading the wheel will do it! hanging-lip (_nodding, as she moistens the thread over her lip_). aye, if moistening the thread will do it! broad-thumb (_nodding, as she presses the thread with her thumb_). aye, if pressing the thread will do it! isabel. 't is to-day she brings the prince. flat-foot. another minute and we'll have finished. isabel. should they come suddenly, you know where to hide--behind those curtains there. three great-aunts (_nodding_). aye, we know! [_a noise is heard in the distance._] isabel. some one comes! (_she runs to the door, opens it, and looks out._) the prince comes down the stairs! quick, aunts, quick! flat-foot (_rising_). well, 't is finished! isabel (_looking into hall_). now comes the queen! to the curtains, quick! [_the three great-aunts hide behind the curtains, just as the_ queen _and the_ prince _enter._] queen. well, have you finished? isabel (_pointing to a pile of thread_). there's the last of it, your majesty. queen (_looking at thread_). spun in the finest style, too! prince, but a week ago these rooms were filled with flax. now look at them. prince (_looking about_). empty, as if flax had never been here. 't is wonderful how one maid could do so much! queen. 't is most wonderful! prince. the wedding shall take place to-day. isabel, come now with us. isabel (_thoughtfully_). no, no! i cannot! prince. you cannot? queen. you cannot! what do you mean? isabel (_to the queen_). let me go home, your majesty! queen. go home! isabel. i am not worthy-- prince (_interrupting_). nonsense! that you are poor is nothing to me. queen (_going_). come, the wedding bells shall ring at once! isabel. your majesty--i--i--did not spin the flax. queen. what! you did not spin the flax? prince. what is this? isabel. i deceived you--i can scarcely spin at all. queen. but this pile of thread here-- isabel. 't was spun by another. prince. another? isabel. yes, prince. queen. you shall marry that one then, my son! (_to isabel._) as for you, return to your hovel! (_isabel turns to go._) stay! (_isabel stops._) who is the wonderful spinner? tell us where to find her. isabel. here, your majesty. queen. hidden away, i suppose? isabel (_nodding_). yes, your highness, behind those curtains. queen. go, my son, and draw the curtains. you shall be the first to look upon your bride. [_the prince draws the curtains and sees the three great-aunts, who sit in a row. they smile and smile upon the prince, who stands looking at them in astonishment._] flat-foot. you'd never be sorry to take me for your bride, my lord. prince (_not heeding_). why is your foot so flat? flat-foot. from treading the wheel! from treading the wheel! hanging-lip. you'd never be sorry to take me for your bride, my lord. prince (_not heeding_). why is your lip so long? hanging-lip. from moistening the thread! from moistening the thread! broad-thumb. you'd never be sorry to take me for your bride, my lord. prince (_not heeding_). why is your thumb so broad? broad-thumb. from pressing the thread! from pressing the thread! [_the prince turns to isabel._] flat-foot (_quickly_). isabel does naught but gaze and gaze, on flowers and trees and running brooks. ha, ha, ha! prince. is this true, isabel? isabel (_timidly_). yes, prince. hanging-lip. she says these flowers and trees and running brooks do sing her songs. ha, ha, ha! prince. is this true, isabel? isabel (_as before_). yes, prince. broad-thumb. and she begs leave to write down these songs. ha, ha, ha! [illustration: the prince sees the three great-aunts] prince. is this true, isabel? isabel (_hanging head_). yes, prince. prince. isabel, hang not your head. i'll give you time to write your songs. queen. my son-- prince (_interrupting_). nay, nay, mother! the songs please me better than the flat-foot and the hanging-lip and the broad-thumb of the spinners. come, isabel, you shall be my princess! you shall sing me your songs! you shall teach me how to gaze upon flowers and trees and running brooks, for these things have ever been dear to my heart. come, isabel, come! the emperor's test scene i time: _one spring; noon_. place: _an army camp on the banks of a large creek. a village is near by. to the south is a great forest_. * * * * * the emperor. the general. the captain. first aide. second aide. the mayor's wife and son. the rich merchant's wife and son. the poor woodcutter's wife and her son, pierre. * * * * * [_an ante-room in the emperor's tent is seen. great curtains separate this room from the emperor's room back. an_ aide _waits in the ante-room. enter the_ general _from the emperor's room._] general (_to the aide_). have any yet come from the village? the emperor would know. aide. yes, general. they wait without. general. bid them enter. aide (_crossing; speaking to those without_). you will please enter. [_enter the_ mayor's wife _and_ son; _the_ rich merchant's wife _and_ son.] general. you have come to see the emperor? the ladies. general, we have. general. his majesty wishes you to leave your sons here in camp until evening. mayor's wife. general, could you not tell us the emperor's plans? general. yes, madam. the emperor must march southward where the enemy is in camp. he wishes a guide who can lead him safely through this great forest. rich merchant's wife. we were told the emperor would greatly honor the lad he chooses. general. 't is true, madam. the lad chosen will be made an aide. mayor's wife. i thought only princes were chosen for the emperor's aides. general. they have always been princes. this is a great opportunity for the lads of this village. mayor's wife. but how will the emperor make a choice? general. a test will be given every boy who comes. this test will prove his fitness to be guide. [_enter an_ aide _from emperor's room._] aide. general, the emperor would see you. [_the general bows to the ladies and leaves._] aide (_turning to the ladies_). the emperor will receive you presently. [_aide goes. enter the_ poor woodcutter's wife _and_ son.] poor woodcutter's wife (_timidly_). i heard the emperor wanted a guide. mayor's wife. the emperor only wants the boys of the best families, madam. [_enter the_ emperor, general, _and_ captain; _they remain back; are not seen by the ladies._] poor woodcutter's wife (_sighing_). i suppose that is true, but pierre is a smart boy. if the emperor could only see him-- rich merchant's wife (_interrupting_). the emperor wants a boy with proud manners such as our boys have. emperor (_indignantly_). fiddlesticks! the ladies (_bowing_). your highness! emperor. fiddlesticks and candles, i say! poor woodcutter's wife. i am sorry, your majesty. i didn't know how it was. come, pierre. [_she turns to go._] emperor. remain. pierre shall have the test with the others. ladies, you shall know whom i have chosen when the test is finished. i bid you good-day. [_the ladies bow and go._] emperor (_turning to the boys_). my lads, go through the forest southward, till you come to the river. you may then return. captain, see that guards go with them. my lads, you must not speak the one to the other until i have again seen you. i must have your word on that. do you promise? boys. sire, we promise. emperor. 't is well. captain, they are now in your charge. general, a word with you. [_the emperor and general go into emperor's room. the captain leads the boys from the tent._] scene ii time: _two hours later_. place: _the emperor's tent; the emperor's room_. * * * * * the emperor. first aide. second aide. ludwig. * * * * * [_the_ emperor _is seen sitting at a table looking at maps. enter an_ aide. _he salutes._] emperor. well? aide. the prisoner has returned, sire. emperor. what prisoner? aide. the one sent out for the test, sire. emperor. who was sent? aide. ludwig, the prisoner who has been ill for so long. emperor. ah, yes; bid him enter. (_aide goes; he reënters with_ ludwig, _who wears an old, torn army cloak over his uniform. he salutes._) i notice you are a bit lame, ludwig. ludwig. yes, sire; in my left leg. my dog was hit at the same time. emperor. does your dog go to battle with you? ludwig. if he can slip into the ranks, sire. he always goes where i go, sire. emperor. then he went with you to-day, of course? ludwig. yes, sire. emperor. you are sure the boys didn't see you? ludwig. no one saw me. i kept a sharp lookout. when i came to a clear space i went to one side, hiding behind trees, to look ahead. then i ran across. emperor. that must have tired you, ludwig. you're not quite well yet. ludwig. i found i couldn't leap the streams; i had to climb down the banks and wade them. emperor. you rested by the way, didn't you? ludwig. yes, sire, and once i stopped to pick berries. emperor. you made the return trip by boat up the creek? ludwig. yes, sire. emperor. that is all. [_the aide and ludwig go. the emperor claps his hands. enter_ second aide. _he salutes._] emperor (_to aide_). have the lads returned? aide. no, sire. emperor. do you know when the captain expects them? aide. in about half an hour, sire. emperor. bid their mothers return at that time. i wish them to be present at the test. aide. yes, sire. [_he salutes and goes._] emperor (_slowly_). let me see--a lame man; a lame dog; running footprints across open spaces; wading streams instead of leaping them; stopping to pick berries--why, the story reads itself! (_he sits at table; takes up maps._) well, we shall see what we shall see! scene iii time: _a half hour later_. place: _the emperor's tent; the ante-room_. * * * * * the emperor. the general. the captain. an aide. the mayor's wife and son. the rich merchant's wife and son. the poor woodcutter's wife and son, pierre. * * * * * [_the_ ladies _wait in the lower end of ante-room. back is a great armchair._] mayor's wife. i cannot think why the boys were sent into the forest! rich merchant's wife. nor i! it seems to me the emperor should have asked them what they could do. now, my boy dances so prettily! mayor's wife. i was certain he would ask them to ride. now, my boy rides so well--just like a prince! rich merchant's wife. well, he will no doubt ask them all these things upon their return. (_she turns to pierre's mother._) you see, madam, how little chance your boy has. i am sure he cannot dance? poor woodcutter's wife (_sadly_). no, madam. mayor's wife. i am certain he does not ride? poor woodcutter's wife (_sighing_). no, madam. [_enter an_ aide; _crosses to emperor's room; announces at curtains._] aide. the boys have returned, sire! [_enter the_ captain _with the_ boys. _enter the_ general _from emperor's room._] general (_announcing_). the emperor! [_enter the_ emperor; _all bow._] emperor (_sitting in armchair_). i will now give the test. captain, bring up the first boy. [_the captain brings up the_ rich merchant's son.] emperor. well, my lad, what did you see in the forest? rich merchant's son. many, many trees, sire. emperor. you saw nothing but trees? rich merchant's son. that was all, sire--just trees. emperor. i shall not want you; you may go. rich merchant's wife. oh, your majesty, if you could only see him dance! emperor. candles and cheese! do i want a dancing guide? captain, bring up the next one. [_the captain brings up the_ mayor's son.] emperor. well, my lad, what did you see in the forest? mayor's son. i saw trees and bushes, sire. emperor. nothing more? mayor's son. no, sire. emperor. i shall not want you; you may go. mayor's wife. oh, your majesty, if you could only see him ride! just like a prince, sire! emperor. fiddlesticks! captain, the last boy there. [_the captain brings up_ pierre]. emperor. well, my lad, what did you see in the forest? pierre. i saw that a man had passed southward just before us, sire. emperor. how did you know that? did you see him? pierre. no, sire, i saw his footprints. he was lame in the left leg. emperor. how did you learn that? pierre. the footprints were deeper on the right side. his dog was lame also. emperor. he had a dog? pierre. yes, sire; a lame dog i'm sure, because one of his tracks was always faint or missing. emperor. did you trace this man and dog by their footprints? pierre. yes, sire, to the river. there were traces of them in the grass, in the mud, in the dust, on rocks, and in still water. i am certain they had passed but a short time before--not more than a half hour. emperor. how could you tell that? pierre. the grass had not yet straightened up. the tracks in the mud had not yet filled with water. the prints in the dust were still clear although a wind was blowing. emperor. good! but how did you know they had but just passed through still water and over rocks? pierre. the water had not yet settled, and the rocks were still damp. emperor. good! very good! pierre. sire, i fear this man is one of the enemy! emperor. indeed! what proof have you of that? pierre. this, sire. (_handing a small piece of cloth to emperor._) 't is the color of the enemy's uniform. emperor. it is, my lad. how came you by it? pierre. i found it on a thorn-bush. it was torn from his cloak, sire. emperor. and why from his cloak? pierre. the thorn-bush was at least three feet from the man's line of travel. the wind blew the cloak about. emperor (_handing the cloth to an aide; whispering to him_). take this to ludwig. (_the aide goes._) well, pierre, do you think we should be in fear of this enemy? pierre. i do not know, sire. i only know that he has a good disposition. emperor (_surprised_). a good disposition? how do you know that? pierre. the dog was always near him. when the man stopped to rest, the dog lay down at his feet. emperor. but he may have held the dog there, my lad. pierre. not while he was picking berries, sire. emperor. so our enemy picked berries, did he? pierre. yes, sire, the dog lying by the bushes all the while. emperor. do you think we could capture this man? pierre. yes, sire, for he was very tired. emperor. how do you know that? pierre. he climbed down the banks of every small stream. i should have leaped them. emperor. you think it would be an easy matter, then, to follow and capture him? pierre. not easy, sire, for he was always on the lookout. emperor. how do you know that? pierre. whenever he reached a clear space, he went to one side, hiding behind trees to look ahead. then he ran across the open. emperor. your proof of this, my lad? pierre. his footprints in every clear space showed only the balls of the feet. emperor. good! you followed him only to the river. pierre. those were the orders, sire. had i gone on, i could have overtaken him by evening. emperor. that you could not, my lad, for the man is now here, in camp. he returned by boat. ladies, the test is over. (_he turns to pierre's mother._) madam, your son shall be my guide. i am proud to have a boy of such keen sight and quick thought in my kingdom. and 't is much to be the mother of such a lad. i salute you, madam! with greatest respect i salute you! [_he bows to the happy woman with great courtesy._] emperor (_turning to the ladies_). ladies, i bid you farewell. christopher columbus scene i time: _one morning; _. place: _a street in front of king john's palace, lisbon, portugal. gates to courtyard of palace in background_. * * * * * christopher columbus. schoolmaster. carlos. roque.[footnote: pronounced _r[=o]'k[=a]_.] pancho.[footnote: pronounced _pän'ch[=o]_ (_ch_ as in _ch_urch.)] king john. courtiers. jester. riverra,[footnote: pronounced _r[=e]-ver'rä_.] a sea-captain. porter. boys, hostlers, servants. * * * * * [_enter_ carlos, roque _and_ pancho. _they carry their school-books. a noise is heard in courtyard._] roque (_stopping; listening_). there's stirring in the king's courtyard! [_he runs to closed gates; peeps through a crack._] carlos. come, roque, we shall be late to school. roque (_throwing down books_). come, look! they are laying the red carpets in the court! pancho (_throwing down books; peeping_). 't is for the king they lay them! carlos. come, the master will be angry. roque. but the king will soon be coming! pancho. let's wait and see him, carlos! carlos. not i! i know how the master flogs! yesterday i came late to school. pancho. why were you late? carlos. i stopped to watch the crazy italian, columbus. [_he starts off; the others follow._] roque. i saw him once! pancho. i wish i might see him! carlos. there he comes now! (_calling_.) _loco!_[footnote: pronounced _l[=o]'k[=o]_; spanish for _crazy_.] _loco!_ roque. aye, there he is! (_calling._) _loco! loco!_ pancho (_calling_). _loco! loco!_ [_enter_ columbus, _dignified and gentle. a crowd of_ boys _follow._] all boys. _loco! loco! loco! loco!_ [_enter_ schoolmaster, _carrying a switch._] master (_flourishing switch_). to school with you! to school now! [_boys run off in alarm._] master (_turning angrily upon columbus_). you were teaching them your foolish notions, sir! columbus (_smiling_). i'd like the chance to do so, master. master. ah, then you _have_ been at it! i saw them all about you! columbus. i taught them nothing, master,--this time. master. 't is well for you, sir, that you did not. the world is flat, sir, flat! do you not know that, sir? columbus. i was so taught-- master. how do you dare, then, to say the world is round? columbus. much study and common sense, dear master, have made me dare. master. the lessons taught your fathers are good enough for you, sir. columbus. that cannot be, dear master. how, then, could the world move on? master. move on? hear him talk! do you think, sir, that an elephant carries this flat world on his back and walks about with it? ha, ha! [_gates are opened;_ porter _is seen._] master (_going_). go tell the king this world is round! ha, ha! go tell the king! [_schoolmaster goes._] porter (_seeing columbus; aside_). ah, 't is the crazy italian! columbus. porter, i seek the king! porter. do you think he'll listen to your silly talk? o, i've heard of you! away! columbus. come, let me in! porter. away! away with you, _loco_! [_enter from gates, the_ jester _in cap and bells,_ hostlers _and_ servants.] jester. who's away? who's crazy? porter. the italian there! he who says this world is round! jester. round? how now? round, say you? porter (_nodding; laughing_). with people on the other side! jester. a-standing on their heads--so! [_jester stands on his head; all laugh. enter a_ courtier.] courtier. the king comes! [_enter_ king john _and many_ courtiers.] jester (_capering about columbus_). ha, ha, ha, ha! king. what's this, jester? jester. here's he, sire, who says this world is round! [_he capers about columbus; all laugh._] king. i've heard of your notions, columbus. so you think there's land to be discovered, do you? columbus. yes, your majesty, i'm sure of it. jester. with people a-standing on their heads--so! [_he stands on his head; all laugh._] king. silence! columbus, i've a mind to listen, and give you ships and money. have you maps and charts to prove your plans? columbus (_taking maps from cloak_). yes, sire. king. wait, then, till i have spoken with my courtiers. [_columbus bows, retires, and unrolls maps._ captain riverra _crosses to columbus; talks with him aside._] king (_speaking softly to courtiers_). you know, my courtiers, that should there be new lands, great glory will be given the discoverer of them. first courtier. aye, sire, 't will bring him great honor. second courtier. and riches. king. 't is i, and i alone, who should have the honor and the riches! first courtier. aye, sire! second courtier. aye, sire! third courtier. but nothing can be done without the italian's maps and charts. no one but he knows the route over the unknown seas. king. well, we must have his maps and charts. first courtier. he'll not sell them, sire. you may depend on that. king. and we'll not buy them. go, bid my fool take them. (_courtiers showing surprise._) go, i say, and see to it! [_courtiers talk aside with jester._] riverra (_to columbus_). i wish you well, sir, for i believe that what you say is true. columbus. i'm glad to hear you say that, captain. riverra. my ship is in the harbor now, and i must go. but i wish you well, columbus, i wish you well. [_columbus, throwing his maps on the stone bench near gates, takes riverra's hands in his. the jester creeps up, takes maps, runs into the court with them, and disappears._] columbus (_with feeling_). i thank you, captain--so few believe in me-- king. come now within, columbus; i'll look at your maps and charts. [_riverra goes._] columbus (_turning to take up maps_). why, how is this! my maps were here but just a moment ago! king. who saw his maps? (_pause._) the courtiers are silent, sir. columbus. i laid them there, sire! king. then there they should be. columbus. some one has taken them--'t is a joke-- king (_interrupting_). my courtiers do not play jokes in my presence. columbus. those maps and charts are precious to me, sire! king. come, now, i'm not so sure you ever had maps or charts. columbus. your majesty! king. well, produce them. columbus. but, sire,-- king (_interrupting_). i'll not hear excuses! your maps, sir,--at once, sir! columbus. i'll make other maps and charts-- king. away with you! columbus. your majesty-- king. away, i say! and come to us no more with tales of unknown lands. [_enter_ jester _from gates._] jester. with people a-walking on their heads--so! [_jester stands on his head; all laugh. columbus goes, showing bitter disappointment._] scene ii time: _ _. place: _spain. court of king ferdinand and queen isabella_. * * * * * king ferdinand. queen isabella. christopher columbus. captain riverra. wise men. courtiers and ladies. a monk, father-confessor to the queen. messenger. * * * * * [_many_ courtiers _and_ ladies _are seen in audience-room of palace; a throne is in the background. enter the_ first courtier.] first courtier. the king and queen! [_enter_ king ferdinand _and_ queen isabella, _followed by_ courtiers, ladies _and the_ wise men. _all bow as the king and queen cross to throne and sit. enter the_ monk; _he advances to throne and bows._] king. speak, good father. monk. i pray your majesties to see one christopher columbus. king (_inquiringly_). columbus? monk. the italian who thinks he can find a short route to the indies, sire. king (_nodding_). ah, i remember. you brought his plans to us some time ago, good father. queen (_nodding_). let us see him to-day, sire. king (_to first courtier_). admit this christopher columbus. (_courtier admits_ columbus. _he kneels before the king._) rise, columbus, and tell us what you seek. columbus (_rising_). ships, sire, to prove the plans which i did send your majesties; plans for sailing in the unknown seas. queen. they seemed to me most wise and sensible. columbus (_with joy_). ah, your majesty believes with me? king (_hastily_). i'd have our wise men speak. unfold your maps before them, sir. [_columbus crosses to wise men and unfolds a map before them. they look at it, shake their heads and laugh._] columbus (_with dignity_). i propose to sail by this route to find that eastern land. first wise man. ha, ha! i never heard anything so absurd! he'd sail west to find the east! ha, ha! second wise man (_pointing to map_). the edge of the world is out there in those strange waters! and you are willing to fall off with your ships into space, sir? columbus. i'm sure the water continues-- third wise man (_interrupting_). how could there be land beyond? 't would be under us, and the trees would have to grow their roots in the air. [_wise men nod wisely._] second wise man. and the rain must needs fall upward there! all wise men (_nodding wisely_). aye! aye! queen. i've heard you did lay your plans before king john of portugal? columbus. i did, your majesty. king. that was bad for you, columbus. king john sent ships, but they soon returned. (_turning to_ captain riverra.) was not that the way of it, captain? you sailed with them, i believe? riverra. yes, sire. but the failure came because the sailors were afraid and refused to go on. (_to columbus._) you were thus avenged for the theft of your maps, sir. queen. would you sail again with this man as your leader, captain? riverra. i would, your majesty! i believe not in the monsters and the edge. queen. nor i! let's provide the ships, sire. king. our people would not like it--they'd grumble. and so 't would be bad for us. [_enter_ messenger _in great haste; kneels before king and queen._] king. what news do you bring? speak! messenger. the turks have captured the spanish merchant ships! king. our ships bound for the indies? messenger. yes, your majesty. king. alas! alas! queen. the merchants and the sailors--did the turks spare them? messenger. not one, your majesty! queen. alas, such loss of life! and 't is not the first time! not a month that does not bring us the same sad news! first wise man (_to monk_). you must give our people consolation, father. monk. 't is not so much consolation they need, as another passage to the indies; one far away from turkey and the cruel turks. queen. you are right, father. speak on. monk. to find such a passage is the chief purpose of christopher columbus. that is the hope that has given him courage when half the world called him _fool_. queen. sire, we must find ships and money! king. we dare not tax the people more-- queen. then i'll help you, columbus! i'll pledge my own jewels to raise the funds. columbus (_joyfully_). your majesty! queen. 't is for the safety of our merchants! 't is for the glory of spain! columbus (_kneeling before queen; kissing her robe_). my queen! scene iii time: _five months later; evening_. place: _on board the santa maria_. * * * * * admiral christopher columbus. captain pinzon.[footnote: pronounced _pin'th[=o]n_.] sailors. * * * * * [_the_ sailors _are seen sitting on deck in a group. they are gloomy and dejected._] first sailor. 't is a sea of darkness! second sailor. last night i heard the angry sea-gods! third sailor (_nodding_). aye, i heard them! fourth sailor. what were they crying? second sailor. angry words to us for coming into their own waters. first sailor. 't is the italian columbus the sea-gods should destroy! all sailors. aye! aye! second sailor. we'll never see spain again! third sailor. we should compel him to return! all sailors. aye! aye! [_enter_ columbus _with_ captain pinzon. _they cross to bow of ship. the captain glances uneasily at the sailors._] captain. admiral, i must tell you frankly, the sailors are dissatisfied. columbus. i am sorry to hear that, captain. captain. what shall we do, sir? columbus. do? why, sail on! captain. i'll see to it, sir! [_captain goes._] first sailor (_crossing_). admiral, the men have chosen me to speak for them. columbus. what do they wish? first sailor. to return to spain, sir! columbus. tell them we may see land any day now. first sailor (_shaking head_). they'll no longer listen to that! columbus. then tell them that i mean to sail on. first sailor (_starting_). sail on? columbus. yes; to sail on and on. go tell them that. [_sailor goes. enter_ captain.] captain. admiral, the sailors below show signs of mutiny! columbus (_alarmed_). mutiny? captain (_nodding_). the same as these on deck. only look at them! [_the sailors talk together excitedly and gesticulate wildly._] columbus. ah, if i could only give them my courage! captain. i fear for your life, admiral, if the order is not given to return. columbus. i cannot give it, captain. [_the sailors on deck are joined by others from below. they rush down upon columbus._] first sailor (_angrily_). you must take us back to spain, sir! second sailor. we'll not go farther, sir! all sailors. aye! aye! columbus. i'm sure we will soon find land-- sailors (_interrupting; angrily_). hear him! hear him! columbus. to the one who first sees land, the queen has promised money-- first sailor (_interrupting_). money! to feed to the sea-monster! second sailor (_threateningly_). will you turn back? columbus (_with determination_). no! captain. now, men, back to your duties. third sailor. alas! we'll never see our homes again! fourth sailor. nor our friends! first sailor. we are lost, men! second sailor. what shall we do? all sailors. what shall we do? what shall we do? [_as their anger turns to despair, columbus is touched._] columbus. listen, men,--i make you this promise: if we do not see land within three days, we will return to spain. captain. there, now,--that's a fair promise! go now to your duties! columbus. and let every man watch for land as he has never watched before! sailors (_pleased_). aye, aye, sir! [_sailors cross to a distant part of deck._] columbus (_sadly_). alas for my plans and my hopes, if these three days bring not land! [_he talks aside with the captain._] first sailor. we were too easily won over, men. second sailor (_nodding_). fearful things may happen to us in these three days! third sailor. suppose we reach the edge to-morrow! fourth sailor. suppose the sea-monster should come for us to-night! all sailors. aye! aye! first sailor (_cautiously_). come closer, men! there's something i would say to you! [_sailors close about him; captain goes._] first sailor (_pointing to columbus, who stands in bow looking at the stars_). why should he not fall into the seas to-night? second sailor. what! you mean-- first sailor. i mean he _must_ fall into the seas to-night. are you with me, men? all sailors. aye! aye! first sailor (_cautiously_). 't is my plan to push him over as he stands there looking at the stars. fourth sailor. why not creep upon him now? first sailor. are you willing, men, to have the deed done now? all sailors. yes! yes! first sailor (_to second and third sailors_). come with me, you two! we'll creep up on his left. [_they creep upon columbus, who is seen to suddenly bend forward, looking eagerly into the distance._] columbus. land! land! [_sailors stop; enter the_ captain.] captain. did you say land, sir? columbus. land, captain, land! come, sailors, come! land! land! sailors (_looking; joyfully_). land! land! columbus (_lifting his arms_). now heaven be praised! note to teacher.--this play conforms to the spirit of the traditional story of columbus, but the dramatization has made it necessary to condense into one scene the somewhat prolonged negotiations with ferdinand and isabella. the dramatization of bible stories the university of chicago press chicago, illinois the baker & taylor company new york the cambridge university press london the maruzen-kabushiki-kaisha tokyo, osaka, kyoto, fukuoka, sendai [illustration: a shepherd] the dramatization of bible stories an experiment in the religious education of children _by_ elizabeth erwin miller (_elizabeth miller lobingier_) [illustration] the university of chicago press chicago, illinois copyright by the university of chicago all rights reserved. published april sixteenth impression october composed and printed by the university of chicago press chicago, illinois, u.s.a. to my little friends, the children in the dramatic club of the hyde park church of disciples, this book is lovingly dedicated general preface the progress in religious education in the last few years has been highly encouraging. the subject has attained something of a status as a scientific study, and significant investigative and experimental work has been done. more than that, trained men and women in increasing numbers have been devoting themselves to the endeavor to work out in churches and sunday schools the practical problems of organization and method. it would seem that the time has come to present to the large body of workers in the field of religious education some of the results of the studies and practice of those who have attained a measure of educational success. with this end in view the present series of books on "principles and methods of religious education" has been undertaken. it is intended that these books, while thoroughly scientific in character, shall be at the same time popular in presentation, so that they may be available to sunday-school and church workers everywhere. the endeavor is definitely made to take into account the small school with meager equipment, as well as to hold before the larger schools the ideals of equipment and training. the series is planned to meet as far as possible all the problems that arise in the conduct of the educational work of the church. while the sunday school, therefore, is considered as the basal organization for this purpose, the wider educational work of the pastor himself and that of the various other church organizations receive due consideration as parts of a unified system of education in morals and religion. the editors contents page list of illustrations xiii introduction by edward scribner ames chapter i. educational aims in dramatization ii. the method of dramatization iii. the dramatization of "joseph" iv. the dramatization of "david and goliath" v. the dramatization of "moses in the bulrushes" vi. the dramatization of "ruth" vii. the dramatization of "queen esther" viii. the dramatization of "abraham and the three guests" ix. the dramatization of "daniel in the lions' den" x. the dramatization of new testament parables xi. the dramatic qualities in a good story xii. bible stories suitable for dramatization xiii. stage setting and properties xiv. costuming xv. the organization of a church dramatic club index list of illustrations a shepherd frontispiece figure page . pharaoh's court . a scene from david and goliath . esther and mordecai . esther dances before the king . the king holds out the scepter to esther . queen esther pleads for her people . the three guests bless abraham and sarah . the wise and foolish virgins . the good samaritan . water jugs and other clay utensils . woman carrying water jug . ancient wells in palestine . ancient weapons . a shepherd's sling and loom for weaving sling . sickles . scepter . shields . trumpets . signet ring . lamp . egyptian designs . helmets and crowns . a group of children, showing costumes and a trumpet . the costume of abraham . two kinds of costumes--the rich shepherd and the servant . costumes showing sandals made by the children . costumes introduction by edward scribner ames this book is its own best commendation, for it is a most convincing record of an important experiment in education. it is the more interesting because it is a real contribution to educational method from the field of religious education, which too often only appropriates and imitates what has been achieved elsewhere. this experiment is founded upon the powerful dramatic impulse of children and upon the educative value of the natural expression of that impulse under the mutual self-criticism of the participating group. the function of the leader has been that of an unobtrusive member of the group contributing such suggestions from a wider experience and deeper insight as would naturally elicit and guide that criticism. that this fine art of teaching has been realized with unusual skill in this experiment will be apparent to the discerning readers of this record, as it has been by those who have watched the progress of the work itself. too much emphasis cannot be given to the fact that the primary aim of this use of dramatization is the education of the children and not the entertainment of spectators, although, when such dramatization is rightly estimated, nothing could be more genuinely entertaining. those who are expecting to find here ready-made plays for children, with directions for staging them, will be properly disappointed, while those who are seeking illustrations of vital methods of education through the cultivation and use of the dramatic impulse will be amply rewarded. the latter will appreciate the frank portrayal of the early and cruder efforts of the children and their own critical reactions due to further reflection and experimentation. these will understand something of the ability and patience that miss miller has employed in allowing the native impulse to develop naturally and to mature through the reactions of the children themselves. they will realize that the little people actually formulated the scenes and the lines of the dramas even if it required many weeks in some cases to do so; that it is better for the actors to make their own costumes and stage properties, however simple they may be; that it is more educative for each child to be familiar with all of the parts, and thus with the drama as a whole, than to be coached ever so cleverly to impersonate a single character; and that facility and power in dramatization are thus attained which are permanent sources of pleasure and understanding. it need scarcely be added that the biblical stories are exceptionally well suited to such use and that when so employed they yield their profound religious quality directly in deep and lasting impressions. the children who have been so fortunate as to belong to this dramatic club not only "know" these stories, but they have lived them in an intimate and durable experience. chapter i educational aims in dramatization dramatization is not commonly recognized as a means of vitalizing the religious education of children. the public school has found it to be one of the most effective methods for enriching the pupil's ideas of given units of subject-matter and for leading to the establishment of permanent interests and of habitual modes of action. the use of dramatization in the school in order to accomplish these ends finds its justification in certain fundamental principles of teaching. subject-matter is so presented that the important ideas stand out clearly. these ideas are mastered by utilizing them in some form of activity which leads to self-expression on the part of the children. judgments are formed and conclusions are reached when children enter actively into a situation which presents a problem; ideas become their own through experience. through dramatization children give expression to these ideas in the light of their own interpretation. the formulation of standards, the placing of values, and the realization of truths and ideals follow as direct results of actively entering into the life-experience of others. from a psychological point of view ideas and ideals, whether religious or secular, are developed according to the same general laws. furthermore, the principles of teaching which are effective in the daily classroom must be equally significant in religious training. it follows, therefore, that dramatization and other forms of self-expression are as valuable in attaining the aims of the sunday school as they are in teaching the curriculum of the day school. through dramatizing a bible story children come into a comprehension of the life-experiences of a highly religious people; they are forming their own standards and ideals through meeting and solving the simple life-problems of the hebrews. each child has as great an opportunity for self-expression through dramatizing a bible story as that afforded through dramatizing any other story. he not only develops his individuality, but through this kind of work he must necessarily come into the realization of his place within the group, as is the case in all well-directed dramatization. the period is rapidly passing in which dramatics is looked upon by church members as being sinful and not in any way to be connected with the church. this view is a relic of a conception of religion in which all forms of freedom and pleasure were considered evil. people interested in religious education are now realizing that dramatization is not an activity foreign to children, but that it is an outgrowth of the play interest which is natural to all children. they are aware of the fact that dramatization becomes evident in the earliest stages of childhood through the desire of children to imitate in play the surrounding social activities. many churches have already made use of these natural tendencies by incorporating organized play as one of their activities. since dramatization is but a specialized form of organized play, and inasmuch as it can be used very effectively in vitalizing the religious training which all children should receive, it deserves a wider recognition and adoption. this book contains a description of a children's dramatic club which has been conducted as a part of the work of the sunday school of the hyde park church of disciples, chicago, illinois, for the purpose of accomplishing the ends stated above. before this dramatic club was organized a small amount of dramatization was attempted in certain of the classes during the sunday-school period. the enthusiastic response from the children to this new phase of the work revealed the need for more of this kind of activity, and as a consequence it was decided to devote one hour each sunday afternoon to the dramatization of bible stories. the membership of the club included children ranging from six to fourteen years of age. the average attendance has been from twenty to thirty children each sunday throughout these four years of the club's existence. this organization was attempted more or less as an experiment with the hope that definite results could be accomplished. the practical problems which have arisen, the details of method of procedure, and the results which have been secured will be discussed in the following chapters. several of the stories are given in the dramatic form which the children have worked out. this is done for the sake of showing what kind of a result may be secured. it is hoped that these plays, as they are written here, will not be given to children to learn and act; such a procedure would be entirely contrary to the spirit and purpose in which this experiment is set forth. chapter ii the method of dramatization two very different aims are revealed in the present-day employment of dramatization. children are often required to give a dramatic production at some entertainment or social event. for this purpose a story is selected which has already been put into dramatic form. the parts are assigned by the leader, and the children are asked to memorize these parts in exact form and order. the children are then trained to give their parts according to directions. throughout the preparation of the play the finished production is the goal of endeavor. in such instances as this the children are a means to an end, and their own training and development are usually sacrificed in the leader's attempt to secure a highly finished product. in contrast to the case just mentioned, dramatization is looked upon as an important educational factor in the development of children. from this point of view dramatization is utilized in developing on the part of the child intense and permanent interests in the words and deeds of noble characters, in developing power of natural expression in them as individuals and as members of a group, and in raising standards of action to higher levels by giving forceful expression to worthy ideals. these aims are realized through the use of informal methods which give the children abundant opportunity for initiative and choice. the children themselves prepare their dramatization under the guidance of a leader who has a vision of the results which may be secured and who is skilful in directing the activities toward these ends. the little dramatic club herein described adopted at the outset the point of view outlined in the preceding paragraph. its organization was based on the belief that the development of boys and girls is a much more vital consideration than the development of a dramatic production. throughout its history the chief purpose of the club has been to promote the growth of children through the free, spontaneous dramatization of bible stories. in order to accomplish this aim, an informal method of working out dramatizations has been used. the public presentation of a play is only incidental to the children; there is no need for them to act out a story that has been dramatized by someone else. their aim is realized in the joy of actually living the story over each time they play it, though this may result in the highest form of entertainment. that children should "speak lines" given them to memorize for the sake of entertainment is deadly--to the child as well as to the audience. there is some difference of opinion as to the value of the classic language of the bible for children, and many advocate the use of modern or simplified versions. if, however, the children have made their own efforts to dramatize the story, using first of all their own words, it is easy to help them to adopt much of the beautiful classic language in putting the work into its final form. the biblical wording helps to give the play its proper dignity and atmosphere, at the same time acquainting the children with the exact language of a piece of good literature. the method of procedure which is followed in leading children to work out their own dramatizations varies slightly according to circumstances but in the main is as follows: a story is chosen by the leader which includes the elements essential for a good dramatization, and it is told to the children in such a way that the action or events are emphasized. direct discourse is used in the telling, and an effort is made to develop simple and vivid mental pictures. the children divide the story into its most important pictures or scenes. they then suggest in detail what should take place in the first scene, and some of them are asked to act it out as they think it should be done. this first presentation is sometimes stiff and more or less self-conscious. the leader raises such questions as, "which parts did these children do best?" "why?" "where can they improve it?" "what would you do to make the part better?" "what do you think should have been said here?" this leads to constructive criticism of the scene by the children themselves rather than by the leader in charge. each child is eager to offer suggestions at this point and is anxious for an opportunity to give his own interpretation of the part by acting it out. he formulates his words as he acts. he forgets himself in the genuine interest which arises as he relives the experience of someone else. each scene is developed in a similar manner. the leader encourages freedom in individual interpretation, yet she is ever keeping before the children the fact that they are trying to give a true portrayal of the characters or conditions. it is often valuable to have a discussion of individual characters for the purpose of securing clear ideas concerning them. after all have tried various parts and have offered many suggestions, they may be led to choose that interpretation which seems most adequate, or they may all work out the interpretation of a part which will involve the ideas of many. after the story has been played through a few times, each child should be able to assume any character. it is an essential part of this method to see that every child has a different part each time. very often, when the play develops to this stage, some one child, or several, will suddenly become aware of repetitions in the scenes and will suggest that some scenes are unnecessary. it is then the time to refer to the number of scenes in a good drama, and to lead the children to realize that in any good play much is left to the imagination of the audience, and that only the essential scenes need be shown. by means of discussions the play is worked over again, and it is finally reduced to the three or four scenes that seem absolutely necessary. in many instances the dramatization needs no further development. none of the words have been accepted as definite, for, although the thought given is the same each time, exactly the same words are never said twice. the story is interpreted slightly differently with each performance. this interpretation, without obtaining a highly finished result, is best for short stories or incidents. fables and parables may be used well in this way. the action follows continuously with the development of the thought. in the case of a story which has a more detailed plot and which involves more complicated situations the development may go further: the wording is carefully worked out by the children and the language of the bible is employed. the words which are finally used by the children may be composite results developed by the group as a whole, or after they have gone as far as they can with them the leader, or a committee composed of several children with the leader, may suggest a final form which is good from a literary standpoint. children either volunteer or are chosen by the others to take finally certain parts. there is a marked socializing influence evident in the fact that a child is chosen by the other children for the good of the group and not for self-aggrandizement or partiality toward a friend. it is always the case after a few rehearsals that each child knows every part and can easily adapt himself to the part of any character. there is no trouble about a substitute when one or two children fail to arrive. each child has lived the story until it has become a very vital part of him. the finished product belongs to the children; they have developed it; it is not the production of someone else which they have learned by heart. at the final presentation of the play the children invite parents and friends. this is not thought of as a climax toward which they have been working; it is hardly more important than any of the rehearsals; it is simply an opportunity for others to enjoy the story with them. the encouragement of this attitude toward the public presentation of a play is important in that it does away with the self-conscious feeling of a child that he is acting before people, or that people are interested in him rather than in the character that he portrays. much harm can be done by allowing a child to feel that he is "showing off" on a stage. this mode of procedure in developing a dramatization illustrates the general method which is employed in order to secure the results herein discussed. it should be helpful as a method which may be varied or built upon according to the circumstances. detailed descriptions of exact modes of procedure in presenting different kinds of bible stories to the dramatic club will follow. costumes and stage settings have always been of the simplest nature and will be discussed at length in a separate chapter. in order that this method may be of greatest practical value to those who are unfamiliar with it, a summary may give the steps in logical sequence. this outline is not to be taken as unchangeable, but merely as a working basis for the beginner. . select a story with care; then adapt it for telling. . tell the story, emphasizing the essential parts. . let the children divide the story into pictures or scenes. . have a discussion of what should take place in each scene. . let volunteers from among the children act out one scene as they think it should be done, using their own words. . develop criticism by the other children with suggestions for improvement. . have a second acting of the scene for improvement. . let each of the other scenes be worked out in the same manner. . see that every child has the chance to try out many parts. . play the story through many times. change it often according to the criticism, until the children recognize the result as a product of their best effort. . with the help of the children change the words into biblical form. . let the group assign definite parts to be learned for the final performance. chapter iii the dramatization of _joseph_ as will be noted in the following chapter, it is well in beginning dramatic work with children to use for the first efforts very simple stories. _joseph_ is too long and complicated for an early experiment. we may begin our exposition of method with this story, however, as it illustrates especially well the details of the developing process. at the first meeting the story was told in terms that followed closely the bible version. the children were asked to select the big events, or pictures, in joseph's life. they readily spoke of his life in canaan as a boy; his being put into the pit and sold to the merchants; his life in egypt with potiphar; the prison experience and the interpretation of pharaoh's dream; the change of fortune in becoming ruler of the land; the famine and the visits of his brothers; and, finally, his kindness to his father and brothers in giving them a home in egypt. the story was told to the children very much as follows: jacob was an old man, too old to care for his large flocks. he sat in the door of his tent day after day, and sent his twelve sons off with the sheep and goats to find grassy fields. now of all the twelve sons jacob loved joseph, a lad of seventeen years, the best. joseph was next to the youngest and often stayed with his father while the older brothers went away. jacob gave joseph a coat of many colors and showed him often that he was the favorite. this made the older brothers very jealous of joseph, and they began to dislike him. once joseph dreamed a dream, which he told to his brothers, and it made them hate him all the more. he said to them, "hear, i pray you, this dream which i have dreamed: behold, we were binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves stood round about and bowed down to my sheaf." then his brothers said to him, "shalt thou indeed reign over us? or shalt thou have power over us?" then joseph dreamed yet another dream, and he told it again to his father and brothers, and said, "behold, the sun and moon and the eleven stars bowed down to me." and his father said unto him, "what is this dream that thou hast dreamed? shall i and thy mother and thy brethren indeed come to bow down ourselves to thee?" and the brothers remembered what their father had said, and they wished that harm might come to joseph. it happened soon after this that jacob sent his ten older sons with the flocks to shechem, a place some distance away where there was good grass. now the brothers were gone for so long a time that their father became anxious and decided to send joseph after them. he said to joseph, "do not thy brethren feed the flock in shechem? go, i pray thee, see whether it be well with thy brethren and well with the flocks; and bring me word again." so joseph took money and food in his bag, and his staff in his hand, and went out to find his brothers. at shechem there were no brothers to be seen. joseph was wondering what he should do next, when he saw a man coming toward him over the field. "what seekest thou?" said the man. and joseph answered, "i seek my brethren; tell me, i pray thee, where they feed their flocks." "they have departed from here," said the man, "and have gone to dothan." then joseph went after his brothers and found them at dothan. now when the brothers saw joseph afar off, they knew that it was he from his coat of many colors, and they plotted against him. one of them said, "behold, this dreamer cometh. come, now, let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say unto our father that some evil beast hath devoured him; and we shall see what will become of his dreams." reuben, one of the brothers, felt more kindly toward joseph than did the others and said to them, "let us not kill him, but let us cast him into this pit that is near." reuben thought that he would come back later after the brothers had gone and help joseph out of the pit and take him to his father. when joseph came to his brothers, they quickly took the coat of many colors from him and bound him and cast him into an old well which was dry. then they sat down to eat bread. they had hardly become settled when one of them cried out, "behold, i see a caravan! it is a company of ishmaelites, with their camels bearing spicery and balm and myrrh, going down to egypt." then judah said, "why do we slay our brother and conceal his blood? come, let us sell him to these ishmaelites, and let not our hand be upon him, for he is our brother and our flesh." the brothers were content to do as judah had said. they drew joseph up out of the well, and when the ishmaelites came near they sold him to them for twenty pieces of silver. and the brothers went away to kill a goat so that they might dip joseph's coat into the blood, that their father might think that he had been killed by some wild animal. reuben did not know that joseph had been sold, and returned unto the pit after the brothers had left. when he saw that joseph was not there, he rent his clothes, and ran after the others, crying, "the child is not, and i, whither shall i go?" and when the brothers brought joseph's coat to their father, they said, "this we have found, thou knowest if it be thy son's coat." and jacob knew it, and said, "it is my son's coat; an evil beast hath devoured him." then jacob put on sackcloth and ashes and mourned for joseph many days. now the ishmaelites brought joseph down into egypt and sold him to potiphar, a captain of king pharaoh's guard. and joseph was faithful and served the lord, and potiphar saw that he could be trusted with great responsibility and made him ruler over his household. but potiphar's wife grew jealous of joseph and disliked him, and told potiphar things which were untrue about joseph. after awhile potiphar began to believe his wife and he decided that joseph was not a good man, so he had joseph cast into prison. and it came to pass that the butler and the baker of the king of egypt were put into prison at the same time that joseph was there, and they were placed in his ward. one morning joseph found them both very sad and he said unto them, "wherefore look ye so sadly today?" and they said, "we have dreamed a dream and there is no one to interpret it." then joseph said, "do not interpretations belong to god? tell me your dreams, i pray you." and they told him their dreams, and he gave them the meaning thereof. to the chief butler he said, "yet within three days shall pharaoh lift up thine head and restore thee to thy place." but to the chief baker he said, "yet within three days shall pharaoh lift up thy head from off thee, and shall hang thee on a tree." and it came to pass that on the third day pharaoh gave a feast to his servants, and he restored the chief butler to his place, but he hanged the chief baker, as joseph had interpreted. at the end of two years pharaoh dreamed a dream. he was greatly troubled, and sent for all the wise men of the land to tell him the meaning of his dream, but there was none that could interpret it unto pharaoh. then the chief butler spoke to the king and said, "i do remember this day, that when pharaoh was wroth with his servants and put both me and the chief baker into the prison, that we each dreamed dreams in one night; and there was a young man there, a hebrew, who interpreted to us our dreams, and they came to pass as he interpreted, for the chief baker was hanged and i was restored to my office." then pharaoh sent for joseph, and they brought him in hastily out of the dungeon. and pharaoh said, "i have dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it, and i have heard say of thee that thou canst understand a dream to interpret it." and joseph answered pharaoh, "it is not in me; god shall give pharaoh an answer of peace." then pharaoh said, "in my dream, behold, i stood upon the bank of a river; and there came up out of the river seven fat cows, and they fed in a meadow. and, behold, seven other cows came up after them, lean and ill favored; and the lean and ill-favored cows did eat up the fat and well-favored cows. then i dreamed again, and, behold, seven full ears of corn came upon one stalk, and then seven ears, withered and thin, came up after them, and devoured the good ears." and joseph said to pharaoh, "god hath shewed pharaoh what he is about to do. this is the thing which he is about to do: behold, there will come seven years of plenty throughout the land of egypt; and there shall rise up after them seven years of famine, and the famine shall consume the land. now, therefore, let pharaoh look out a man, discreet and wise, and set him over the land of egypt, and let him gather up all the food during the years of plenty and lay it up in the cities, so that the land shall not perish in the famine." and the thing was good in the eyes of pharaoh, and he said, "can we find such a one as this is, a man in whom the spirit of god is? forasmuch as god has shewed thee all this, there is none so discreet and wise as thou art; thou shalt be over my house, and according to thy word shall all my people be ruled." pharaoh took off his ring from his hand and clothed him in fine linen and put a golden chain around his neck. joseph went out from the presence of pharaoh and went over all the land of egypt. he gathered up the food for seven years, and laid up the food in the cities. and the seven years of plenteousness that were in all the land of egypt were ended, and the seven years of famine began, and there was famine in all the lands. then joseph opened the storehouses and sold to the egyptians, and other countries sent to buy grain from joseph because they had stored none. now in canaan jacob and his eleven sons were suffering from the famine. they heard that there was food in egypt, so jacob sent down all the brothers, except benjamin, to buy food. when they came before joseph and bowed themselves to the earth, they knew him not. but joseph saw his brothers, and he made himself strange unto them, and treated them roughly, that they should not know him. and when they bowed before him joseph remembered the dreams that he had dreamed of them. "ye are spies," he said, "ye are come to see the bareness of the land." they answered him, "we are true men, we are no spies. thy servants are twelve brothers, the sons of one man in canaan; and, behold, the youngest is this day with our father, and one is not." "hereby ye shall be proved," said joseph, "if ye be true men; let one of your brethren be bound in the prison while ye go and carry grain to your father's house, but bring back your youngest brother to me." the brothers took the food back to canaan, to their father's tent, and told him what the ruler in egypt had said. jacob mourned and was loath to let benjamin, his youngest son, go back to egypt with them. "my son shall not go down with you," he said; "for his brother is dead and he is left alone: if mischief befall him, then shall ye bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave." but the famine was great in the land, and they had eaten up all the grain which they brought from egypt. the brothers would not go down again until jacob had consented to let them take benjamin with them. and judah said unto his father, "send the lad with me and we will rise and go, that we may live and not die. i will be surety for him; if i bring him not back unto thee, then let me bear the blame forever." then jacob answered, "if it must be so, do this: take the best of the fruits in the land, and carry down the man a present, a little balm, and a little honey, spices, and myrrh, nuts, and almonds and take double money, and take also your brother, and arise and go unto the man; and god almighty give you mercy before the man, that he may send you away with your other brother and benjamin." and the men took the present and double the money and benjamin, and went down into egypt, and stood before joseph. when joseph saw benjamin, he ordered that the men be brought to his home, and that a feast be made ready, and that the other brother be brought out of the prison. but the men were afraid because they were brought into joseph's home, and they bowed themselves to the earth before him and presented their gifts. then joseph was greatly moved and said unto them, "is your father well, the old man of whom ye spake? is he yet alive?" and they answered, "thy servant, our father, is in good health; he is yet alive." and they bowed down their heads. then joseph lifted up his eyes and saw benjamin, his mother's youngest son, and said, "is this your younger brother of whom ye spake unto me?" and he said to benjamin, "god be gracious unto thee, my son." joseph was so overcome by his love for benjamin that he hastened out of the room where he could weep alone. and he washed his face and composed himself and commanded that the food be served. they all ate and were merry, and joseph helped benjamin to five times as much as he did the others. then joseph commanded the steward to fill the men's sacks with food, and to put each man's money back into his sack, and to put his silver cup into the sack of the youngest. as soon as the morning was light the men were sent away. and when they were gone out of the city and were not yet far off, joseph sent a servant after them to search their sacks for his silver drinking-cup, and he sent word that the one who had it should be brought back to him. now the brothers were greatly distressed and protested that they knew nothing of the cup. what was their astonishment at finding their money in their sacks and the cup in benjamin's sack! then they rent their clothes and returned to the city. and judah came to joseph and fell on the ground and said, "what shall we say unto my lord? or how shall we clear ourselves? god hath found out our sin, behold we are my lord's servants." then joseph said, "get up and go in peace unto thy father; i shall keep for my servant only the man in whose sack the cup was found." and judah came near to joseph and besought him that he allow benjamin to return to their father; he told him that he had promised his father to bring the lad back safely, and that it would kill the old man if they returned without benjamin. "now therefore, i pray thee, let thy servant abide as a bondman, instead of the lad." then joseph could not refrain himself, and he wept before his brothers and made himself known to them. "i am joseph, do ye not know me? is my father yet alive?" and the brothers were troubled, and they did not know how to answer him. "come near, i pray you." and they came near, and he said again, "i am joseph, your brother, whom ye sold into egypt. now be not grieved nor angry with yourselves that ye sold me hither, for god did send me before you to preserve your lives. haste ye, go up to my father, and tell him that joseph, his son, still liveth, and bring him down unto me." and joseph fell upon benjamin's neck and kissed him, and he kissed all his brothers, and they were astonished, for they knew now that this was joseph whom they had sold. now the word was spread over pharaoh's house that joseph's brethren had come, and it pleased pharaoh greatly. he came in where they were and said unto joseph, "this do ye: say to your brethren that they are commanded to go back into canaan, and to pack all their household goods, and to bring their father and their families, and all their flocks, and to return into the land of egypt, for all the good of the land shall be theirs." then the brothers were joyful, and gave thanks unto pharaoh and to their brother, joseph, and they left the city to go back to their father. and when they came unto jacob and told him all, and showed him the wagons which joseph had sent to bring him down into egypt, his soul rejoiced, and he said, "it is enough; joseph, my son, is still alive: i will go and see him before i die." the children decided that it would take a great many scenes in order to act out the story adequately. at first they mentioned seven or eight. one child was asked to describe the first scene as he thought it ought to be, and several others added to the description. volunteers were then called upon to act it out then and there. the first scene was placed in front of jacob's tent. jacob is anxiously awaiting the return of his ten sons with the flocks. he becomes worried because they do not come, so he sends joseph to seek his brothers. joseph accepts the command and leaves the tent. this scene was acted very naturally and spontaneously by several groups of children. each time it was changed, for no two groups of children interpreted the action or words alike. the children who were not acting were made to feel their responsibility also, for they were asked to make note of the best parts. a general discussion was held at the end of each presentation, in which the good points were emphasized and suggestions were given as to improvement. the criticism in all of this work comes for the most part from the children; the leader in charge directs it, but keeps from imposing her opinions. as the meetings of this dramatic club last but one hour, nothing more could be done than work out one scene at this first time. the children were asked to think the story over and to come the next sunday prepared to suggest the second and third scenes in detail. at the next meeting the second and third scenes were worked out in the same manner as the first. the second scene places joseph at shechem. here he meets the man who tells him that his brothers have gone to dothan. in the third scene the brothers are seated on the ground eating and resting, with their shepherd staffs beside them; they begin to talk about joseph and to tell of his dream and their hatred of him. just at this point joseph runs in and gives his father's message. he also tells of his experience in shechem in not finding them there. then the brothers take him and bind him and throw him into the pit. the caravan comes along and joseph is sold and taken away. after the brothers depart, reuben, not knowing that joseph has been sold, comes back to the pit, hoping to help him out. when he finds the boy gone, he weeps and goes sorrowfully away. (a doorway which leads off from the stage at the back was used for the pit. there were no camels in the caravan; the men walked by.) during the next hour scenes which describe joseph's life in egypt were roughly blocked out. the children made up their words as they acted the parts. the language at this stage was very modern, but for the time being the emphasis was placed upon the thought expressed and upon the action. several of the older girls volunteered to write out the first few scenes in order to bring the language into better form. at the fourth meeting these were brought in and discussed by the children. the following is a version of the first scene just as it was written by a girl of twelve years. it is given here that the contrast may be seen between this as a piece of work which may be made better and the final play at the end of the chapter. scene i _jacob:_ it is time my sons are returning with their flocks. see if thou canst see them coming. [_exit servant._] _first lady:_ yes, they have been gone a long time. we have only joseph and benjamin with us. [_enter servant._] _jacob:_ what didst thou see? _servant:_ master, i saw nothing of your sons. _jacob:_ i shall send joseph after them. bring joseph hither. [_turns to another servant._] bring a bag of food for him to take with him on his journey. [_servants leave._ jacob _looks away, hoping to see his sons._] _jacob:_ i do not see them. what can be the matter? [_enter_ joseph _with servant._] _second lady:_ joseph will be sure to find them. _jacob:_ joseph, my son, i am sending thee after thy brethren. take this food to shechem and bring thy brethren back to me. _joseph:_ i will do as thou bidst. [jacob _stands and puts his hand on joseph._] _jacob:_ may the lord go with thee. end the third scene was written by a girl of eleven years and was as follows: scene iii [_all brothers look down the road._] _all brothers:_ what shall we do with him? _seventh brother:_ i know; let's kill him! _all except reuben:_ yea! yea! _reuben:_ nay, do not kill him; let's put him in a deep pit. _tenth brother:_ well, all right. [joseph _appears; exit_ reuben.] _joseph:_ ah, i have found ye at last, my brethren. [_all grab_ joseph.] _joseph:_ what have i done to deserve this? _fourth brother:_ get some rope! [_exit sixth brother and brings some rope back with him. eighth and ninth brothers bind_ joseph _with ropes. all take hold of him and push him into the pit._] _tenth brother:_ but what shall we tell our father? _eighth brother:_ let's tell him that joseph was killed by a wild beast. _ninth brother:_ we will take his coat of many colors, which our father gave him, and dip it in the blood of a goat. _all:_ yea! yea! [_seventh brother sees some merchants._] _seventh brother:_ i see merchants in the distance. let's sell joseph to them. [_one brother goes after the merchants, while the others bring_ joseph _from the pit. merchants enter._] _tenth brother:_ what will ye give us for this lad? _merchant:_ i guess we can give ye about twenty pieces of silver. [_merchants take_ joseph _with them. brothers go on their way. enter_ reuben _after his brothers have gone. he runs to the pit._] _reuben:_ joseph! joseph! where art thou? the lad is gone. whither shall i go? [reuben _goes away, sobbing and wringing his hands._] end * * * * * at the meeting when these were read the children began to criticize the length of the play. one little boy made the remark, "we keep telling the same things over; why can't we leave out that second scene? it is so short, and joseph could tell his brothers in the third scene that he didn't find them at shechem." this suggestion was readily accepted, and as a consequence the second scene was omitted. then the entire group consciously worked on the play to see what parts were unnecessary. several children had recently been to the theater and had seen some good plays. they told the others that there were few scenes and that there was much left to the imagination of the audience. the result was that this long-drawn-out play was cut down to three essential scenes. the first scene was placed at dothan, and was much the same as the original scene iii. the second scene was placed at pharaoh's palace where joseph was brought to interpret the king's dream. the third represented the brothers coming to joseph with benjamin, the youngest, ending with joseph's forgiveness of them and his sending for jacob, their father. after these three scenes were decided upon, the older children were asked to begin writing them out in final form. at the fifth meeting of the club all the children sat in a circle with bibles and pencils and paper and, together with the leader, they formulated the speeches, making them conform as nearly as possible to those in the bible. the work that had been done outside was discussed and built upon. this part of the procedure did not take as long a time as it may seem, because the children knew so well what thoughts they wanted to express--they had lived the story so many times. they practiced after this, using the words they had decided upon. for the next meeting or two the children acted out the play, trying each time to improve it by better interpretations of the parts. the fact that they had learned definite words did not in the least check the freedom of the action or cause the play to lose the spontaneity which first characterized it, for the reason that the story had quite become a part of the children before they decided upon the set speeches. the question arose as to which children should take certain parts. in some instances several wanted to learn the part of one particular character. they were each given the opportunity of learning it, and then at the next meeting each acted it as best he or she could before the group. the other children were judges and decided upon the one who seemed to represent the character best. whenever this method of choosing characters has been employed there has never been any hard feeling on the part of a child because he was not chosen. the justice of the choice is quickly recognized when it comes in this way rather than from the leader. there were many little children in this club who were scarcely old enough to learn a part or to say very much. they were easily worked into the caravan, or they took such parts as servants in pharaoh's court. each child was made to feel that one part was just as important as another and that those who had nothing to say were very essential elements because of their acting. eight or nine meetings were needed before the play was entirely finished. the children had very simple slips for costumes which they had been wearing at each rehearsal. bright-colored sashes and headdresses they brought from home. pharaoh was more gaily dressed than the others. the child who took the part made for himself many ornaments from gilt paper. very little attention was given to stage setting, what was used was extremely simple. a few of the older girls made designs from the egyptian lotus to stand around the walls of pharaoh's palace or to be carried by the servants. colored illustrations of bible stories by tissot were suggestive helps in these details. the ten brothers made themselves shepherd staffs from limbs of trees. this small amount of stage setting and costuming was used at many rehearsals and was all that was necessary to produce the right atmosphere. as soon as the children felt that the play represented their best effort they invited their parents and friends and presented it before them one sunday afternoon at the time for the regular meeting. it happened that a few days before the final presentation four of the principal characters were taken ill with measles and chicken-pox. four others, who had not given special attention to these parts, but who had minor parts, assumed the important rôles and went straight through the play with no trouble whatever. the audience never knew the difference and the children thought that it was entirely natural that they should be able to do this. the play all the way through was characterized by a spirit of dignity and seriousness. as direct results of this work in dramatization it was noted that all the children had acquired a certain freedom of expression, a self-confidence, without conceit or too much sureness, and the ability to work harmoniously with the group. one or two timid children learned to forget themselves, and one overconfident child was helped by seeing that others could learn to do the part even a little better than herself. the children who took part in this little play of _joseph_ will never forget it. several years after the play was given they were frequently referring to it with great happiness. joseph is one of their favorite characters because they have lived through his experiences with him. the following is the play as it was given in its final form. it is not to be taken as a play which may be given to children to be learned as it is; it is given here that there may be some idea of the standard which may be reached. joseph scene i place: dothan. characters: reuben, simeon, levi, judah, issachar, zebulun, dan, naphtali, gad, asher, joseph, several ishmaelitish merchants. [_the ten brothers are sitting and lounging on the ground, eating bread._] _reuben:_ shall we stay longer in this place? our flocks have fed well in shechem and dothan. let us return again unto canaan and to the tent of our father, jacob. _judah:_ oh, why should we go back? our father loveth us not! it is joseph, our younger brother, that he favoreth! _levi:_ yes, this joseph! this dreamer of dreams! he thinketh he is greater than we. he thinketh he shall rule over us! _judah:_ ye heard him when he said, "hear this dream which i have dreamed: behold, we were binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves stood round about, and bowed down to my sheaf." _simeon:_ ha! shall he indeed reign over us? or shall he have dominion over us? _levi:_ yea, and he dreamed yet another dream, for he said, "behold, the sun and the moon and the eleven stars bowed down unto me." _dan:_ what is this dream which he has dreamed? shall his mother and father and eleven brethren indeed come to bow down themselves to him? _simeon:_ joseph and his dreams are hateful unto me! i was glad when our father said to us, "take the flocks to feed in shechem," for now we are free of him. _levi:_ it seemeth to me that i see this joseph, this dreamer whom we hate. he is yet afar off, but he surely approacheth us! _reuben:_ can it be he? _dan:_ yes, for i see the coat of many colors, the coat our father made for his favorite son. _levi:_ why should he come to us? cannot our father trust the flocks to our hands without sending this joseph to spy on us? _dan:_ it is he! it is joseph! _simeon:_ what shall we do? _judah:_ our time is come. we despise him; let us slay him. _reuben:_ nay, thou dost not mean to slay him! _several:_ nay! nay! _judah:_ we must surely slay him. we must rid ourselves of this dreamer. think how he said he should reign over us! let us be rid of him! _simeon:_ yes, thou art right--we must slay him. _several:_ yea, yea, slay him! destroy him! he shall dream no more such dreams! _simeon:_ behold, this dreamer cometh near! come, now, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, "some evil beast hath devoured him," and we shall see what will become of his dreams. _reuben:_ let us not kill him. shed no blood, but cast him into this pit that is in the wilderness, and lay no hand upon him. [reuben _goes away._] [joseph _runs up._ gad _lays one hand roughly on his shoulder._] _gad:_ how comes it that thou art here? what is thy business? _joseph:_ my father commanded me and said, "go, i pray thee, and see whether it be well with thy brethren and well with the flocks; and bring me word again." so he sent me out of the vale of hebron, and i came to shechem. and you were not there, and i came on after you and found you here. what troubleth you? hath aught happened to the flocks? _simeon:_ hear his tale! this dreamer of dreams! so he would reign over us, would he! strip him of his coat of many colors! this favored son! [_brothers bind_ joseph _and cast him into the pit._] _joseph:_ what have i done to deserve this? [_brothers sit down again to eat their bread._] _gad:_ behold, i see a caravan! _simeon:_ from what country? _gad:_ it is a company of ishmaelites, from gilead, with their camels, bearing spicery and balm and myrrh, going down into egypt. _judah:_ what doth it profit if we slay our brother and conceal his blood? come, let us sell him to these ishmaelites and let not our hand be upon him, for he is our brother and our flesh. _several:_ so be it. _gad:_ hail the caravan, and bargain with these men. _simeon_ [_salutes the head man of the caravan; the brothers listen attentively;_ gad _brings_ joseph _out of the pit_]: what wilt thou give us in exchange for this lad? we would sell him. _merchant_ [_looks_ joseph _over, then consults with his men_]: twenty pieces of silver will we give for him. _simeon_ [_to the brothers_]: these merchants will give us twenty pieces of silver for this dreamer. _all:_ sell him! sell him! [joseph _is taken over by the merchants and they all move on. the brothers are dividing out the money._] _gad:_ the lad is gone with the merchants, but what excuse shall we make unto our father? _simeon:_ say unto him that a wild beast hath devoured him. here is his coat of many colors--we will kill a goat and dip the coat in the blood! then our father, jacob, will grieve for his son! _all:_ as thou sayest, so let us do! [_brothers move off stage, discussing the money._ reuben _comes back. he runs and looks in the pit. he tears his clothes when he finds that_ joseph _is not there._] _reuben:_ the child is not, and i, whither shall i go? scene ii place: egypt. in pharaoh's palace. characters: pharaoh, joseph, wise men, chief butler, servants. [_pharaoh is sitting on his throne; many wise men come in and bow down before him._] _pharaoh:_ arise, o wise men of egypt! i have sent for you this day because of a dream which troubleth me. [_men stand up._] _wise men:_ what is thy dream, o king? _king:_ i dreamed, and, behold, i stood by a river, and there came up out of the river seven fat cows, and they fed in a meadow. and, behold, seven other cows came up after them out of the river, ill-favored and lean. and the ill-favored and lean cows did eat up the seven well-favored and fat cows. then did i awake, but the second time i slept and dreamed. and, behold, seven good ears of corn came up upon one stalk, and, behold, seven thin ears sprung up after them, and the seven thin ears devoured the seven full ears. and i awoke again, and, behold, it was a dream. now, is there one among you who can tell me the meaning of these dreams, for my spirit is troubled because of them? [_the wise men in turn come out and bow before the king and say_]: _first wise man:_ o my lord king, thy dream troubleth me, but i am not able to interpret it. _second wise man:_ o king, also, i cannot tell thee the meaning of thy dream. _third wise man:_ most gracious king, i, also, am unable to interpret thy dream. _fourth wise man:_ o great pharaoh, i regret that i am unable to help thee. _pharaoh_ [_angrily_]: are ye called the wise men of egypt, and yet are ye not able to interpret a dream? [_the chief butler comes forward and falls before the king._] _butler:_ o great king, i am only thy chief butler, but i beg of thee allow me to speak. _king:_ speak, butler, what wouldst thou say? _butler:_ o king, i do remember my faults this day. when pharaoh was wroth with his servants and put me in prison, both me and the chief baker, behold, we dreamed a dream in one night, and there was a young man, a hebrew, and we told him, and he interpreted to us our dream. and it came to pass as he interpreted unto us, for i was restored unto mine office and the baker was hanged. _pharaoh:_ send for this young hebrew; bring him into my presence. [_servant goes out for_ joseph.] butler, who is this boy that interpreted thy dream? _butler:_ his name is joseph, o king. he was brought down from canaan by a caravan and was sold to potiphar, the captain of pharaoh's guard. but he displeased potiphar, so he was thrown into prison at the time thy servants were there. [_enter_ joseph. _he falls on his face before_ pharaoh.] _pharaoh:_ i have dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it, and i have heard say of thee that thou canst understand a dream to interpret it. [joseph _rises._] _joseph:_ it is not in me; god shall give pharaoh an answer of peace. _pharaoh:_ [_repeats his dream to_ joseph.] [joseph _comes nearer to_ pharaoh.] _joseph:_ what god is about to do he sheweth unto pharaoh: behold, there will come seven years of great plenty throughout all the land of egypt. and there shall arise after them seven years of famine. and all the plenty shall be forgotten throughout egypt, and the famine shall consume the land, and it shall be very grievous. now therefore let pharaoh look out a man discreet and wise and set him over the land of egypt, and let him appoint officers over the land. and let them gather all the food of those good years that come, and lay up corn under the hand of pharaoh. and let them keep food in the cities. and that food shall be stored against the seven years of famine, that the land may not perish through famine. _pharaoh:_ this plan seemeth good unto me. can we find such a one as this is, a man in whom the spirit of god is? _the wise men:_ nay, o king, he is most wise. _pharaoh:_ forasmuch as god hath shewed thee all this, thou shalt be over my house, and according to thy word shall all my people be ruled, only in the throne will i be greater than thou. see, i have set thee over all the land of egypt. [_to his servants:_] bring a golden chain, and fine raiment for this man. [_he puts a ring on_ joseph's _hand. when the clothes are brought they are put around him, the chain on his neck, etc._] _pharaoh:_ thou shalt ride in the second chariot and all my people shall bow the knee unto thee. [_all people in the room bow._] i am pharaoh, and without thee shall no man lift up his hand or foot in all the land of egypt. _joseph:_ may the lord god give me power to do his will. scene iii place: pharaoh's palace. characters: joseph, his eleven brothers, servants, pharaoh. [joseph _is seated on his high seat. a servant comes in._] _servant:_ master, the men that came down from canaan to buy food of thee have returned and would have a word with thee. _joseph:_ bring them in. [_to another servant_]: go see that a feast is prepared for these men. [_the brothers enter bringing_ benjamin. _they all fall on their faces._] _joseph:_ arise! and have you returned bringing with you your youngest brother? _reuben:_ o sir, we have brought our youngest brother; he is here. [benjamin _is led forward._ joseph _goes near and puts his hand on_ benjamin.] _joseph:_ and is this your younger brother of whom ye spake unto me? god be gracious unto thee, my son! [_to the brothers:_] is your father well, the old man of whom ye spake? is he yet alive? _levi:_ thy servant, our father [_all bow heads_], is in good health; he is yet alive. [joseph _turns away and begins to weep; he leaves them abruptly and walks to the other side of the room._] _joseph_ [_to the servants_]: cause every man to go out from me! [_all begin to leave the room, brothers included._] [_to the brothers. he walks quickly after them and holds his arms out toward them._] stay! i am joseph; doth my father yet live? come near to me, i pray you. [_they come somewhat nearer and fall to the ground._] i am joseph, your brother, whom ye sold into egypt. now, therefore, be not grieved nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold me thither, for god did send me before you to preserve life. for these two years hath the famine been in the land; and yet there are five years more. god hath sent me before you to save your lives. haste ye, and go up to my father, and say unto him, "thus saith thy son joseph, god hath made me lord of all egypt. come down unto me, and tarry not. and thou shalt be near unto me, thou and thy children, and thy flocks, and thy herds and all thou hast. oh, do you not see that i am joseph that speak unto you?" [_he weeps again and turns away._] [illustration: fig. --pharaoh's court] _brothers:_ joseph, our brother joseph! can he forgive us? [pharaoh _enters here_] _joseph:_ o king, these are my brethren, and from my father's tent. _pharaoh:_ say unto thy brethren: "this do ye: go back unto the land of canaan and take your father and your household goods, and come unto me. and i will give you the good of the land of egypt, and ye shall eat of the fat of the land. now ye are commanded: this do ye: take ye wagons out of egypt for your little ones, and for your wives, and bring your father, and come, for the good of the land shall be yours." _one brother:_ we thank thee, o great pharaoh, and our brother joseph. this is greater than we deserve. we will bring our father down straightway. _joseph:_ praise be to god who has done this good thing! end chapter iv the dramatization of _david and goliath_ when beginning dramatic work with a group of children who have never had the training before, it is always well to select as the first story to be dramatized one that is short, simple in structure, and full of action. if children undertake a long story which involves complicated situations, they easily become discouraged and lose the joy and spontaneity which are essential elements in successful dramatizations. fables, such as "the boy and the wolf" or "the fox and the grapes," are excellent to begin with, because they contain the necessary qualities which make up a good short story. situations as simple as those which are presented in these fables are entered into with great freedom, and they seem to pave the way for more ambitious dramatizations. the story of _david and goliath_ is short, simple, and yet contains vivid action. it was chosen as one of the first stories to be given to the dramatic club because of these qualities. after the children had gone through the experience of dramatizing it they had gained a self-confidence and a realization of their own power in interpreting a story through dramatization. the methods employed in presenting _david and goliath_ were much the same as those described in connection with _joseph._ the point that must be kept in mind in all of this work is that the dramatization of a story begins with the action and that the words are developed. the play is never written first and acted afterward. while telling the story the leader placed much emphasis upon the activities and ideals of the shepherd life of the hebrews in the time of david. the children made their own armor--helmets, swords, shields--from cardboard and colored papers. pictures and descriptions which they secured helped them to get correct ideas as to shapes and decorations. the costumes were simple little slips that could be belted in at the waist, and came only to the knees. the children helped to plan and make them. david made his shepherd staff from a limb of a tree, and the soldiers made their spears by fastening gilded points to long sticks. a question arose as to how the sling was made. the children found, upon looking up this point, that the sling was woven from different colored wools. from a good picture they constructed looms from cardboard and actually wove several slings like david's. fig. shows a diagram of the loom as the children worked it out. a very great value was derived from this construction work, in that it came entirely from the children; it was an outgrowth of their genuine interest in the subject. they were reliving the same experiences and solving the same problems that had confronted david. the gentle spirit of david had a direct influence upon the whole group. it made no difference what part a child interpreted--whether that of goliath or of one of the brothers--it was evident that david's high ideals and sweetness of character called forth admiration. fig. gives one of the scenes from _david and goliath._ the play follows as it was given. david and goliath characters: david, david's three brothers, king saul, goliath, israelite soldiers, philistine soldiers. scene i. the challenge place: on the battlefield. _first brother:_ have ye seen this philistine who is come up, this giant who has defied the armies of the living god? _second brother:_ who has seen him? _third brother:_ i have seen him; he is verily a giant. his height is six cubits and a span. he weareth an helmet of brass upon his head, and he is armed with a coat of mail, and he hath greaves of brass upon his legs, and the staff of his spear is like the weaver's beam; and one bearing a shield goeth before him. our soldiers are truly afraid. they flee as he approacheth. [illustration: fig. .--a scene from _david and goliath_] _goliath_ [_apart from the king and soldiers_]: why are ye come out to gather your armies to battle? am i not a philistine, and ye servants to saul? choose you a man for you, and let him come down to me. if he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants; but if i prevail against him and kill him, then shall ye be our servants and serve us. i defy the armies of israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together. [_some of the soldiers turn and flee._] _saul:_ hear the words of this philistine. i know not what we can do. have we no man among us with the strength or boldness to fight this giant? i will enrich him with great riches. _second brother:_ in truth, he is a mighty giant, o king. our soldiers are greatly dismayed; no one will accept this challenge. [_the king and two soldiers go out. enter_ david. _he runs up to his brothers and salutes them._] _first brother:_ this is david, our younger brother! how cometh it that thou art here? _second brother:_ i thought we left thee tending the sheep. _third brother:_ what news dost thou bring of our father? is all well with him? _david:_ my father commanded me, saying, "take now for thy brethren this parched corn and these ten loaves, and run to the camp of thy brethren; and carry these ten cheeses unto the captain of their thousand, and look how thy brethren fare." and i rose up early in the morning, and left the sheep with a keeper, and came as my father commanded. [_brothers take food from_ david.] _goliath:_ why are ye come out to gather your armies to battle? am i not a philistine, and ye servants to saul? choose you a man for you and let him come down to me. if he be able to fight with me and to kill me, then will we be your servants; but if i prevail against him and kill him, then shall ye be our servants and serve us. i defy the armies of israel this day; give me a man, that we may fight together. [david _listens. the soldiers seem disturbed and frightened._] _david:_ what meaneth this? _soldier_ [_walks up to_ david]: have ye seen this man who is come up? surely to defy israel is he come up. and it shall be that the man who killeth him the king will enrich with great riches, and will give him his daughter, and make his father's house free in israel. _david:_ who is this philistine that he should defy the armies of the living god? _first brother_ [_showing anger against_ david]: why camest thou hither? and with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? i know thy pride, and the naughtiness of thy heart; for thou art come down that thou mightest see the battle. _david:_ what have i now done? [_he turns from his brothers and speaks to the people._] what shall be done with the man that killeth this philistine and taketh away the reproach from israel? for who is this philistine that he should defy the armies of the living god? i will fight him, and if i prevail against him and kill him, then will the philistines be our servants and serve us. the lord god of israel will deliver him into my hands. _soldiers:_ saul, the king, shall hear these words! scene ii. david before saul place: saul's tent. _david_ [_comes in and salutes the king_]: let no man's heart fail because of this giant; thy servant will go and fight with this philistine. _saul:_ thou art not able to go against this philistine to fight with him; for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth. _david:_ thy servant kept his father's sheep, and when there came a lion or a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock, i went out after him and smote him, and delivered it out of his mouth; and when he rose up against me, i caught him by the beard and smote him and slew him. thy servant slew both the lion and the bear; and this philistine shall be as one of them, seeing he hath defied the armies of the living god. the lord that hath delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of this philistine. _saul:_ go, and the lord go with thee. [_to soldiers_]: bring forth armor; this youth must be ready to meet the foe. [_the soldiers bring armor._ saul _puts the armor, a helmet and a coat of mail, on_ david. david _puts on his sword, then walks a few steps. he suddenly throws the sword down and begins to take off the armor._] _david:_ i cannot go with these, for i have not proved them. [_he takes the armor off and keeps only his shepherd's staff and sling._] the lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the hand of this philistine. [_he bows to the king and goes out._] scene iii. the battle place: the battlefield. [david _picks up five smooth stones and puts them into his shepherd bag._ goliath _comes toward him. he is dressed in armor, and the man that bears his shield comes before him._ goliath _looks surprised and disgusted when he sees_ david.] _goliath:_ am i a dog that thou comest to me with staves? come to me and i will give thy flesh unto the fowls of the air and unto the beasts of the field. _david:_ thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear and with a shield; but i come to thee in the name of the lord of hosts, the god of israel, whom thou hast defied. this day will the lord deliver thee into mine hand; and i will smite thee, and take thy head from thee; and i will give the bodies of the philistines unto the fowls of the air, and unto the beasts of the field, that all may know that there is a god in israel. and all this assembly shall know that the lord saveth not with the sword and with the spear, for the battle is the lord's and he will give you into our hands! [david _puts his hand into his bag and takes out a stone and slings it, so that it hits the giant in the forehead. the giant falls. the philistines flee._ david _stands with his foot on the body of the giant._] _israelite soldiers with david:_ the battle is the lord's! end chapter v the dramatization of _moses in the bulrushes_ the method of presenting the story of _moses in the bulrushes_ differed somewhat from that employed with _joseph._ there was little need to tell the story at the beginning, for every child already knew it in detail. consequently the leader had the children tell most of it, while she supplemented and directed attention to important parts. in this case the entire play was planned roughly before any of it was acted. the story was criticized by the children as to its organization and unity, and as a result they made up an ending (act iii) which they felt was needed to make the story complete. experience with the other plays had led the children to feel the necessity for having a satisfactory ending after the climax. at the second meeting several girls brought in the scenes as they had written them out. they had tried to embody the points which the children had decided upon as the general plan of the play. the final play varies very little from these scenes thus written by the girls themselves. there was no difficulty in solving the problem as to what they would do for a baby in the first part of the play. many dolls were brought in, and the choice fell upon the one that received the largest number of votes because of his likeness to the baby moses. a woven basket served for the cradle of bulrushes. there were many rehearsals when there was no doll or cradle, but the children never felt the lack. their imaginations can supply all needs. a few big egyptian designs were made for the first and last scenes, which were placed in the king's court. these were fastened on the walls and around the king's seat, as was done in the play of _joseph._ before the play was given before parents and friends the children decided to call it _the childhood of moses._ an older boy in the church printed programs for the occasion that the audience might better understand the play. they read as follows: the childhood of moses dramatized and presented by the children's dramatic club of the hyde park church of disciples characters pharaoh king of egypt princess pharaoh's daughter moses a hebrew boy hebrew woman mother of moses miriam sister of moses aaron brother of moses wise men advisers of pharaoh soldiers, attendants to the princess, servants synopsis of scenes act i. pharaoh orders the killing of hebrew boys. act ii, scene . in the home of a hebrew family. scene . a hebrew mother hides her child among the bulrushes. scene . the child is found by pharaoh's daughter. act iii. moses is brought to pharaoh's court. the following is the play as it was given: the childhood of moses act i characters: king, wise man, chief adviser, queen, maids, and soldiers. _king:_ behold, the people of the children of israel are more and mightier than we. come, let us do wisely with them lest they rise up and make war against us. _chief adviser:_ what more can we do than we have already done? we have made their lives bitter with hard service, and we have made them carry our brick and mortar and work in our fields. _wise man:_ o king pharaoh, i beg thee to let me speak. _king:_ speak, wise man. _wise man:_ o king, i pray thee to be kind to these people. when these hebrews first came down from the land of canaan, a young man named joseph saved our land from great famine. these israelites are his children's children and we should treat them kindly. _king:_ treat them kindly! we have been kind to them long enough; we must destroy them. i will command that every hebrew boy baby be killed! [_exeunt_ king _and courtiers followed by soldiers._] _princess:_ o most gracious father, have mercy upon them. act ii scene i place: the home of a hebrew family. characters: moses, mother of moses, miriam, aaron. [_the mother is singing to the baby in her lap._ aaron _is playing on the floor._ miriam _runs in._] _miriam:_ o mother! the king has commanded that all the boy babies be thrown in the river! how can we save our baby? _mother:_ where shall we take him? i have hidden him for these three months, but he is so big now and his cries are so loud that they will be sure to find him wherever we go. _miriam:_ come quickly, mother; we will go to the river and hide him nearby. pharaoh cannot find him there, for he will think that he has been thrown in the water. _mother:_ o my poor baby! [_the three run out._] scene ii place: the river bank. characters: moses, mother of moses, miriam. [_the mother appears with the baby in her arms._ miriam _follows._] _miriam:_ o mother! we can hide him in these tall grasses! _mother:_ but i must have something to put him in. gather these rushes and i will weave a little cradle for him. [_they both pick bulrushes and the mother weaves the basket._] _mother:_ how can i leave him here alone? my little daughter, will you stay and watch and bring me word quickly if anything happens? we will hide the baby in this basket among the flags, here at the edge of the water. _miriam:_ good! mother, i will hide nearby and see that no harm comes to our baby. [_the mother kisses the baby and puts him in the basket, then rises and turns away._] _mother:_ keep watch until i return. [_exit mother;_ miriam _hides._] scene iii place: the river bank. characters: the princess, her maidens, soldiers, moses, mother of moses, and miriam. [_several soldiers walk across the stage. enter_ princess _and her maids._] princess [_looking around_]: what beautiful clear water for my bath! _first maid:_ yea, princess. will you bathe here? [_a baby's cry is heard._] _princess:_ what is it i hear? it sounds like a baby crying! look about, maidens! is there something here? [_all look about._] _second maid_ [_finds baby; all come running up to her_]: see what is here! _princess:_ a baby hidden in a basket! bring him to me! [_third maid hands basket to_ princess, _who takes the baby out._] _princess:_ oh, what a beautiful baby! he is mine, for i have found him! a hebrew baby! his mother has hidden him in the bulrushes to save his life. [miriam _runs out._] _miriam:_ lady, would you like a nurse for that baby? _princess:_ a nurse for him? yes, i do need a nurse. _miriam:_ i can get you one very quickly. _princess:_ go bring her, child; i will wait here. [miriam _goes away running._] _princess:_ he is my boy, and i will call him moses, for i drew him out of the water. [_enter the mother and_ miriam.] _miriam:_ here is the nurse, lady. _princess:_ will you take good care of this baby for me until he becomes a youth? i will pay you wages. i am the princess, king pharaoh's daughter. i will see that he is educated as a prince in my father's court. [princess _and her maids go out._] _mother:_ my boy is saved! my boy is saved! act iii scene i place: pharaoh's palace. characters: king pharaoh, princess, maids, soldiers, wise men, mother of moses, moses, miriam, aaron. [_king sits on his throne, wise men and soldiers around. enter messenger._] _messenger:_ o king, the princess awaits without and would have speech with thee. _king:_ bid her enter. [_enter_ princess _and a few attendants._] _princess:_ o gracious king and father, i have a request, and i beg that you grant it. _king:_ speak, my princess; do i not always grant what you ask? _princess:_ yes, father, and i know that you will grant me this. several years ago i adopted a son and i ask that you allow him to be educated in your palace. _king:_ adopted a son! what can be the meaning of this? i never heard of this! where did you get the boy? _princess:_ i found him, a little baby, hidden among the rushes by the river bank. _king:_ why was he hidden? that is strange! _princess:_ he is a hebrew boy, o father. _king:_ a hebrew boy! did i not command that every hebrew boy should be killed? _princess:_ i must take the blame; i had his life spared. will you not let him be brought here? _king:_ no, i will not! no hebrew boy shall be brought here! _princess:_ if you would only see him, he is so beautiful, you would love him as i do. he is without; permit me to show him to you. _king:_ bring him in. [_maid goes to get_ moses. moses _enters with his mother_, miriam, _and_ aaron. princess _leads him to the_ king.] _princess:_ this is my son. is he not a wonderful boy? _king:_ he is fair to look upon, but yet he is a hebrew. _princess:_ o my father, forget that he is a hebrew and remember only that he is my son. _king:_ o my princess, for your sake, i accept this boy. i leave his training to you. may he grow up to be a prince worthy of the house of pharaoh. end chapter vi the dramatization of _ruth_ _ruth_ was dramatized by the club during the fall of the year because it is a story of the hebrew harvest time. in order fully to interpret the life of ruth it was necessary for the children to secure information concerning the barley harvest in ancient palestine, and also to become familiar with the old customs involved in the story. many children brought pictures which illustrated the points under discussion, and some of them contributed by telling what they had been able to read at home. independence on the part of the children in looking up data was always encouraged by the leader; the information which she had to give enriched and supplemented that which was brought in by them. during the process of this dramatization constant comparisons were made with our own harvest time, and the study of the hebrew harvest feasts and festivals served to increase the understanding and appreciation of our one harvest festival at thanksgiving. the method of procedure in presenting this story for dramatization follows closely that described in connection with _joseph._ the bible version of _ruth_ is so simply and beautifully told that it needed very little adapting. when it was first given to the children parts of it were read and parts were told by the leader. many scenes were then planned, but these were soon cut down to the three necessary scenes. from the first the children used much of the bible language as they acted the story. the beauty and the poetry of it caused them to remember readily the exact wording in many cases. seven meetings were required before the group was satisfied with the play as a product of their best effort. as was the case with the other plays given by the club, the children who were to take the parts in the final presentation were selected by the group and not by the leader in charge. every child knew each part and could represent any character, but children were chosen for specific parts because they seemed to represent certain characters unusually well. the dramatization of this story called for much construction work. the reapers made their sickles of cardboard and covered them with gold or silver paper or painted them. they found pictures which gave the shape, and from these they cut the patterns (fig. ). one little girl brought a real sickle which had once belonged to a filipino. it gave her happiness to reap with it, but the others were just as content to use the sickles from cardboard. the need for a harvest song was felt, and in consequence a little song that most of the children knew was decided upon. the reapers sang it as they reaped and while boaz was walking through his grain field. there was no real grain nor anything to represent it, the children deciding to leave this to the imagination. the action of the reapers and the words that were spoken gave evidence enough that grain was growing there. there was very little stage setting used in the play. the stage was bare in the first scene in order to represent the road from moab to bethlehem. in the second scene a big earthenware jar was needed from which the reapers could drink. the third scene required a box which represented a seat by the city gate; the door which led off the stage at the side was used for the gate. the action and the grouping of people in the third scene required careful planning by the children. women came through the gate and passed down the street with water jugs on their shoulders; men gathered in groups to discuss bits of news; boaz walked toward the gate and sat waiting for his kinsman. finally, when the cousin appeared, boaz hailed him and had him sit down. the citizens who were standing near were asked to be witnesses in this business transaction. that one man should take off his shoe and hand it to another was a custom that created much interest among the children. they began to examine pictures for the kinds of shoes that were worn, and this led many of them to wear their own sandals, which approached most nearly to those seen in the pictures. the children who did not own sandals tried to make them with cardboard and strips of cloth (see fig. ). the costuming was very simple. the reapers wore the same little brown slips which had been worn in every play that had been given. boaz enriched his costume by wearing brighter colors in his headdress and girdle and by wearing a slip that was longer than the others. the play follows as it was finally given. ruth scene i place: in moab, on the road to judah. characters: naomi, ruth, orpah. setting: naomi, ruth, orpah, are on the road going toward judah. [naomi _stops and faces about._] _naomi:_ turn back, my daughters-in-law; return each of you to your mother's house. you have come with me far enough. i must take the rest of my journey alone. _orpah and ruth:_ oh, do not send us back! we will not leave thee! _naomi:_ yea, you must leave me now. i am going home to my own country and my own people, to bethlehem, judah! it is ten long years since i left there to come to dwell in your land of moab. but now that the famine is over i must return. _orpah:_ but, naomi, our mother-in-law, we love thee. do not thou leave us! _naomi:_ i must go. i came to this country happy--with my husband and two sons--but misfortune has dealt bitterly with me. my husband first died, and now my two sons, your husbands, are taken from me. i am old and sad. i have no one left to comfort me. i must go back to mine own people. leave me, my daughters, and god bless you! [_both daughters weep._] _orpah_ [_weeping and kissing_ naomi]: if thou wilt be happier, then thou must leave us. i will return to my mother's house as thou sayest. [_she goes off slowly, weeping._] [ruth _still stands by weeping. takes hold of_ naomi's _hand._] _naomi:_ behold, orpah, thy sister-in-law, has gone back to her people and unto her gods; return thou after thy sister-in-law. _ruth:_ intreat me not to leave thee, nor to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, i will go; and where thou lodgest, i will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god: where thou diest, will i die, and there will i be buried: the lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me. _naomi:_ since thou art so steadfastly minded to go with me, ruth, i will cease urging thee. come, thou mayest go with me to bethlehem. scene ii place: in the barley fields of boaz. time: the harvest season. characters: boaz, ruth, head reaper, reapers, gleaners. [_the reapers come in with their sickles, followed by the gleaners._] _head reaper:_ truly we have a wonderful harvest this year! _first reaper:_ yea, we will have food enough for ourselves and for all the poor in our city of bethlehem. _head reaper:_ it is the great god that hath given us this bounty. [_all sing harvest song as they reap. while they are singing_ ruth _comes in and begins to pick up the grain._] _second reaper_ [_looking toward the entrance to the field_]: the master is coming, the great boaz! [_all reapers look in that direction as they stand, resting their sickles on the ground._ boaz _enters._] _boaz:_ the lord be with you! _reapers:_ the lord bless thee! [_all go to work again, singing as before._ boaz _walks among them; he sees_ ruth _and watches her._] _boaz_ [_to the_ head reaper]: my good man, i would speak a word with thee; come hither. _head reaper:_ speak, o master! _boaz:_ whose damsel is this that gathereth grain after the reapers? _head reaper:_ my master, she is ruth, the moabitish damsel that came back with naomi, thy kinswoman. she hath been gleaning here since early morning. _boaz:_ go, bid the reapers not to harm her, and bid them let fall purposely some of the handfuls of grain for her. [_the_ head reaper _bows low and goes back among the reapers._] _boaz_ [_to_ ruth]: hearest thou not, my daughter? go not to glean in another field, but stay here by my reapers. let thine eyes be on the reapers, and do thou glean that which they leave behind. when thou art athirst, go unto the vessels and drink that which the young men have drawn. _ruth_ [_bows to the ground_]: why have i found such favor in thine eyes, seeing that i am a stranger in the land? _boaz:_ it has been told me of thy great kindness to thy mother-in-law, naomi; how thou didst leave thine own people to come with her and be among strangers; and how thou didst leave thy gods to take the god of the children of israel. the lord will bless thee for this. _ruth:_ i thank thee, o great boaz, for thou hast comforted me and thou hast spoken friendly words unto me. _boaz:_ come hither at meal times and eat of the bread and dip thy morsel in the vinegar with my reapers. [_the reapers have departed._ boaz _goes off._] _ruth:_ the lord god is truly good unto me! scene iii place: at the gate of the city. characters: boaz, a cousin of naomi, ten citizens, ruth, naomi. [_several citizens stand in groups, talking._ boaz _enters._] _boaz_ [_speaks to one of the group_]: hast thou seen my cousin pass this way? i am seeking him. _first citizen:_ nay, good sir, i have not seen him. _boaz:_ i must speak with him; i will wait here by the city gate; perchance he will come soon. [_one or two citizens pass by and speak to_ boaz, _saying, "good-day, sir." enter_ kinsman.] _boaz:_ ho, kinsman, turn aside! i would have a word with thee. sit thee down. [kinsman _sits down._] _kinsman:_ what wilt thou, cousin? _boaz:_ i would speak about a matter of importance; wait thou here until i can bring witnesses. [_he turns to citizens._] a piece of land is about to be sold; will ten citizens witness this deed? _citizens:_ aye, indeed. [_they come forward._] _boaz:_ sit ye down here. [_they sit down._] [_to_ kinsman]: dost thou remember naomi, our kinswoman, who went with her husband and two sons to the land of moab? _kinsman:_ yea, i do know naomi. _boaz:_ she selleth a parcel of land which was her husband's. now, thou art nearest of kin to naomi, so i thought to advise thee that thou mayest have the first chance to redeem the land in the presence of the elders of the city. if thou dost not care to redeem it, then the right to redeem it cometh to me, for i am next of kin. what wilt thou do? _kinsman:_ i will buy the land from our kinswoman, naomi. _boaz:_ on the day that thou buyest the field from the hand of naomi, thou also takest ruth, the moabitess, for thy wife, according to our custom and law. _kinsman:_ then i will not redeem the land, for i cannot take ruth for my wife. take thou my right to redeem it and buy it for thyself. _boaz_ [_taking off his shoe and giving it to the_ kinsman, _he says to the witnesses_]: ye are witnesses this day that i have bought this parcel of land from naomi and that i buy also, as my wife, ruth, the daughter-in-law of naomi. of all this ye are witnesses. _citizens:_ we are witnesses. [_bow._] [kinsman _returns shoe to_ boaz _and walks off._ ruth _and_ naomi _come through the street._] _boaz:_ ye are well met, naomi, my kinswoman, and ruth. i have good news for you; i have bought your land and i can now take ruth for my wife. come, all ye fellow-citizens, for the wedding feast is prepared at my house! [_takes_ ruth _by the hand._] _naomi:_ blessed am i that i should live to see this good thing come to pass! the lord hath been most gracious unto me! end chapter vii the dramatization of _queen esther_ the story of esther involves a much more complicated situation than any of the others here described. it is not too difficult for dramatization, however, if it is taken after such stories have been worked out as _david and goliath_ and _joseph._ in the case of this dramatic club the story of esther was told to the children after they had had much experience with other plays. the interesting plot and the beauty and richness of the court made so great an appeal to them that they were eager to begin the dramatization. the story was first simplified and adapted by the leader, and then told in such a manner as to emphasize the main events. the method of procedure followed that described in chapter iii in connection with the story of joseph. after the telling of the story the scenes were selected. these were acted out very freely at first, little thought being given to the words. many pictures were brought in, and descriptions of the court of king ahasuerus were read by the children from the bible and from books of bible stories. in the second scene the children decided to have the maidens dance before the king. several little girls who were trying out the part of esther made up dances for themselves. this feature made this scene especially attractive. this play was longer than those that had previously been dramatized, and it therefore took a longer period of time to bring it into final shape. there is no reason to hurry a dramatization. if the aim of this kind of work is kept in mind, there will be growth on the part of the children at each meeting. the value lies, not in how many stories can be dramatized during a year, but in how thoroughly the children are reliving a few good stories. the play of _queen esther_ made it necessary to construct several articles. gold dishes of various kinds were made by covering cardboard with gold paper. these were used at the queen's banquet. from the many scepters that were submitted the king chose the one for final use. elaborate gowns and headdresses were gathered; beads and jewels of all descriptions were made from brilliantly colored papers. the children took the responsibility of the costuming. the majority of them planned their own garments and either brought things from home or selected some suitable costume from those which the club had on hand. two of the older girls took entire charge of the younger ones and saw to it that each had some simple slip to wear in the play. the play follows as it was finally worked out by the children. the story of queen esther scene i place: the king's palace--shushan. characters: king ahasuerus (king of media and persia), haman (chief counselor), persian princes, servants. [_the_ king _is seated on his throne, princes seated before the_ king, _and_ haman _is seated by the_ king's _side. servants are bringing drinks in golden vessels._] _king:_ the seventh day of this feast hath come, and on this day will i bring my beautiful queen, vashti, before you. the princes of my land must depart, bearing a good report of my fair queen as well as of the great riches of my court. chamberlains, come forth! [_the servants come before the_ king _and bow._] i command you to bring vashti, the queen, before my presence. [_servants withdraw._] _first prince:_ o king, this is a great honor that thou bestowest upon us! _second prince:_ yea, vashti, the queen, is already known over the land for her wondrous beauty. we are most happy that thou wilt allow thy servants to behold her. _third prince:_ what wonderful tidings we will spread over thy provinces, o king. thy people do not know the half of thy riches and thy wonderful greatness and generosity. [_enter servants. they bow low._] _king:_ rise; what is thy message? [_they do not rise._] _first servant:_ o king, be merciful unto us! [_they bow lower._] _king:_ what meaneth this? speak! [_in astonishment_] i command thee. where is the queen? _second servant:_ o great king, we delivered thy message as thou didst command, but the queen has refused to come before thy presence. [_all the princes and the_ king _show surprise and anger._] _king:_ refused to obey me? this is impossible! are ye certain that she understood the meaning of my command? _servants:_ we are, o king. _king:_ she hath refused! it cannot be! [_he looks absently away._] she must be punished. _haman:_ what shall we do to queen vashti according to the law, because she hath not performed the commandment of king ahasuerus? _first prince:_ she hath not done wrong to the king only, but also to all the princes of the land, for this deed of the queen shall become known unto all the women of media and persia and they shall despise the command of their husbands: "because," they shall say, "king ahasuerus commanded vashti, the queen, to be brought before him and she came not." _second prince:_ what shall we do? this will cause great trouble and disobedience. _king:_ what thinkest thou, haman, my chief counselor? _haman:_ if it please the king, let there go forth a royal commandment and let it be written among the laws of the medes and persians that vashti come no more before ahasuerus, and let the king give her royal estate to another that is better than she. then when this decree shall become known all wives shall give honor unto their husbands. _king:_ this saying pleaseth me greatly. i shall do accordingly. [_to servants_]: send letters unto every province to every people, which shall state this decree, so that every man shall know it. _haman:_ o king, i pray thee, let there be fair maidens brought before thee from which thou shalt choose another which shall be thy queen. _king:_ so be it! see that fair maidens from every province be brought here to my palace; and the one that pleaseth me best, i will take her for my queen. [_all bow._] scene ii place: at shushan, the palace. characters: king ahasuerus, mordecai, maidens, haman, servants, courtiers. [_two servants are standing in the court room of the palace. enter a messenger followed by_ esther _and_ mordecai.] _messenger_ [_announces to the servants in the room_]: this maiden has come to see the king. [_he goes out._] _first servant:_ this is the place. wait thou here. [_to_ mordecai]: what art thou here for? thou wilt have to depart. _mordecai:_ i only brought this maiden. i beg of thee let me have a few words with her; then i will withdraw. _first servant:_ speak then quickly, before the king cometh. [_servants withdraw to another part of the room._] [illustration: fig. .--esther and mordecai] _mordecai_ [_taking_ esther's _hand_]: esther, my child, thou art like my very child, for although i am but thy uncle i have been as a father to thee. i bid thee farewell now, for it seemeth to me that the king will surely choose thee to be his queen--thou art so fair. this one thing remember, tell him not that thou art a jewess. fare thee well, esther! may the lord bless thee! _esther:_ farewell to thee, mordecai! [mordecai _goes out. other maidens come in announced by the messenger._] _messenger:_ these maidens would see the king. [_the servants show them where to sit. enter second messenger._] _second messenger:_ the king! the king! [_enter_ king _and_ haman. king _sits on his throne._] second servant [_bowing before the_ king]: o king, the maidens from all parts of the country have arrived and await thy pleasure. _king:_ let them come before my presence one at a time, and i will choose from among them the one that seemeth most fair. [_the musicians begin playing and, one by one, the maidens come out. they bow and dance._ esther _comes last of all. as_ esther _dances the_ king _speaks._] _king:_ what marvelous beauty! surely this maiden is fair enough to be my queen. _haman:_ yea, o king, thou art right; she should be thy queen. _king_ [_takes_ esther's _hand_]: what is thy name, fair maid? _esther:_ my name is esther, o king. _king:_ esther, i do here take thee to be my queen. bring the royal crown and the queen's robes! [_servants come immediately and put them on her._] [illustration: fig. .--esther dances before the king] _king_ [_leading_ esther _out_]: come unto the wedding feast which is now prepared. all are welcome! scene iii place: the palace gate. characters: haman, mordecai, servants, esther. [_servants are standing and walking by the gate. women come by carrying water jars._ mordecai _stands apart from the crowd._ herald _comes in._] _herald:_ bow the knee, bow the knee. the chief counselor, haman, approacheth! thus saith the king. [haman _comes in. all bow to him except_ mordecai.] _haman_ [_pointing to_ mordecai]: who is this man who doth not bow the knee to me? _first servant:_ he is mordecai, the jew, my lord. [_to_ mordecai]: why dost thou break the king's commandment? _haman:_ thou jew! dost thou think that thou art mightier than i, whom the king hath set above all the princes of the land? thou shalt suffer for this. [_turns to servant._] send letters unto all the king's provinces, to destroy, to kill, and to cause to perish all jews, both young and old, little children and women, in one day--even upon the thirteenth day of the twelfth month, and to take the spoil of them for prey. [_servant bows and goes away._ haman _passes on, leaving_ mordecai _with two servants._ mordecai, _in deep thought, walks anxiously up and down._] _mordecai:_ i must see queen esther. canst thou not take me to the queen? _second servant_ [_laughing scornfully_]: thinkest thou that the queen will see thee? _mordecai:_ give the queen this paper and say to her that i, mordecai, the jew, bid her come to me. [_servant withdraws._] _mordecai_ [_walking, talks to himself_]: israel, o israel, my people! you shall not perish. esther, your queen, will save you. [_enter_ esther.] _esther:_ mordecai, my uncle, why art thou here? thou lookest unhappy. hath aught happened to thee? _mordecai:_ yea, esther, i am unhappy. i have sorrowful news to tell thee. _esther:_ chamberlains, withdraw! speak, mordecai; tell me quickly. it may be that i can help thee. _mordecai:_ esther, thou canst help me, and thou art the only one who can. haman, the king's counselor, hateth the jews--thy people and mine. he hath sent a decree over all the country commanding that every jew, both old and young, little children and women, be killed on the thirteenth day of the twelfth month. esther, thou must save thy people and thyself? thou must go before the king and beg of him that he spare thy people. [esther _shows great distress._] _esther:_ oh, what shall i do? dost thou not know that for one who dareth to go before the presence of the king, if the king hath not called him, there is certain death; except to whom the king shall hold out the golden scepter--he may live? i have not been called to come in unto the king these thirty days. he will surely put me to death for such boldness. _mordecai:_ thou must go unto the king even so. think not that thou wilt escape death from haman because thou art in the king's house. who knoweth but that thou hast been made queen for such a time as this! _esther_ [_after thinking deeply_]: go, gather together all the jews that are present in shushan, and fast ye for me, and neither eat nor drink for three days, night or day, i also and my maidens will fast likewise--and so i will go in unto the king, which is not according to the law, and if i perish, i perish. _mordecai:_ may the lord go with thee! scene iv place: in the court of the king's palace. characters: king ahasuerus, esther, haman, courtiers, servants. [_the king sits on his throne._ queen esther _enters and bows before the_ king. _the_ king _looks at her in astonishment._] _courtiers_ [_in loud whispers_]: the queen! it is the queen! _king:_ esther, hast thou dared to come before my presence when i have not called thee? thou surely dost not know what thou art doing! this act of boldness can mean thy death! but thou art so beautiful, esther, i cannot be hard with thee. rise! [_he holds out the golden scepter._] what is the request that has brought thee here? it shall be given thee, even though it be half of my kingdom. [esther _touches the scepter and rises._] _esther:_ if it seemeth good unto the king, let the king and haman come this day unto the banquet that i have prepared for them. [_she turns and goes out._] _king:_ hearest thou, haman? make haste and let us do as esther hath said. come, we will prepare for this banquet. [haman _bows. the_ king _and_ haman _go out. others follow._] [illustration: fig. .--the king holds out the scepter to esther] scene v place: the queen's apartment. characters: queen esther, king ahasuerus, haman, servants, mordecai. [_the servants are preparing the feast. enter_ esther.] _esther:_ see ye that the feast is in readiness, for the king will soon arrive. [_servants bow._] _servant:_ the king cometh! _esther_ [_going to meet the_ king _as he enters_]: welcome, my lord! [_the_ king _sits upon a throne prepared for him._] _king:_ i am happy to be with thee, my fair queen. thou must have a request which thou desirest to make--speak, be not afraid. i will grant it though it be half of my kingdom. _esther:_ if i have found favor in thy sight, o king, and if it please the king, let my life be saved and the lives of my people--the hebrew people. we are to be destroyed, to be slain and to perish. _king:_ thy people? the hebrew people? who is this and where is he that dareth in his heart to do this thing to thy people? _esther:_ the enemy is thy chief counselor, this wicked haman. _king:_ did haman do this deed? how didst thou know of his plan? _esther:_ o king, mordecai, the jew, my uncle, hath shown me the letter which haman hath sent over the country. the jews are to be killed on the thirteenth day of the twelfth month. i am begging thee for my life and for the lives of my people! [illustration: fig. .--queen esther pleads for her people] _king:_ fear not, esther; thy people shall be saved. mordecai, the jew, hath once done me a great service. he hath not been rewarded for this. he shall have honor, for he deserveth it. _servant:_ the great haman hath come, o queen. [haman _enters; they seat themselves, and the feast is served._] _king:_ haman, what shall be done unto the man whom the king delighteth to honor? _haman_ [_aside_]: whom would the king like to honor more than myself? [_to the_ king]: for the man whom the king delighteth to honor, let the royal apparel be brought which the king useth to wear, and the horse which the king rideth upon, and the royal crown which is set upon his head; and let these be given the man whom the king delighteth to honor; and let him ride on horseback through the streets of the city; and proclaim before him, "thus it shall be done unto the man whom the king delighteth to honor!" _king:_ make haste and take the royal apparel and the horse as thou hast said and do even so unto mordecai, the jew, that sitteth at the king's gate. let nothing fail of all that thou hast spoken. [haman _bows his head low and goes out to_ mordecai.] _servant:_ o king, haman hath built a gallows upon which to hang mordecai, the jew, this day. [haman _returns with_ mordecai _and puts on the crown, etc._] _king:_ let him who hath made the gallows hang upon it! [_servant takes_ haman _out._] _king:_ come near, mordecai. thou hast found great favor in mine eyes. from henceforth thou shalt be my chief counselor, and thou shalt rule the land in haman's place. thy people shall be spared, and letters shall be sent over all the land and into every province which shall state that the hebrew people shall not be destroyed, but instead they shall be honored and have joy and feasting. _mordecai:_ i thank thee, o king and esther, my queen, for the great deliverance and for this great honor to me. may the lord give me strength to deal wisely with these peoples. _esther:_ this is a great happiness which thou hast bestowed upon me, o king. chapter viii the dramatization of _abraham and the three guests_ this incident should be simplified and adapted before it is told to children. the dramatization is best worked out in the form of a short, free play which involves only one act. it is unnecessary to carry it to the point of fixed words and actions. the emphasis should be placed upon the customs of the times which are so well brought out in the story; for example, the hospitality of abraham to the strangers represents the feeling toward strangers among the nomad peoples, and the manner in which he showed his hospitality makes children acquainted with customs peculiar to those people. there is excellent opportunity here for enriching the children's understanding of the life of a shepherd people, of which the israelites are an example. descriptions and pictures of the kind of tent the people lived in are necessary. it is important that children should get the idea of the correct shape of the arab tent and not confuse it with the indian wigwam. no stage scenery need be used; it is best to leave that to the imagination. a curtain may be put up to represent the front of the tent, but nothing more. there is much of this incident that should be left out in the telling; by no means should it be read directly from the bible to children. the story may be told so that the following points are emphasized: abraham is sitting at the door of his tent. three men appear; he runs to meet them and bows to the ground. he invites them to rest under the shade of the tree and offers to get food and to have their feet washed. the strangers sit and talk together, then abraham comes with the food. they all eat and are rested, and as they rise to depart they ask for sarah, abraham's wife. the strangers tell sarah and abraham that they are to have a son whose name shall be isaac and whom god shall bless and who shall be the father of many people. abraham and sarah are greatly astonished and pleased. they fall upon their knees to thank god, and when they arise they find that the strangers have departed. the scene closes with their exclamation, "surely these were angels from the lord who have visited us!" this story was dramatized by the children of the dramatic club after they had had experience with many other dramatizations. during the first hour after the story was told the children succeeded in getting the play into very nearly its final form. two of the older girls, undertaking to write out the scenes as they thought they should be, brought in their versions at the second meeting. each one was read aloud, the other children being asked to remember the parts that seemed especially good. then by combining, adding to, or taking from, a composite result was obtained. several children wrote down the final decisions at the dictation of the group. below is given the version which one child worked out by herself, and following that is the final form of the play which the group as a whole decided upon. the leader purposely left this play entirely in the hands of the children; the product is wholly their own. the play exactly as one child wrote it _abraham:_ the day is hot and i am weary. i will rest myself from the heat of the day. [_he seats himself in the shade of the tent._] _sarah:_ it is indeed hot, and i will bring thee food and drink that thou mayest refresh thyself. [sarah _retires into the tent._] _abraham_ [_rises to his feet and shades his eyes with his hands_]: sarah, come hither! yonder are strangers who are in need of rest. [sarah _comes out, and she and_ abraham _kneel before them._] welcome, strangers, seat yourselves that ye may rest. my wife, sarah, will bring you food, and water that you may wash your feet. _first stranger:_ the lord bless thee, abraham. [_sarah_ _and the servants withdraw, and_ abraham _and the three men seat themselves before the tent._ sarah _returns with water and food. the strangers wash their feet and eat._] _sarah_ [_offering them food_]: drink thou this fresh milk, and refresh thyself with this fruit, for ye look weary. [_they finish eating and_ sarah _and the servants retire._] _second stranger:_ we bring thee good tidings and would speak with thee and thy wife. [sarah _comes from within the tent._] _third stranger:_ we are messengers from the lord to tell thee that thou wilt have a son. _first stranger:_ he will be the father of many men and thousands will respect him. ye shall name him isaac. _sarah:_ that cannot come to pass! for many years i have been childless, and the lord will not give me a son. _abraham_ [_falling on his knees_]: thanks be to the lord! a son at last! _sarah:_ can it be that these tidings are true? if so, it is indeed a message from the lord! [_she too falls on her knees before them. the three men quietly leave, and when_ sarah _and_ abraham _rise to their feet they are out of sight._] _abraham:_ they were angels from heaven! our wish has been granted at last! end the following is the play as it was finally presented: abraham and the three guests place: in front of the tent of abraham. characters: abraham, a shepherd; sarah, his wife; three strangers; four servants. [abraham _and_ sarah _come out of the tent._] _abraham:_ the day is hot, and i am weary; i will sit down and rest in the shade of this tree. _sarah:_ yea, it is hot. i will bring thee drink and food that thou mayest refresh thyself, my good husband. [sarah _goes into the tent._ abraham _sees three strangers approaching. he stands up, shades his eyes with his hands, and looks out over the desert. he calls to_ sarah.] [illustration: fig. .--the three guests bless abraham and sarah] _abraham:_ sarah, my wife, come hither! lo, i see three strangers approaching over the desert. [sarah _comes out of the tent and looks also._] sarah: they will be weary and in need of rest. i will hasten and prepare food and drink for them also. [sarah _goes away._ abraham _rises to meet the strangers: he falls on the ground before them._] _abraham:_ welcome, strangers, to the tent of abraham! if i have found favor in thy sight, pass not away, i pray thee! let now a little water be fetched and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree; and i will fetch a morsel of bread, and this will strengthen your hearts; after that ye shall pass on. _the three strangers:_ so do as thou hast said, good abraham. [abraham _turns to the servants who are standing near._] _abraham:_ haste ye, bring water; fetch a calf, tender and good. [_servants hasten away._] [_to the strangers_]: sarah, my wife, will make ready three measures of fine meal and knead it into cakes. _first stranger:_ our host, abraham, is a true servant of the lord. _second stranger:_ we are indeed weary; we have journeyed far across the desert. [_servants appear with water and food._ sarah _also brings food to them._] _sarah:_ drink thou this fresh milk, and refresh thyself with these dates, for ye look weary. _third stranger:_ this is indeed a rest. [sarah _goes into the tent and the strangers finish eating. the strangers rise to go._] _abraham:_ tarry yet awhile with us. _first stranger:_ we thank thee, good abraham, but we must be on our way. _second stranger:_ we would speak with thee and thy wife, sarah. where is thy wife? _abraham:_ sarah, come hither. [sarah _appears._] _third stranger:_ we bring you a message from the lord. you shall have a son, and his name shall be isaac. he shall be the father of many men, and thousands shall respect him. _sarah:_ surely, this cannot come to pass! _abraham:_ thanks be to god for this great gift! [sarah _and_ abraham _fall down on their knees before the strangers. the strangers stretch out their hands to bless them._] _three strangers:_ the lord will bless you, sarah and abraham! [_the strangers depart._ abraham _and_ sarah _arise._] _abraham and sarah:_ surely these were angels from the lord! end as this play was very short, the suggestion was made that we might lengthen the program, as well as make it more interesting, by having some of the children tell the audience just how we worked up the dramatization. the two older girls undertook this and decided entirely by themselves just what they would say. one of them wrote with great care a description of the method of procedure. she read it to the club for approval, then she learned it by heart and gave it in an interesting manner to the audience on the day the play was given. the other girl wrote a poem about it, and recited it just before the play was given. the description and poem are as follows: the introduction by margaret miller the play which the children are now going to give--_abraham and the three guests_--has been worked out and practiced at the dramatic club. this club meets every sunday afternoon from three until four o'clock, and is composed of any of the children of the sunday school who wish to belong. the first sunday miss miller told the story to the members, and then they, knowing it, acted it out, making up the parts as they went along. this they did several times until they knew the story perfectly. the two oldest girls did not take part in the acting of the play, but became assistants and helped miss miller direct it. during the next week the assistants wrote out the speeches very much as the children had made them up. these were read before the club and discussed, and after a number of suggestions had been added by all the children present the scene was finally written as it now is. the children each took home a part to learn, and the following sunday they all tried the different speeches. before the final characters were chosen each child was able to represent any one of them. the final characters were decided upon by the group and were chosen according to their preferences and their ability to enact the different parts. unfortunately, most of the costumes which the club had on hand were much too small for the children this year. we therefore held a sewing-bee during the week, and lengthened the old ones or made new ones where we found it necessary. we have worked on this play for five meetings, which represents altogether five hours, except for a little work that the assistants did outside. we have had much fun with this play, and we are hoping that you will enjoy it too. poem by melba pyle before you soon you shall see the story of _abraham and the strangers three._ the partakers, they have worked; the assistants, they have shirked-- but not as much as you would think, for they have helped to join each link. as day by day passed quickly away we read the bible and wrote the play. each child helped as best he could, and thus we worked in brotherhood. word with word we did neatly join, then home we went, our parts to learn, next to the box where the costumes lay, and straight to sewing and not to play. and 'tis our happy aim, you see, to make you joyous as can be! chapter ix the dramatization of _daniel in the lions' den_ the story of _daniel in the lions' den_ was dramatized by the members of the club according to the same methods as those which were used in connection with the story of _abraham and the three guests._ this play is given here in order to show how a story which deals with a miraculous event may be treated. when daniel was thrust into the den of lions, he was in reality put out of the door which opens at the side of the stage. the children readily came to the decision that it was unnecessary to show daniel actually in the den of lions on the stage. in telling the story no explanation was made or asked for concerning the miracle which happened. the children accepted it and enjoyed it as they would any other good story. the final play which follows represents entirely the children's interpretation; the product is their own. daniel in the lions' den scene i place: the court room of king darius. characters: king darius, daniel, four conspirators, soldiers, servants. [king darius _is seated on his throne. soldiers and attendants stand nearby. the conspirators are talking together at one side._ daniel, _followed by two soldiers, comes in and kneels before the_ king.] _daniel:_ king darius, live forever! _king darius:_ good daniel, i have sent for thee that thou mayest know my will. it has pleased me to set over my kingdom one hundred and twenty princes, and over these princes have i set three rulers. thou hast been so faithful and true that i wish to make thee the first of these three rulers. thou shalt have great responsibility, and thou shalt report to me when thou thinkest it well to do so. _daniel:_ thou art kind and gracious unto me, o king! may the lord, jehovah, help me to do this. _king darius:_ come unto the feast, daniel, and have the royal robe placed on thee. [daniel _bows to the_ king _and they both go out, followed by the soldiers and servants._] [_the conspirators are left alone in the room. they show great anger and begin talking to each other._] _first conspirator:_ see how this daniel has found favor in the king's sight! he is not of our country, he belongs to the hebrew people; but the king has appointed him over us all! we must destroy this daniel. _second conspirator:_ yea, thou art right. what can we do? [_they all walk back and forth in deep thought._] _third conspirator:_ i can think of nothing against him! _fourth conspirator:_ thou sayest the truth; he hath no fault. he is faithful and doth nothing wrong. _first conspirator:_ i can think of nothing, save that we find it against him concerning his god. _fourth conspirator:_ ah, that is true; daniel worshipeth a different god; i have seen him praying thrice in one day. _second conspirator:_ let us influence the king to make a firm decree that whosoever shall worship any god or man, save the king, for thirty days, he shall be cast into the den of lions. _third conspirator:_ that soundeth well! if daniel be faithful to his god, he will surely disobey this decree; and if the king once signeth it, the law of the medes and the persians saith that it cannot be altered. _first conspirator:_ ah, this will surely be daniel's ruin now! _fourth conspirator:_ come, let us hasten to the king and have him establish and sign this decree. he will be pleased; he will not think of daniel. _third conspirator:_ yea, we will hasten before the setting of the sun. scene ii place: the same as in scene i. characters: the same as in scene i. time: several days after the events in scene i. [_the_ king _is seated on his throne. the four conspirators come before the_ king _and kneel._] _the conspirators:_ great king darius, live forever! _king darius:_ arise, my friends! _first conspirator:_ o king, hast thou not signed a decree that he who shall pray to any god or man within thirty days, save to thee, shall be cast into the den of lions? _king darius:_ this thing is true, according to the law of the medes and persians, which altereth not. _second conspirator:_ a man in thy kingdom regardeth not this law, and doth pray to his god three times a day--we have seen him! _king_ [_with anger_]: who is this man that breaketh my laws? _first conspirator:_ he is daniel, whom thou hast favored and made ruler! _king darius_ [_with surprise and sadness_]: daniel! it cannot be! daniel must not die, for i love him. _third conspirator:_ thou knowest, o king, that the law of the medes and persians is that no decree which the king establisheth may be changed. _king_ [_sadly_]: thou sayest truly; the king's word may not be broken. bring daniel hither. [_soldiers go for_ daniel. _the_ king _walks back and forth in great distress._] _king_ [_talking to himself_]: oh, i would that this had not happened! [daniel _appears and bows before the_ king.] _king:_ why hast thou disobeyed my law, daniel? wherefore didst thou pray to thy god when thou knewest of my decree? _daniel:_ great king darius, my god, the god to whom i pray, is the true god, and i shall worship no other. do with me what thou wilt. _king:_ daniel, i would that thou hadst not done this thing, for i love thee. thou art a brave and bold man! thy god whom thou servest continually, he will deliver thee! [_to the soldiers_]: take this man from me; cast him into the den of lions. [_soldiers take_ daniel _and thrust him into the den. the door is closed, and the_ king _seals it with his signet. the_ king _and attendants withdraw. the conspirators are alone._] _first conspirator:_ daniel has fallen at last! no longer will he be the king's favorite! _fourth conspirator:_ we, instead, will be the favored ones! [_they leave the room in high spirits._] scene iii place: the same as in scene i. characters: the same as in scene i. time: the next morning after the events in scene ii. [_the_ king _hastens to the door of the lions' den._] _king_ [_calling eagerly_]: o daniel, servant of the living god, is thy god, whom thou servest continually, able to deliver thee from the lions? _daniel_ [_from within_]: o king, live forever! my god hath sent his angel and hath shut the lions' mouths, and they have not hurt me, for the lord knoweth that i have done no wrong, either before him or thee, o king! _king_ [_to servants who have followed him into the room_]: come hither, servants! quickly bring daniel out that i may see him! [_the door is opened, and_ daniel _comes out. the_ king _shows great joy in greeting him._] _king:_ thy god is truly the living god! bring forth the men that have done daniel this wrong. cast them into the lions' den. [_the conspirators are standing in the room, looking at_ daniel _in astonishment. the soldiers seize them and push them down into the den. as they go they cry to the_ king.] _conspirators:_ o king, spare us! _king:_ i will now sign a decree that in every dominion of my kingdom men shall bow before the god of daniel, for he is the only true god. he delivereth and rescueth and worketh great wonders; he hath saved daniel from the power of the lions. _daniel:_ the lord god will surely bless thee for this good thing! end chapter x the dramatization of new testament parables many of the new testament parables present interesting problems for dramatization. the selection should be limited to those which involve dramatic situations and unity of structure. the simplicity and conciseness of words and actions in many of the parables are qualities which call forth a ready and free response from children. among the parables which have been worked out by the dramatic club are _the good samaritan_, _the wise and foolish virgins_, _the great supper_, _the talents_, _the prodigal son._ in the case of these short parables the story was not told first, but the parable was read to the children directly from the bible. there was no discussion as to the truths supposed to be taught, the emphasis being placed entirely upon the story element involved. the customs of the times and the division of the story into scenes were discussed as fully as was done with other stories. usually one or two meetings were all that were necessary for working one of these parables into dramatic form. when it was completed, the result was not a finished product, as the words and action had been interpreted with slight variations each time. the children learned the story by heart, as it is given in the bible. this influenced their words when they were dramatizing. several parables were given together at the meeting when parents and friends were invited. one child recited the bible version just before the play was given. this feature added interest and dignity to the occasion. the parables were given in the following order: the wise and foolish virgins [_ten virgins with their lamps are waiting for the bridegroom._] _first virgin:_ the bridegroom tarries; let us rest here awhile. _other virgins:_ yea, let us rest. [_they all sit down and go to sleep._] _a cry without:_ behold, the bridegroom cometh! go ye out to meet him! [_all the virgins get up hurriedly. the five wise ones, with oil in their lamps, stand in readiness. the five foolish ones are in great confusion._] _first foolish virgin:_ we have no oil! our lamps are gone out! _second foolish virgin_ [_speaking to the five wise virgins_]: give us of your oil--we have none. _first wise virgin:_ not so, lest there be not enough for ourselves and for you. but go ye rather to them that sell, and buy for yourselves. [_the foolish virgins hasten away._] _a cry without:_ behold, the bridegroom cometh! go ye out to meet him! [_the_ bridegroom _comes in, followed by a few attendants. he walks by, and the five wise virgins follow him. they go in a door which is closed after them. the foolish virgins come hurriedly back and rush to the door. they beat on it and call out several times._] _foolish virgins:_ lord, lord, open unto us! [_the door opens and the_ bridegroom _stands there._] _bridegroom:_ depart, i know you not! end during the work on this play the question arose as to the kind of lamps that were used at the time of the story. the children looked up pictures and descriptions, and from these they made themselves lamps out of plasticene or clay. fig. is a photograph of one of the scenes taken out of doors. the lamps can be seen, also the simple costumes which the children worked out. the great supper [_the_ master _of the feast stands in his door and speaks to his servant._] _the master:_ go, bid my friends come to the supper, for all things are now ready! [_the servant bows; the_ master _goes into the house. the servant walks down the street, and as he meets people he delivers his_ master's _message._] _servant_ [_to the men as they come by_]: my master bids thee come to his feast, for all things are now ready! [illustration: fig. .--the wise and foolish virgins] _first man:_ say to thy master that i have bought a piece of land and must needs go and see it. i pray thee have me excused. [_the servant bows and the man passes on. the servant delivers the message to the second man._] _second man:_ i have bought five yoke of oxen; i must go to prove them. i pray thee have me excused. _third man:_ i have married a wife, and therefore i cannot come. [_the servant goes back to his_ master's _house; the_ master _comes out to meet him._] _servant_ [_falls on his knees before his_ master]: o sir, i did as thou commandedst, but one by one they made excuse, and would not come to thy supper. one man had just bought a piece of land and must go to see it; another had bought five yoke of oxen, and was on his way to prove them; and another had just married a wife. all begged that thou excuse them. _master_ [_shows great anger_]: what! they that are bidden refuse to come to my feast! go out quickly into the streets and lanes of the city, and bring in hither the maimed, and the halt, and the blind! [_the_ master _goes into his house, and the servant again walks down the street._] _servant_ [_as he meets the lame, the halt, and the blind_]: come! my master invites you to a great supper, which is now prepared at his house! [_each person, or group of persons, bows and thanks him with such remarks as_]-- _maimed, halt, blind:_ we thank thee; we will be there. we gladly accept this invitation. [_the_ master _stands in the door to receive his guests as they come. when they are all in, the servant comes back to his_ master.] _servant:_ lord, it is done as thou hast commanded, and yet there is room. _master:_ go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled. for i say unto you that none of those men that were bidden shall taste of my supper! [_the servant bows_; _the_ master _goes in._] end the good samaritan scene i place: the road from jerusalem to jericho. characters: a traveler, thieves, a priest, a levite, a samaritan. [_a man comes along the road carrying his bundle over his back. many thieves rush out from ambush and attack him. some knock him down and rob him, while others are looking anxiously up and down the road. after beating and cutting the man they go off, thinking that he is dead._ _as the traveler lies groaning and begging for water, a priest comes along the road, but when he sees the man he passes by on the other side of the road. also a levite comes along, and after looking at the man passes by on the other side of the road._ _then a samaritan comes along, and as soon as he hears the groans he hastens over to the man. he kneels down and looks at him and speaks._] _good samaritan:_ what is this--a man! hast thou been hurt, my friend? _man:_ oh, help me! thieves fell upon me and took all i had, and have left me here to die. [illustration: fig. .--the good samaritan] _good samaritan:_ i will help thee, my good friend; thy wounds shall be bound. drink this wine. it may help thee. art thou able to get on this beast of mine? i will take thee to the inn where thou wilt be cared for. [_he helps the man to rise and supports him as he hobbles off. they both go out._] scene ii place: the inn. characters: the samaritan, the traveler, the innkeeper. [_the_ good samaritan _brings the man to the door of the inn and knocks. the_ innkeeper, _appears._] _innkeeper:_ good day, sir. _good samaritan:_ here is a wounded man. take care of him. here is money, and whatsoever thou spendest more, when i come again i will repay thee. [_he gives the_ innkeeper _some money. the_ innkeeper _takes the man._] _traveler_ [_to_ good samaritan]: god bless you, my friend! end the prodigal son act i place: in the father's home. characters: the younger brother, the father, the elder brother, servants. [_the_ father _and_ elder son _come into the room together. the_ younger son _comes in from another door._] _younger son:_ father, give me the portion of goods that falleth unto me. i am weary of living at home. i will go into some far country and make my fortune. _father:_ my son, why is it that thou desirest this? hast thou not everything at home? _younger son:_ yea, father, but i beg of thee to divide thy living between us. i must have my share. _father:_ thou art very foolish; nevertheless i will do as thou askest. [_to servant_]: bring my money bags. [_to_ elder son]: and dost thou intend to take thy living also, and leave thy father? _elder son:_ nay, father, i am fully content to live with thee; i do not want my portion. [_servant returns with money bags._ father _gives money to his younger son._] _father:_ this is thy share--use it wisely. _younger son:_ i thank thee, father. i shall become a rich man with this; but now i must leave thee; i can stay here no longer. _father:_ this grieves me, my son, for i know that thou art foolish--but go and learn thy lesson. [_he stretches out his hands toward his son as if blessing him._] act ii scene i place: along the roadside in a distant country. characters: the prodigal son, a farmer. [_the_ prodigal son _comes down the road, tired and hungry. he sits on a rock and talks._] _prodigal son:_ would that i had something to eat! my money is all spent, and there is famine in the land. what shall i do? i am sick, and feel that i may soon die. if i could but find something to do that i might get a little food. [_a man comes along. the_ prodigal son _goes toward him and falls down before him._] _prodigal son:_ o sir, i am starving unto death. wilt thou give me any task to do that i may make enough to keep me alive? _man:_ i have no work to be done--unless it be to take care of my swine. thou wilt find them in yon field; they need a keeper. _prodigal son:_ i will gladly do this. [_he goes off joyfully._] scene ii place: in the field with the swine. character: the prodigal son. [_the_ prodigal son _comes in driving the pigs. he sits down._] _prodigal son:_ how horrible is this life; i am dying of hunger. no man will give me anything--all i get to eat is the food that i give the pigs. oh, i wish that i had never left home! how many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and i perish with hunger! i will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, "father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants." [_he rises and goes away hurriedly._] act iii scene i place: in front of the father's home. characters: the father, the prodigal son, the servants. [_the_ father _stands looking for his son._] _father:_ it seemeth to me that i see my son coming home! i knew that he would come! i will go to meet him! [_he meets him._] it is my son! [_the_ father _shows great joy. the_ son _falls on his knees before his father._] _prodigal son:_ father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. _father:_ bring forth the best robe and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it, and let us eat and be merry, for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found! scene ii place: in the field, near the father's house. characters: elder son, servant, the father. [_the_ elder son _is hoeing in the field. a servant comes out. the_ elder son _calls to him._] _elder son:_ i hear music and dancing in the house; what do these things mean? _servant:_ thy brother is come; thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound. thy father sendeth for thee to come in. [_the_ elder brother _shows anger._] _elder brother:_ i will not go in. why should he make merry over my brother who has wasted his living? [_the_ father _comes out._] _father:_ my son, wilt thou come unto the feast? thy lost brother hath returned! _elder son:_ lo, these many years do i serve thee; neither have i at any time disobeyed thee, yet thou never gavest me a kid that i might make merry with my friends. but as soon as thy son was come, which hath wasted thy living, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. _father:_ son, thou art ever with me, and all that i have is thine. it was meet that we should make merry and be glad, for this thy brother was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found. come thou in to greet thy brother! [_they both go in._] end chapter xi the dramatic qualities in a good story the stories in the bible, if taken just as they are given, present a body of material which is complicated by a historical background and a religious symbolism that is remote from the young child's experience. they embody the historical incidents as well as the myths and folklore of ancient hebrew life, and for the most part they express the highest idealism of the hebrew people. there is no reason, however, why good stories and appropriate incidents may not be given to children from this body of material through selecting from and simplifying the biblical version. a great deal of what is in the bible should not be used, but there is much that is highly dramatic and becomes valuable for dramatization. it is possible to adapt an incident by simplifying, and in a measure reorganizing, the parts, and yet to keep the dignity and integrity of the story as it is given in the bible. the attitude of the children, created by contact with this type of story, should be one of reverence and dignity, coupled with a consciousness of the high ideals of the people they are impersonating. before any attempt is made to select parts of the bible narrative for dramatization the leader, or director of the children, should have well in mind standards which will help in making the part that is chosen a well-organized story. when any good story is analyzed it is found to be built upon an underlying basic structure. there is always a beginning or setting; a middle part, where the incidents rise to a climax; and an end, where the events of the story are satisfactorily worked out. there should be a feeling of movement straight through the story; the incidents should develop; there should be action that leads to some end. a unity must underlie the whole story--there must be no part which is not essential to the working out of the plan. the end of the story should give a sense of completeness, of satisfaction. it is often the case that the three essential parts of the story call for three acts when the story is dramatized. in some of our modern dramas five acts, but in many only three acts, are required in order to complete the structure. sometimes, however, all three parts of a story may be given in a one-act dramatization. before a story is dramatized it is very necessary that it be told so clearly that the children are conscious of these parts; otherwise the resulting drama will lack in organization. no matter how elaborate or simple the story, the children should have a feeling for the basic structure, which should guide the form of the dramatization. the leader in charge of a dramatic club in which bible stories are used must take the responsibility of changing the bible version so as to make an organic unit of the story and yet keep the spirit and big meaning. there are many parts of the bible narrative which already embody this simple organization--or division into related elements--if all of the heavy, unnecessary incidents are omitted.[ ] although the main purpose of these dramatizations is not that an artistic result be secured, yet that is an important factor, and should be recognized by both the leader and the children. the product many times will be necessarily crude and lacking in the aesthetic element, but nevertheless there should be an attempt, even though gradually, to train the children toward a recognition and an appreciation of the artistic qualities of the literary production they put forth, as well as of the stage groupings and effects. care must be taken that the stories chosen are ethically sound. the story of jacob is one that may well be omitted. jacob deceives, and yet all the good things in life come to him--he takes them away from those who rightfully have earned them. this injustice in the story always raises a question in the minds of the children, and for this reason it is not a good story. the stories of samson, jephthah, jael, and others on this order should be eliminated for similar reasons. they are each based upon attitudes toward society and standards of friendship which are now outgrown. there are so many simple episodes in the bible that can easily be readjusted into well-constructed stories, about which there can be no question of the moral value, that no time need be wasted in considering any story about which there is the least suggestion of an unethical quality when judged by our present-day standards. footnotes: [footnote : as a matter of fact, it is often the later editorial additions to the simple old stories that have produced the cumbrous effect. when the original story is recovered, it lends itself much better to the purpose here discussed. such a reorganization of the stories with a preservation of the biblical language has been made in soares' _heroes of israel_ (the university of chicago press), where also there is much illustrative material interpretative of the situations.] chapter xii bible stories suitable for dramatization the stories which have been taken for dramatization in the previous chapters were not chosen because they are the best ones for that purpose, but because they represent different kinds of stories and illustrate the opportunity for various methods of presentation. there are many other stories and incidents in the bible which are equal to, or better than, those described. a list of some of these stories is given below, together with a few of the most essential points which should be considered in dramatizing each. no attempt is made to give the story in full or to elaborate the dramatization; the plan for each is merely suggestive. i. samuel i samuel, chapters and the story of samuel may be worked into a short play of one or two scenes. the most interesting and dramatic incident is the familiar one of the voice calling samuel at night. the first part of the story, however, is beautiful, and may be used along with this incident. in scene i hannah brings little samuel to the temple and dedicates him to the lord. eli, the old priest, takes the child to live with him in the temple so that he may train him to serve the lord. scene ii takes place several years later. it is night time, and the child samuel is sleeping near the old priest, eli. he thinks he hears a voice calling him, and he runs to eli to ask what he wants. eli has not called him and tells him to lie down again. three times he runs to eli, thinking that he hears him calling. then the priest tells him that it must be the lord who has spoken and tells samuel what to say the next time he is called. samuel hears the message from the lord and, upon eli's request, tells him what he has heard. eli realizes that the lord has spoken truly, and accepts his fate as just. he praises samuel and tells him that he will soon leave the care of the temple and of the people of israel to him. neither in this play, nor in any other play, should there be an attempt to represent the lord's voice. the child may listen as if he were hearing someone speaking, and from what he says and does the audience will be aware of what is happening. for the sake of the result, from an artistic point of view, such parts as this should always be left to the imagination, no attempt being made to interpret them literally. . the queen of sheba's visit to solomon i kings, chapter the visit of the queen of sheba to solomon furnishes a unit of work for a short one-act dramatization. there is no plot or complicated situation involved and there is very little activity suggested. the attention of the children may well be directed, however, to the description of solomon's court and of the rich gifts which were exchanged. this is an excellent opportunity to have the children do construction work. they should make many things which will help to give the impression of richness to the court. they may also make their own costumes richer by adding jewels and bright-colored sashes and headdresses. this little dramatization will include many children. a number will be needed to come in with the queen of sheba, and there should be many attendants upon king solomon. the conversation will be for the most part between solomon and the queen, heralds and servants making announcements. the play opens with the queen of sheba's arrival at the court of solomon. messengers announce her to the king. solomon talks with the queen and she tells him that she admires his great wisdom and his wealth. then solomon commands that the feast be served, and while they eat the queen presents her gifts to solomon. when the queen takes her leave solomon gives her wonderful presents. the play will end with the exit of the queen and her attendants. unless the children put much thought upon the stage setting and the conversation, this incident may prove uninteresting. it has, however, great possibilities for the working out of a beautiful picture. . joshua and the gibeonites joshua, chapter the story of joshua and the gibeonites is so simply told in the bible that children of nine or ten years of age can read it as it is given and dramatize it directly from that version. the dramatization of this narrative calls for many characters. the older children may take the parts of joshua and the leaders of the gibeonites, while the younger ones are needed for israelite soldiers and citizens of gibeon. all the characters in the play will need to do much acting even though they do not enter into the conversation. although the dramatization should be a product of the children's work, yet the leader should have well in mind the three main divisions of the story that she may guide the children by her questions. this story may be worked into one of the more elaborate productions. the bible language should be used and the result should be full of dignity and spirit. for detail in the method of presentation compare that employed in the story of joseph (chapter iii). the story may be given so that the following divisions or scenes are emphasized: scene i place: at gibeon. street scene. the inhabitants are discussing the victories of the israelites. they are afraid of joshua, the leader. messengers report that he is advancing toward gibeon. the gibeonites plan to make a league with him so that he will not destroy their city. they decide to deceive joshua by dressing as strangers from a far country, wearing old garments and taking moldy bread and wine. scene ii place: joshua's tent at the camp of gilgal. the men from gibeon come to joshua and tell him that they are from a far country. they say that they have heard of his great victories and wish to make a league with him. the conversation between joshua and these strangers is interestingly given in the bible and may be quoted almost exactly. joshua makes the treaty with them. scene iii place: at gibeon. the israelite soldiers rush into gibeon to take it, but find that the inhabitants are the same ragged strangers with whom they made the league. the israelites reproach them, but cannot go back on their word, so spare their lives. in order to punish the gibeonites for their deception, joshua makes them slaves of the israelites. there is much opportunity for construction work in the dramatizing of this story. costumes, pieces of armor, and weapons may be made in a simple manner by the children. . isaac and rebekah genesis, chapter the story of isaac and rebekah is unusually valuable for dramatization. it involves a well-worked-out plot which is beautifully and simply told in the bible, and which brings the children in contact with many interesting customs among the shepherd people. the story needs little changing; it may be given almost as it is written. the following outline for the divisions of the story is merely suggestive: act i scene i place: abraham's tent in canaan. abraham is lying down in his tent. he is talking to isaac, his son, about the wife he wishes him to have. he calls a servant and bids him go to mesopotamia, his old home, and bring a wife for isaac from his own kinsfolk. abraham makes the servant swear that he will do as he has been told. perhaps abraham has his hand on isaac while he is talking, and isaac will take some small part in the conversation. act ii scene i place: mesopotamia. the messenger, with his servants, comes to the well just outside of the city walls, where the women draw water. there should be no attempt to represent the camels. these may be indicated by the conversation and left to the imagination. the messenger, through praying to god, decides how he shall know which young woman to choose for isaac. when rebekah comes with her pitcher she offers to give water to him and to his camels also. the man is sure then that rebekah is sent by god, and therefore he arranges to go to her father's house for the night. this scene should be made very picturesque as well as interesting. the children may look up pictures of the wells of those times and then construct something that will serve the purpose. pieces of pottery may be brought in on the shoulders of the women to represent water jugs. (compare with the street scene described in the story of ruth, chapter vi.) scene ii place: rebekah's home. in this scene comes the discussion of rebekah's leaving home to become the wife of isaac. the messenger makes known to the family that it is abraham, their kinsman, who is sending for rebekah. he gives rebekah the gifts which his master has sent--earrings, bracelets, and the like. the family finally decide that rebekah may go back to canaan, but they ask the servant to let her stay with them for ten days longer. he is unwilling to wait, and the question is therefore put to rebekah. she answers that she will go with him now. act iii scene i place: canaan. a field near isaac's home. isaac walks alone in the field at sunset. he is constantly looking into the distance, and he is wondering when the messenger will return with a wife for him. at length he sees the camels approaching and hastens to meet them. this is all indicated by his soliloquy--no camels must be shown. the servant and rebekah have dismounted and come to meet isaac. the servant gives rebekah to isaac who embraces her and shows his joy at receiving such a beautiful wife. the play should end where isaac turns toward his father's tent with rebekah. while the children are playing this story there should be much detailed discussion which will give them an adequate background for understanding the customs upon which the story is based; and there should be shown many illustrations which will insure correct mental pictures. . elijah and the widow's meal i kings, chapter this may be used as a very simple incident of two scenes, or it may be elaborated into a longer play. the first scene is placed by the gate of the city of zarephath. as elijah comes toward the gate he asks a woman, who is gathering sticks, for a drink of water. she gives him the water and he asks for bread. the conversation between them brings out the facts that there is famine in the land, and that the widow has hardly enough meal left in the house to make bread for herself and for her son. she agrees to divide with elijah, however, and takes him into her house. the wording for this scene may be taken almost directly as it is given in the bible. the second scene is placed in the house of the widow. the woman and her son are eating with elijah. from what they say to each other it is apparent that the meal and oil have lasted for many days, and the three people have had plenty to eat during the famine. the widow is convinced that a miracle has been wrought by her guest. she begs him to tell her who he is. the stranger answers that he is elijah, the prophet of the lord, and that it is through the lord's care of them that they have had food enough. the play may well end here with the final speech from the widow as it is given in the bible: "now by this i know that thou art a man of god, and that the word of the lord in thy mouth is truth." in case the part of the story which gives the raising of the widow's son is used, a third scene may be added, and the widow's speech would come at the end of that scene. . elisha and the shunammite ii kings, chapter this incident is similar to the story of elijah and the widow's meal, and may be dealt with in the same manner. it should be simplified by selecting certain parts for dramatization. the emphasis throughout falls upon the generous qualities of the two characters--elisha, ever ready to help others, and the woman, who always kept a room for the prophet because she admired his goodness. . daniel interprets the king's dream daniel, chapters and the stories about daniel have unusually interesting possibilities for dramatization. they need very little explanation. they are so vividly and beautifully told in the bible that the children will understand them readily and have no difficulty in interpreting them. a few historical facts may be given to make the setting clear. the following divisions are suggested for the first story: scene i king nebuchadnezzar brings four israelites into his court in order to have them trained as councilors. he appoints them a daily provision of the king's meat and wine. scene ii the king dreams a dream and forgets it. he calls all of his wise men and demands that they tell him what his dream was and also interpret it. the wise men declare that this is an impossibility and refuse to obey. nebuchadnezzar is furious and orders that they all be put to death. daniel then comes before the king and asks that the king give him time that he may interpret the dream. the king grants this. scene iii daniel appears before the king again. the king asks if he is able to tell what the dream was and to interpret it. daniel answers that he is able to tell him, not, however, by his own power, but by the power of god in heaven who revealeth secrets. then daniel gives in detail the dream and tells king nebuchadnezzar the meaning thereof. the king is so affected that he falls on his face and worships daniel. he recognizes the god of daniel, and commands that daniel be made governor of babylon. at daniel's request he also makes the three other israelites rulers of certain provinces. this story may be treated in the same manner as the story of joseph (chapter iii). . shadrach, meshach, and abed-nego in the burning fiery furnace daniel, chapter this story may be read to children directly from the bible. after they have worked it over several times the final product will include three scenes of the following character: scene i the heralds come through the streets crying aloud that king nebuchadnezzar commands all people to bow down when they shall hear the musical instruments and worship the image of gold which he has set up. those who do not obey will be put into a burning fiery furnace. the instruments of music sound and all the people fall to the ground to worship except the three israelites, shadrach, meshach, and abed-nego. some of the men notice that the jews do not obey, and go off immediately to tell the king. scene ii the men come before the king and begin their story by saying, "o king, live forever!" the bible language may be used directly here in the conversation which follows. the king is very angry at what these men tell him. he orders that the three jews be brought before him. they are brought in and the king tells them that they will have to be put into the fiery furnace if they do not obey. the jews are not afraid and reply that their god will take care of them. the king then orders them to be bound and to be taken out to the furnace, which has been heated seven times hotter than usual. men come running back to the king to tell him that the servants which thrust the jews into the furnace were burnt up by the heat, but that the jews were not harmed. another man runs in and tells the king that a fourth person is in the furnace, and that he resembles the son of god. nebuchadnezzar commands that the three men be brought out from the furnace. they come before him, with no mark of the fire on them. the king is so greatly impressed that he makes a decree that no one shall speak against the god of shadrach, meshach, and abed-nego. he then appoints these three men to positions of greater trust than ever before. . belshazzar and the handwriting on the wall daniel, chapter this story, like the others from daniel, is so dramatically told in the bible that it may be taken almost exactly as it is given. it should be worked into a one-act play. much attention should be given to the setting, and the children may make many things which will give some idea of the richness of the banquet hall. the play opens with the feast of belshazzar. the people are making merry in the midst of all the pomp and luxury of the court. suddenly the handwriting appears on the wall. the king and the people see it and are terrified. the children should not attempt to show the handwriting, but from the words and actions of the king and the people the audience must be made aware of what is happening. none of the wise men present is able to interpret the handwriting. the queen comes before the king and begs that he send for daniel, the jew. daniel is brought in, and after a little thought gives the interpretation. the scene should end with the recognition of daniel's power. the scarlet robe is placed on him and the golden chain is put around his neck, and the king proclaims that daniel shall be the third ruler in the land. . the story of job the book of job the most majestic piece of literature in the bible, and one of the world's masterpieces, is the book of job. the prologue and epilogue are in the prose epic style, which characterizes the best narrative portions of the bible. the main part of the book is actually dramatic in form, and the deep problem of human suffering is discussed in the loftiest poetic language. the theme is so profound and the imagery so elevated that it is quite beyond the ability of small children. high-school students might well present the drama. many of the speeches may be abbreviated, while the prologue can easily be dramatized. job has been so presented with great success by children of high-school age at all souls' church, chicago. it may be noted that the voice of the lord was given in an elevated monotone by a person unseen. . the prophets for the older children many of the prophets make interesting characters for dramatization. the great value of a study of the prophets lies in their appeal as beautiful pieces of literature and expressions of the deepest spiritual feeling, rather than in the dramatic situations presented. if a study is made of the life of the prophets, and of the times in which they lived, ample material will be discovered which may serve as a background for the dramatization of these characters. this material is not entirely available from the bible, but should be reinforced by outside references, such as _the prophets of israel_ by c. h. cornill, _the modern reader's bible_ by r. g. moulton, _the hebrew prophets_ by chamberlin. the prophet amos may be taken as an example of what can be done with this material. the children of israel are celebrating their autumn festival with great joy and abandon. as the mirth is at its highest an unknown man makes his way through the crowd. he silences the festivity by chanting his dirgelike reproof to the merrymakers. the astonishment of the people at this sensational interruption is great. the high priest hurries toward him and demands an explanation for this unusual disturbance. he orders amos to cease speaking and to go back to the hills and mind his sheep. amos answers that he is sent by the lord to reprove the people of israel, and he continues to intone his lamentations. the most beautiful and vivid selections for use in dramatization are found in chapters and . while the final beautiful words of the prophecy are regarded as an editorial appendix, there can be no impropriety in using them as a dramatic climax. the people may then be represented as subdued in spirit, accepting the upbraiding as being the word of god. isaiah, jeremiah, and other prophets may be worked out in like manner. the result in each case, however, should insure the utmost dignity and beauty; otherwise the dramatization should never be attempted. the many prophets with their various messages suggest the possibility of their use in a pageant. this form of dramatization may be given to advantage by a group of children as a climax to their detailed study of the prophets. * * * * * from each of the following subjects several dramatizations may be taken. they suggest many short one-act plays, and also some excellent long ones. saul chosen and anointed king of israel. i sam., chaps. and . samuel anoints david. i sam., chap. . david and jonathan. i sam., chaps. - . david spares saul's life. i sam., chap. . moses begs pharaoh to allow the children of israel to leave egypt. exod., chaps. - . it may be well to state, in connection with the selection of stories from the bible for dramatization, that other stories outside of the bible may be dramatized by these same methods and will accomplish the same results. it is not best to allow children to dramatize in succession too many of the heavier type of stories, such as the bible stories represent. they may become tired if they work too long at the same kind of dramatization. children need stories which will lighten and relieve the extreme seriousness and dignity which they necessarily have to express in playing the bible stories. there is a host of fairy tales, folk-tales, and historical incidents that may well be adapted for this purpose. _the children's educational theatre_, by alice minnie herts, describes dramatic work with children older than those who made the plays in this book. it is an interesting experiment in education which uses dramatization as a means for accomplishing certain aims. chapter xiii stage setting and properties the point has been emphasized in the preceding chapters that very little stage setting and only a few properties are used in connection with these dramatizations. it is always best that as much as possible should be left to the imagination, and that only such setting and properties be used as the children themselves can construct and as are needed to produce the atmosphere of the play. this point of view influences any consideration of these matters. it is frequently true that, after the children have made the articles they find a need for, the results are very crude, and there is yet much opportunity for free play of the imagination. great benefit is derived, however, through the construction of these objects. the children gain a clearer understanding and a keener appreciation of them after they have had the experience of trying to express the shape or form through some medium, such as clay-modeling, paper-cutting, drawing. care should be taken that children make nothing in the nature of stage scenery, such as trees, grass, bulrushes, and other bits of landscape. the only stage setting which seems at all necessary for them to make involves very simple designs which show the characteristic ornamentation of the times, for example, the lotus and papyrus designs in pharaoh's court. drawings and descriptions of a few of the most essential stage properties and settings are given below, with suggestions as to where and how each may be used. _water jugs and dishes._--in the earlier stages of hebrew history--as is found to be the case with all primitive shepherd people--skins and wooden bowls were used for holding water, milk, and food. clay vessels were probably not in general use during the nomadic period. when dramatizing the stories of abraham and isaac, and others of that period, this fact should be taken into account, and only vessels of wood and skin should be used. most of the clay utensils, which are mentioned in the stories of a later time, were shaped like those shown in fig. . many of the water jugs had small handles, though some were without handles. fig. shows the position in which a hebrew woman usually carried her water jug. the hebrews had little interest in the aesthetic except in the realm of literature, and the lack is very evident in their pottery. the water jugs are far from having the beauty of line and proportion which is found in greek pottery. whenever any of these vessels are needed for use in a dramatization, it is well to have the children bring jars and bowls from home which conform as nearly as possible to the shapes here given. earthenware bowls and jars may be used effectively. [illustration: fig. .--water jugs, drinking bottle, milk jug, cooking pot, dish, water jug] _wells._--the importance of wells in the life of the early hebrews cannot be overemphasized. the scarcity of water in the desert made the digging of wells a necessity for the survival of people and of flocks. as much of the land was rocky, wells could be dug only at certain places. these favorable places were the means of determining where the tents were to be pitched. in most of the stories of the nomadic life wells play a conspicuous part. [illustration: fig. .--woman carrying water jug] children should have correct mental pictures of those ancient wells, so that they do not confuse them with the modern wells. the wells of palestine usually had low stone walls around them, and often big flat stones for covers. the rocks were piled high enough to keep animals from falling in. in some of the wells the water was so low in the ground that people had to go down steps on the inside in order to get it. in other wells the vessels were let down by means of ropes. the women of the land were always required to draw and carry the water. the simplest way for children to represent a well on the stage is by piling up rocks to resemble the outside or by using something that will look like a great stone. fig. shows two kinds of wells in palestine. [illustration: fig. .--ancient wells in palestine] _staff and rod._--the shepherd boy always had with him a rod and a staff (fig. ). the rod was about two and a half feet long and was used for protection. the thick knob at the end was cut out of the tree from which the limb came, and was frequently covered with knots or nails to make it more terrible as a weapon. the children may find pieces of wood which will serve the purpose, or if they live near a forest they may make their own rods. the staff was usually about five feet long. the shepherd used it to help him climb hills and mountains and also to keep the sheep from straying. some staffs were nothing more than the straight limbs of trees; others had a fork or crook at the end so that they could more easily catch into the wool of the sheep when they needed guiding. children may use long sticks or branches from trees when they represent staffs. [illustration: fig. .--spears, swords, staff, rod, arrows, bow] _sling._--the sling which was used in david's time was frequently woven of rushes, hair, or sinews; sometimes it was made from soft leather. from fig. it will be seen that the shape of the woven part is wider in the middle and comes to a point at the end. a string was tied to each end and the stone was placed in the wide part. the sling was whirled around over the head, and as one string was let loose the stone flew out. when the sling is used in a dramatization, the stone may be left to the imagination. [illustration: fig. .--a shepherd's sling, a simple loom--made from cardboard] children take great pleasure in trying to weave this sling. a diagram of a simple cardboard loom is given in fig. . the shape should be drawn on the cardboard, then holes made for the thread which strings up the loom. coarse woolen yarn may be used for the weaving. _shepherd bag._--the shepherd bag which was used by david was carried by every shepherd boy along with the staff, rod, and sling. it was made from a piece of skin with a cord at each end. the cords were fastened to the girdle so that the skin formed a kind of bag. pebbles for the sling were carried in it, and often supplies of food. a piece of leather or of brown cloth may be easily made into one of these bags for the children to use. _sickles._--sickles were of two kinds--those made of metal and those made of wood. the wooden ones were toothed with sharp pieces of flint. fig. gives the characteristic shapes. [illustration: fig. .--sickles] children may represent these sickles by cutting the shapes from stiff cardboard and coloring them some dark color to make them look as if they were wood or metal. some of the boys may be interested in cutting sickles directly out of wood. _scepter._--the scepter was used by kings in the later history of the hebrews. it was nothing more than a development of the rod used in the shepherd period. as a rod it was a means of protection and power over enemies, and as a scepter it was a symbol of the same power. scepters were sometimes short, with much ornamentation; others were long, probably five feet in length. they were all characterized by a ball at the end, and in many cases the kings had them made from gold, or richly ornamented with gold. the persian kings used the long scepter, which therefore is the kind most appropriate for the play of esther (see fig. ). _tents._--the ancient hebrew tent was much like the modern bedouin tent. it was low and spread out over the ground, and was made of black goat's hair cloth. this cloth was usually stretched over nine poles, arranged in rows of three and from six to seven feet in height. the inside of the tent was divided into two parts by a long curtain which hung across the middle. [illustration: fig. .--scepter] a tent may be represented on the stage by placing a big thick cloth (a blanket or canvas or dark curtain) over poles or screens. _shields._--there were two kinds of shields found among the hebrews. one was very large and covered a man from head to foot; it was usually carried by a shield-bearer. the other was small and was sometimes called a buckler. many different shapes were found in both kinds of shields; some were like the egyptian--long, broad, and straight at the bottom; others were round and oblong. all shields were convex with handles on the inside to hold them by. the kings had shields covered with gold, or decorated with gold and precious stones; but the common soldier had a shield of wood or stiff leather. leather formed the basis of the shields that were decorated. fig. will show drawings of some of the typical shapes. children can easily make shields out of cardboard; some may be covered with gold paper or with dark-brown paper. a handle may be glued or sewed in the inside so that the shield may be held without trouble. [illustration: fig. .--shields, front and side views] _swords._--the sword was always hung from the left side of the sword-belt. it was made from bronze or iron, and was about seventeen inches long. fig. shows some of the usual shapes. many swords were two-edged and had leather sheaths in which they were carried. children may make these out of stiff cardboard, or out of thin wood. they should be colored a dark color, and the hilts may be decorated with bright colors to represent jewels. [illustration: fig. .--trumpets] _spears._--spears averaged about five feet in length. the javelin was a long, heavy spear used for casting; the lance was a lighter spear used for defense. all spears had a shaft of wood and a metal or stone point. fig. gives several of the characteristic shapes of spear-points. spears may be made by fastening cardboard points to long sticks, or by cutting the point directly out of the wood. _bows and arrows._--the bows and arrows of the hebrews were very much like those of all other primitive peoples. the bows were often four or five feet long and the arrows were pointed with sharp flint or metal. illustrations of the shapes are found in fig. . children need little direction in the making of these weapons, a string and some pliable wood being all that is necessary. _trumpets._--fig. illustrates the kinds of trumpets used. the small ram's-horn trumpet was associated with the feasts and other public celebrations, while the long metal horn was used for the most part by the priests. these metal trumpets were frequently made from hammered silver. children can make them out of stiff paper or thin cardboard and cover them with silver paper. [illustration: fig. .--signet ring] [illustration: fig. .--lamp] _signet ring._--a signet ring is something that the kings were never without. in the earlier times it was worn on a chain which hung from the neck; later it was worn on the finger. fig. gives a drawing of a signet ring. the design was raised so that it left an imprint. the king used this imprint as his royal signature instead of signing his name. when a signet ring is needed in a dramatization, as is the case in _daniel in the lions' den_, any large ring may be used, or the children may be interested in making a ring from paper or cardboard. _lamps._--fig. shows one of the simpler types of lamps used at the time of christ. this was probably the kind referred to in the parable of the wise and foolish virgins. the lamps were terra cotta and held a very little oil. children will be interested in making these lamps out of clay or plasticene. they are almost in the shape of a shallow bowl with a handle. [illustration: fig. .--egyptian design] _egyptian design._--in the scenes placed in pharaoh's court a few decorations suggestive of the egyptian will add interest. fig. gives some of the simpler designs which the children may use for ornamentation. the servants may carry the large fan-shaped designs, which they make on stiff paper. these designs were made from the lotus and the papyrus plants; the leaves were usually a blue-green, and red, blue, yellow, white, and black were used in many designs. fig. shows some of these designs that were made by the children and used in representing pharaoh's court. [illustration: fig. .--helmets, crowns, assyrian, egyptian, egyptian] as it may be of interest to those who have access to a library to know where more definite and detailed information may be secured concerning the articles that are but briefly described here, the following works are recommended: the _new schaff-herzog encyclopedia of religious knowledge_; hastings' _dictionary of the bible_; the _jewish encyclopedia_; kitto, _cyclopedia of biblical literature_; three books by w. m. thomson--_central palestine and phoenicia_, _southern palestine and jerusalem_, _lebanon, damascus, and beyond jordan_; elmendorf, _a camera crusade through the holy land._ chapter xiv costuming the question of costuming may be dealt with in much the same manner as that of stage setting and properties. costumes are unnecessary in many of the simpler plays, and even where they are used they should be so treated that they are of minor importance in the minds of the children. it is nearly always the case that the very smallest suggestion of a costume--a sash or a cloth around the head--is satisfying and sufficient to produce the proper atmosphere of the play. there is danger of placing so much emphasis upon this phase of the work that the children attach undue importance to it and thus lose the real spirit of the dramatization. if costumes are used they should not be saved for the final performance, but the children should have the pleasure of wearing them at each practice where they are actually living over and over the lives of other people. children should get their ideas of the dress of the times from pictures and descriptions and then in very simple ways try to represent what they have observed. the simplicity of the costumes among the hebrew people makes the problem comparatively simple. [illustration: fig. .--a group of children, showing costumes and a trumpet] there is very little definite knowledge about the exact costume of the ancient israelites, for they have left no records. the only sources of information on the subject are the few references to dress in the old testament and the few jewish figures found among the egyptian, assyro-babylonian, and persian carvings. the conclusion has been reached, however, that the ancient hebrew costume was in general similar to that of the modern arab. it is fairly certain that among the earliest tribes a simple slip or short tunic, with close-fitting sleeves, was worn. later a big loose mantle was usually thrown over this slip. the little under-garment was white, woven from wool, or sometimes made out of skins; the outer garment was frequently striped, a bright color with white. among the old patriarchs the outside cloak reached to the ground. it was often in the shape of a blanket, and was draped by throwing one end over the left shoulder, then passing it across the front of the body and under the right arm, then across the back, and to the left shoulder again. at a still later period there was the long gown, which reached to the ankles and was belted in at the waist by a girdle. this was sometimes covered by an outside robe which was like a cape. frequently these garments were brought over the heads in order to protect their wearers from the sun. as a rule the servants and lower class of people wore only the one garment--a short tunic, with or without a girdle. the richer men wore the outside cloaks. kings and nobles had many kinds of cloaks which were very elaborately decorated. they had silk girdles, while the poorer men wore leather girdles. see figs. - for costumes made by the children. [illustration: fig. .--the costume of abraham] the women's dress was very much the same as that worn by the men. all garments may have been a little longer, but the draping and the kinds of garments were the same. great ladies had beautiful veils and shawls. [illustration: fig. .--two kinds of costumes--the rich shepherd and the servant.] both men and women wore sandals. the soles were made of leather or thick woven cords. they were fastened to the feet by means of strings of leather, linen, or of papyrus. two straps were usually attached to the back of the sandal, then crossing from the back over the instep they were tied to a third strap which was fastened at the front and came between the great and second toe. fig. shows sandals which were made by the children. [illustration: fig. .--costumes, showing sandals made by the children] the headdress in the earlier days was nothing more than a piece of square cloth, folded diagonally and placed over the head with the long point at the back; the two ends were then crossed under the chin and thrown back over the shoulders. a cord was tied around the head to keep the cloth on. later a kind of turban was worn which had no loose ends, but which projected over the face enough to protect one from the sun. figs. - give examples of different kinds of headdress made by the children. [illustration: fig. .--costumes] the crowns which the kings wore were frequently of gold, studded with jewels, although the persian king had a stiff cap of felt or cloth, encircled by a blue and white band. fig. gives a few of the typical shapes for crowns. the helmets which were worn by the soldiers were varied. the shapes employed by the assyrians and the egyptians were probably used among the hebrews. see fig. for drawings of some of the best-known helmets. children may make these easily by using cardboard and gilt paper. the hebrew men and women had many personal ornaments, such as necklaces, armlets, bracelets, rings. children delight in making all kinds of bracelets and chains from gold and silver paper. they may bring all the bright-colored beads that they can get for the enrichment of the costume. chapter xv the organization of a church dramatic club the kind of dramatics described in this book may be undertaken with success in connection with any sunday school. the most necessary element is a leader in charge who is wide awake to the aims and purposes of such work and who has the ability to deal with little children. a trained teacher is preferable. this dramatization can be most effectively presented to children between the ages of six and thirteen. in case the sunday school is very large and more children join than can be easily managed by one leader, it would be best to divide the members into two or three smaller groups, each with a competent leader in charge. one person should be able to handle well from twenty to twenty-five children.[ ] this training ought not to stop with younger children, but may well be carried on with pupils of high-school age. this would involve problems slightly different from those here presented, but on the whole the same aims may be achieved. it is sometimes the case that a few of the children outgrow the club. they begin to realize that they are much larger than the others, and they decide that they do not care to take part in the acting, yet they are still interested enough to come to the meetings. if there is no other dramatic club into which they may go, then they may be used as assistants in the younger club and made to feel that they are a necessary part of it. there are many ways in which they can be of valuable help to the leader, at the same time experiencing a development through the training. during one year in the history of the dramatic club here described three girls of fourteen came regularly to the meetings. they could not be persuaded to take part in the dramatizations, but they expressed an eagerness to help in the direction. they entered into the discussion and criticism of the plays that were being acted each sunday, and their suggestions were always very much to the point. they had the ability of explaining what they meant to the children so that it was easily understood. these girls would write out the scenes, sometimes while the children were actually giving them; or, again, they would write them at home and bring them for discussion at the next meeting. they took entire charge of the costuming, and would meet outside at sewing-bees, where they mended, pieced, or made over the costumes on hand. then at the plays they always took the responsibility of dressing the little children, putting on their headdresses, tying their sashes, and seeing that their costumes were draped in the right way. when a dramatic club is first started, it is advisable to dignify the organization by electing a president and secretary from among the children. the president may take charge of the meetings and then turn them over to the director, and may help in many ways to keep the club together. the secretary may call the roll and be responsible for sending notices to the members. children always delight in this amount of formality, and through it each one becomes a much more vital part of the group; the responsibility as far as possible is placed upon the children, and they usually rise to meet it. it is hardly practical in most cases to attempt to hold more than one meeting a week. the time should be set according to the convenience of the majority of the members. sunday afternoon was found to be the best time for this little club to meet, but any week day will do as well. occasionally, just before a play is to be given, a few call meetings may be necessary. it is desirable that the club own the simple costumes which the members wear. a costume box is a convenient place for keeping them. the same garments may be used over and over again, and should be kept where they may be easily obtained at each meeting. the older girls in the group will be glad to take charge of the costume box, and they should see that all of the garments are kept in order. the supply of costumes will grow, for children will be constantly bringing new things to add to it. there are various methods of getting a number of costumes on hand. the children may bring from home old sheets and bright-colored shawls and ribbons, which may be used to advantage. often the sunday school will appropriate a small sum in order to help buy materials. a very small amount of money need be spent, for the costumes must be extremely simple and they should be planned and made by the children. the construction work which the children do in connection with the dramatization is an important part in the working out of a play. as already noted, the greatest value of it lies in the fact that it represents the efforts of the children. there is hardly time at one of the regular meetings to have the construction work done. a discussion of the articles needed may be necessary, after which the children should be encouraged to make them at home. the older ones are able to look up pictures and descriptions which will help, while the younger ones need to have the matter frequently talked over in order to give them the correct mental pictures of what they are to make. it is always surprising to see how readily children take hold of this kind of work. they bring in very many interesting things which they have made--often things which they have thought out for themselves and which they had not been asked to make. there are times when all the members are working on the same problem, such as lamps for the wise and foolish virgins. it may be best under these circumstances to have a meeting outside where they all work together. (descriptions of these constructed articles may be found in a previous chapter.) a word of warning may be in place at this point. parents of the children are usually anxious and eager to help in making costumes and the constructed objects. the very best aid that they can give is to see that the children have the opportunity for making these things themselves; they may encourage and guide wisely, but the finished product must be the child's, not the mother's. some mothers have thought that they were doing the right thing to have a carpenter make the spears and other weapons for the soldier. the boy derives more benefit if he looks around for some sticks which will serve his purpose, no matter how crude they may be. the order in which plays are given in this book should not be taken as the proper sequence for a dramatic club. the story of _joseph_ is described in detail first because the method used there may be followed with any of the shorter or longer stories. this particular story, however, should not be the first one presented to children who have never had such work before. such stories as _david and goliath_, _abraham and the three guests_, or any of the parables should come first. _joseph_, _ruth_, and _esther_ are well worked out by children after they have had a little experience with dramatization. as a final summary, let it be ever kept in mind that this dramatization functions as a factor in religious education only when the highest development of the children is the aim. it should be so conducted that it forms an essential part of the religious training of the sunday school, and also one of the valuable activities of the church. footnotes: [footnote : in church schools which are organizing on the most approved methods of the correlation of all educational activities the dramatic club may be a regular part of the junior department, similar clubs being integral parts of the other departments.] index index aaron, _abraham_, the dramatization of, - , ahasuerus, king of media and persia, - aims of dramatization, , - amos, the prophet, angels, , armor and weapons, , - , bag, shepherd, banquet, queen esther's, , belshazzar, boaz, - bow and arrow, cardboard, use of, , , citizens of bethlehem, clay, use of, , , cloak, outer garment, conspirators, - construction work, , , - costumes, ; the making of, - ; the method of obtaining, crowns, _daniel_, the dramatization of, - , , darius, - _david_, ; the dramatization of, - , design, egyptian, diagram of loom, , dishes, education, religious, - , elijah, - elisha, _esther_, the dramatization of, - feast, , - fiery furnace, - gibeonites, - girdle, gleaners, goliath, , , haman, - harvest, , headdress, , , helmet, , innkeeper, isaac, - isaiah, jacob, , jael, jephthah, jeremiah, jericho, jerusalem, job, jonathan, _joseph_, the story of, - ; the dramatization of, - joshua, lamps, - , lions, den of, , - loom, , method of presenting dramatization, formal, ; informal, - miriam, moab, the land of, mordecai, - _moses_, the dramatization of, - , naomi, - , - nebuchadnezzar, - organization, of dramatic club, , , - ; of stories, - ornaments, personal, papyrus, , parables, the dramatization of, - performance, public, , , pharaoh, , , , - pharaoh's daughter, - pictures, the use of, , plasticene, , president of the club, _prodigal son, the_, dramatization of, - prophets, the, - queen of sheba, - reapers, - rebekah, - ring, signet, _ruth_, the dramatization of, - _samaritan, the good_, the dramatization of, - samson, samuel, - , sandals, , - sarah, saul, , scepter, , , secretary of the club, servant, , shepherd customs, shield, , sickles, , sling, , , - soldier, , solomon, - spears, , staff, , stage setting, , supper, the great, swords, , tents, , trumpets, tunic, - turban, _virgins, the wise and foolish_, the dramatization of, - water jugs, - wells, printed in the u.s.a. principles and methods of religious education _edited by_ w. c. bower, edwin e. aubrey, and w. c. graham _a survey of religious education in the local church._ by william c. bower. _the junior: life-situations of children nine to eleven years of age._ (revised edition, .) by ernest j. chave. _out of doors with youth._ by j. w. f. davies. _the sunday-school building and its equipment._ by herbert f. evans. _recreation and the church._ by herbert w. gates. _character building through recreation._ by kenneth l. heaton. _graded social service for the sunday school._ by william n. hutchins. _a summer program for the church school._ by miles h. krumbine. _world-friendship through the church school._ by john leslie lobingier. _projects in world-friendship._ by john leslie lobingier. _the dramatization of bible stories._ by elizabeth erwin miller (elizabeth miller lobingier). _dramatization in the church school._ by elizabeth erwin miller (elizabeth miller lobingier). _far peoples._ by grace d. phillips. _church school projects._ by erwin l. shaver. _the project principle in religious education._ by erwin l. shaver. _a project curriculum for young people._ by erwin l. shaver. _handwork in religious education._ by addie grace wardle. the university of chicago press * * * * * transcriber's notes made minor punctuation and formatting changes, e.g., indentations. _the cat and fiddle book_ other books of plays for children by lady bell _petit théâtre des enfants_ twelfth impression _nursery comedies_ eighth " _théâtre de la jeunesse_ twelfth " _fairy-tale plays_ fifth " _the mother hubbard book_ _the_ cat and fiddle book _eight dramatised nursery rhymes for nursery performers_ _by_ lady bell _and_ mrs. herbert richmond longmans, green and co. paternoster row, london, e.c. new york, toronto bombay, calcutta and madras _printed in great britain_ _to_ _my ten grandchildren_ eight of whom pauline, george, kitty, mary, bridget, valentine, marjorie, and florence have "created" many of the parts in these playlets, and two of whom, bill and geoffrey, are still among the audience. f.b. may _made in great britain_ _the table of contents_ by lady bell the cat and the fiddle _p._ lucy locket _p._ polly put the kettle on _p._ goosey-gander _p._ oranges and lemons _p._ ride-a-cock-horse _p._ by mrs. herbert richmond little miss muffet _p._ humpty dumpty _p._ ¶ the characters in list at the beginning of each play are always given in the order of their appearance. _some suggestions for the "producers" of these playlets_ in every case the tune of the nursery rhyme, the dramatized version of which is about to be acted, should be played through twice on the piano before the curtain is raised: the first time without singing; the second time the audience, of which the majority presumably will be children, should be asked to join in and sing it too, led by the performers singing it behind the scenes. at the close of the piece, when the curtain has fallen at the place indicated in the text it should (if justified by applause) be raised again, discovering the performers standing in a row. these should sing the rhyme through again to the piano accompaniment, the audience joining in as before, after which the curtain is finally lowered. the scenery can in nearly every case be arranged by using folding screens. in one or two pieces, such as _goosey-goosey-gander_ and _ride-a-cock-horse_, it would be improved by being a little more elaborate. but even in these, if there is no artist in the family who can paint a banbury cross or a farmyard in the background, a large label can be hung up to show in what kind of surroundings the action is taking place. as to costume, the period of none of the plays, fortunately, is precisely known, and the performers therefore can be dressed up as they choose. where animals' heads are required, such as the cow, dog, and cat in the _cat and the fiddle_, the goose and drake in _goosey-gander_, and the cock in _ride-a-cock-horse_, these will not be found very difficult to make out of cardboard, not too stiff, bent to the shape required and roughly painted. in one or two of the plays there are speaking parts which can be taken by quite little children, such as the dish and spoon in the _cat and the fiddle_, the latter especially being within the grasp of the smallest performer able to speak distinctly enough for the words to be recognisable. the part of polly in _polly put the kettle on_ can be played by any intelligent child of five. in _oranges and lemons_, _humpty dumpty_, and _ride-a-cock-horse_ there are possibilities of a crowd in which any number of children available can "come on" and so take a share in the performance. the writer ventures to suggest that the preface of a book entitled _fairy-tale plays_ (longman) contains detailed directions which may be found helpful for rehearsing with children. the great thing for the "producers" to remember is not to cast a gloom over the proceedings by being depressed or losing their tempers when the performers still don't know their parts on the day of the performance, when their "business" at that performance is exactly opposite to that inculcated at rehearsals, and when they invent on "the night" an entirely new series of mistakes. it does not matter if they do. the audience, which will probably largely consist of the relations of the performers, will be just as pleased whatever happens, and so will every child-lover who is looking on. so will the actors, whose enjoyment is assured if they are acting and dressing up. and the spectator who does not like seeing their enjoyment does not deserve to have any himself, so we need not take him into account. neither the writer nor the producers of these absurd little plays, therefore, need have much fear of failure. they are spared the acute preliminary--and subsequent--agonies of those who produce plays of a larger size and a better quality than those contained in this little book. _may ._ florence bell the cat and the fiddle scene _a room in mrs. moocows boarding house. a chair r.c., a settee, or another chair, up stage r. at back l.c. two ordinary folding screens about ft. in. apart, a curtain hung across the space between them. a picture of a full moon painted on a large piece of cardboard must be propped up behind the opening between the screens, so that when the curtain is drawn back the moon is seen on the horizon_, i.e. _its lower edge on the level of the ground._ characters _in order of their appearance_ the cow the dog the cat the dish the spoon cow. dog! dog. yes? cow. do you like the cat? dog. no, i don't. do you? cow. of course not. dog. why _did_ you have her to lodge with you? cow. i really don't know. i thought it would be nice to have someone who was fond of music. dog. _i'm_ fond of it, but not of the cat's music. cow. no, her music is a disappointment. dog. i don't care about that great lumpy fiddle of hers, either. cow. and she _will_ accompany herself on it when she mews. dog. and then, she's so vain. cow. yes! she told me she could jump better than i could. dog. oh, how absurd. cow. she says i can't climb a tree. dog. and can you? cow. i've never tried it--i don't want to. she says _you_ can't climb a tree. dog. well, what then? i can stand at the bottom of it and bark. can she do that? cow. of course not. and i told her that if i liked i could jump over the moon. dog [_rather incredulous_]. could you, cow? could you? cow. if it were near the ground. dog. but is it ever near the ground? cow. certainly, when it is quite low down and looks all big and red. dog. oh yes, to be sure. cow. and then, the cat gives such a lot of trouble. she must have her dinner on a dish every day, all mixed up with a spoon. dog. such a fuss! why can't she just have a bone on the drawing-room carpet--nothing nicer than that. cow. or some grass in the field--so simple? the dish and the spoon don't like having to come down from the dresser so often. they like being quiet. [_mewing heard._] not much chance of being quiet with a cat who practises all day. [_enter cat l., mewing. she is carrying a 'cello or a violin, preferably the former. she sits down on chair r.c. and pretends to tune her instrument, mewing the note and turning the pegs. if a grown-up who can play the tune on one of these instruments is not available for the part of the cat, the child who acts it can be taught, while mewing the tune through after tuning, to draw the bow across the open d string and a string on first beat, provided the instrument is not too precious for such handling._ cow. may i ask, cat---- cat. don't interrupt, please, when i'm practising. i'm going to mew at a concert to-night. [_goes on._ [_the cow and the dog join in, mooing and barking._ cat [_at end of tune_]. what are you doing? cow. we're joining in the chorus. cat. there isn't a chorus to that song. dog. there was that time. cat. well, don't let it happen again. i shan't practise any more for the present. dog. that's a comfort. cat. i want my dinner. cow [_calls off_]. dish! spoon! bring the cat's dinner. _enter dish and spoon r._ dish and spoon. if you please, we wish to give notice. cow. notice! why? dish. there is too much to do here. we don't like having to bring in so many meals for the cat. spoon. no, we don't. cat. what impertinence! dog. well, then, i'll give notice too as a lodger. i don't like living under the same roof as the cat. cow. do you hear. cat? you are breaking up my establishment. i must ask you to leave this day week. cat. certainly not. i've got my rooms by the year, remember. dog. oh dear. bow, wow, wow. cat. may i ask why you don't like me? dog. i don't like your ways. you wag your tail when you're angry instead of wagging it when you're pleased. cat. it _is_ a silly doggish plan to wag it when you're pleased. how can people know what you mean? cow. and you're so vain. cat. what about you? you said you could jump over the moon. cow. i said i could if i liked. but i don't like. cat. i'll bet you can't jump over the moon, whether you like it or not. cow. i never bet. cat. then we won't bet for money. but i'll bet you you can't jump over the moon, and if you can, then i'll have lost my bet, and i'll go away as you ask; but if you can't, then i'll stay here as long as i please. dog [_who has slyly pulled aside the curtain--aside to_ cow]. say yes, the moon's quite low. cow [_to_ cat]. all right, i'll take your bet. dog. and i'll be umpire. cat. fair play, mind. dog. dogs are always honest, they are not like cats. cat. and cats are always polite. they are not like dogs. dog. now listen, cat. if the cow jumps so high that we can see the moon beneath her, that shall be counted jumping over the moon. cat. all right, then, draw the curtain so that we can see the moon. [_dish draws the curtain--moon seen on the horizon._ dog. now then. one, two, three. [_cow jumps. moon seen under her as she jumps._ dog. ha, ha, ha! it makes me laugh to see such sport. cow, you have won. we saw the moon under you as you jumped. dish and spoon. yes, we did! dog [_to_ cat]. you have lost your bet. cat. i'm very glad to go away from you all. i don't like those lumpy-jumpy ways. all. we're glad too, so we're all satisfied! [_exit cat, mewing and fiddling._ dish. come along, spoon. i'll run away with you into the fields. cow. oh, what fun! we'll all elope together. come on, dog! [_they all dance round, and finally out. length of dance ad lib., but they must go round twice at least. as they go from one side of the stage to the other, cat comes in, in the contrary direction, meeting them. she carries her 'cello and stick in one hand, and in the other a small suit case. she tosses her head scornfully at the others and marches out._ curtain [illustration: . the cat and the fiddle. hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jump'd over the moon the little dog laughed to see such sport, and the dish ran away with the spoon.] lucy locket characters mrs. locket lucy, her daughter kitty fisher, her niece produced at st. mary's hospital, paddington, during the christmas season of , with the following cast: _mrs. locket_: sybil thorndike _lucy locket_: mary casson _kitty fisher_: ann casson scene _mrs. locket's drawing room. small table l. with workbox, etc., on it. r.c. armchair l. of table. l.c. higher chair. mrs. locket on armchair, sewing; lucy on higher chair, swinging her legs._ mrs. l. oh dear, i never thought i should have such a careless child. lucy. why didn't you think so, mother? mrs. l. because i was so very tidy myself when i was a little girl--just like your cousin kitty. oh, why are you not like her! lucy. i do think kitty is so boring. mrs. l. my dear child! how wrong to say such a thing of your cousin. lucy. but, mother, you always say i'm to tell the truth. so as she is boring, i must say so. mrs. l. it's wrong to be bored by people who are good. kitty is so tidy, so careful about everything: so unlike you. you're so heedless i can't even send you to the village shop for me. lucy. oh, mother do let me go to the shop for you. i'm sure i could. mrs. l. i do want two pennorth of pepper, but i can't trust you to get it. i'm sure you would lose the pennies. lucy. no, no. i would hold them tightly in my hand. you see, i haven't a pocket in this frock. that's one reason why i lose things. mrs. l. that is true, and i have made you a nice little pocket to tie on, in hopes it will make you more careful. lucy. oh, mother, what a darling pocket, and what a pretty binding! mrs. l. yes, i've just sewn it on. [_lucy ties it on round her waist._ lucy. do give me the two pennies, and i'll put them into the pocket. mrs. l. take care that bow doesn't slip. you've tied it very loosely. oh, here is your cousin kitty. _enter kitty_ kitty. good morning, aunt jane. mrs. l. good morning, my child, and how is my good little girl this morning? kitty. very well, thank you, aunt, and i feel very happy, too. lucy. so do i. [_looking proudly at her pocket._ kitty. ah, but not for the same reason, i fear. i feel happy because i am so very good. i'm so tidy and careful, and i never forget anything. lucy. how dull that must be! mrs. l. oh, my dear lucy. don't say that! ask kitty to tell you how she does it, while i go and write my letters. [_goes out._ lucy. no, don't tell me anything about it, kitty. look at my new pocket. kitty. i hope you won't lose it. i never lose anything. lucy. oh, then, you do miss a lot of excitement! when i'm going out i have to rush about looking for my things, and it is so thrilling when i see my shoe far back under the bed, or my handkerchief in the coal-scuttle. kitty. oh, lucy, how much better it would be if your shoes were tidily side by side! you shock me. i always put my things where they ought to be, and then i find them again at once. lucy. well, i wish you wouldn't, then, and put it into my mother's head. she's always wanting me to do the same. kitty. you must try, lucy. try as hard as you can, and perhaps some day you will grow up like me. lucy. i hope i shan't. [_makes a face at her._ kitty. oh, how distressing! i never make a face. lucy. now i'm going out to shop for mother. [_jumps round room and goes out._ kitty [_looking after her_]. oh, poor girl, how i pity her! what is that i see on the ground over there? [_goes out and brings in lucy's pocket._] why, i believe this is lucy's pocket! dear, dear, how careless of her! what a good thing i was there ready to pick it up. [_feels in bag._] nothing in it. ha! there's something. no, it's only the binding round it. dear, dear, she has lost the money too! i must go and find my aunt and take it to her. [_enter mrs. l., kitty ostentatiously holding bag so that mrs. l. may see it._ mrs. l. what's that you have, kitty? kitty [_holding it up_]. it's lucy's pocket. mrs. l. what! lucy's pocket, that i made her this morning? what are you doing with it, kitty? kitty. i'm sorry to say, aunt jane, that lucy dropped it, and as i happened to be looking round me to see if i could be useful in any way i saw it and picked it up. mrs. l. and what about the pence that were in it? kitty. they are not there. i'm very sorry, as i know people ought to be so careful of money. i always am. [_loud boo-hooing heard outside. enter lucy._ lucy. i've lost my pocket! i've lost my pocket! mrs. l. oh, you careless girl! you may well cry. luckily for you, kitty fisher found it. lucy. oh, kitty, did you? oh, i am so glad. give it to me quickly! kitty [_holding it back_]. don't you think, aunt jane, i had better have it? i am so careful of my things. lucy [_angry_]. no, you shan't. you shan't have my nice pocket. [_goes to her and drags it away. they fight._ mrs. l. you are not to fight. that is very wrong. kitty. very wrong. i forgot myself, i am afraid. mrs. l. where are the pence you had in the pocket, lucy? [_lucy boo-hoos again._ lucy. oh, mother, it must have come untied when i jumped about. i'm so dreadfully sorry. i shall never be happy again. kitty. no, of course you can't feel happy as i do. lucy. mother, do let me try once more; i really will be good. mrs. l. are you sure, lucy? will you really try? lucy. yes, yes, i promise. i'll be like a little girl in a book, who changes all of a sudden, and never does it again. mrs. l. very well, then, i'll trust you with it once more. kitty. i'm a little surprised at you, aunt. lucy. and you'll never tell me i'm to be as good as kitty? mrs. l. no, because you will be just as good without my telling you. kitty. good-bye then, aunt, i don't care to stay here if i'm of no use in setting an example to lucy. lucy. i can do without your example, thank you. kitty. we shall see. but next time lucy locket loses her pocket kitty fisher will not find it. [_they all sing "lucy locket," the curtain coming down on the last line._ [illustration: . lucy locket. lucy locket lost her pocket kitty fisher found it. ne'er a penny was there in it save the binding round it.] polly put the kettle on characters mrs. smiler mrs. brown mrs. jennings polly mrs. crabstick sukey scene _mrs. smiler's cottage. a table c. half way up stage, four chairs round it arranged almost in a semi-circle, so that there is no one with back to audience. r. a stove on which to put kettle, etc. dresser or table at back with cups and saucers, etc., on it._ mrs. s. polly! polly! polly [_outside_]. yes, ma'am. [_enter polly. she is very small._ mrs. s. now, polly, this afternoon you must be my little maid. polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. do you think i can trust you? polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. you see, sukey hasn't come in yet, and some people are coming to tea, so you must put the kettle on to boil, and make the tea when they come. polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. do you think you can? polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. do you know how to make the tea? polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. how do you make it? polly. with water, ma'am. mrs. s. anything else? polly. no, ma'am. mrs. s. oh, polly! you are hopeless. polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. what do you make the tea with, stupid? polly. the kettle, ma'am. mrs. s. and what else? polly. the teapot, ma'am. mrs. s. and what inside the teapot? polly [_thinks a minute, then triumphantly_]. water, ma'am. mrs. s. anything else? polly. tea, ma'am! mrs. s. of course. now mind you don't forget, and have everything ready, as the party will be here in a minute: and i'll go and put on my best cap. [_exit._ polly [_stands for a minute with the kettle in her hands, trying to remember_]. let me see ... oh yes, the tea. [_she puts many spoonfuls of tea into the kettle, and then water, shakes the kettle to see if there's water in it, pours some water into the teapot; then, as she is standing with the kettle in her hand, mrs. s. comes in quickly with a gorgeous cap on._ mrs. s. i see them coming across the green! quick, polly, put the kettle on, we'll all have tea. [_a knock at the door. mrs. s. goes and opens it._] good afternoon, mrs. brown, mrs. jennings, mrs. crabstick! mrs. j. [_brightly_]. good afternoon to you, i'm sure. mrs. b. [_composed_]. good afternoon, mrs. smiler. mrs. c. [_coldly_]. afternoon. mrs. j. [_brightly_]. good afternoon, mrs. smiler, and hoping you keep well. mrs. s. yes, thank you. i have my worries, of course, like the rest of us. mrs. c. [_grimly_]. we all have. it's a weary world. mrs. j. oh, mrs. crabstick, cheer up, just when we've come to such a nice tea-party. mrs. c. i depend on my tea. mrs. b. oh, of course; so do i. mrs. j. we all do. mrs. s. well, i hope you'll get it as you like it to-day. mrs. c. one doesn't get what one's used to out of their own house, but if you come out to tea one must make the best of it. mrs. j. [_to_ mrs. s.]. and your little maid, sukey, makes such good tea. mrs. s. yes, she does, but to-day she's out. i'm afraid she must have had a tumble off her bicycle. mrs. c. bicycle indeed! in my young days feet were good enough. mrs. j. [_laughing_]. quite true, mrs. crabstick. if we had been meant to go on bicycles we should be born with wheels instead of legs. mrs. b. ah, it's a weary world. mrs. s. oh dear me, mrs. crabstick, don't be so gloomy. i've got another little maid to take sukey's place this afternoon. you'll get your tea all the same. the kettle's boiling now. polly, is everything ready? polly. yes, ma'am. [_she brings in the teapot, the guests sit round the table, mrs. s. at the head of it. kettle on fire._ mrs. s. now, i'll help you first, mrs. crabstick. i know you depend so much on your tea. [_pours out: water only comes out of the pot._ mrs. s. oh! mrs. j. there's only water in the teapot. mrs. b. there's no tea in it. mrs. s. oh dear, what can have happened? polly! polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. there's no tea in the teapot. polly. no, ma'am. mrs. s. but i told you to put in some tea, and i gave you the tea-caddy. polly. yes, ma'am. mrs. s. then what did you do with the tea? polly. put it into the kettle, ma'am. mrs. s. into the kettle! give me the kettle at once. polly. yes, ma'am. [_mrs. s. pours out; an inky fluid comes out of the spout.[a]_ [a] for this brew plenty of blacking should be mixed with water; it should be shaken up the last thing to make sure that the blacking has not sunk to the bottom. mrs. s. oh! what a way of making tea! mrs. c. you'll excuse me if i go away, mrs. smiler. i'm so afraid of being taken worse if i stay here after what has happened. the others. and we really feel we had better do the same. good afternoon, mrs. smiler. [_they all get up and go towards the door. the door is thrown violently open and sukey rushes in._ mrs. s. oh, sukey! there you are at last. all the guests [_looking at her_]. at last! sukey. i'm so sorry, ma'am; i fell off my bicycle, and it's broken. mrs. c. [_solemnly_]. what did i say! sukey. i did so want to be here to make the tea. mrs. s. you had better have been. look! [_pours out of the kettle some of the black liquid._ sukey. oh dear! i'll get another. [_opens cupboard, gets out another kettle._] i'll soon make it boil. [_puts water into kettle and puts it on the fire._ mrs. b. i don't think we'll wait for any more tea-makings, thank you. good afternoon. all. good afternoon. [_they all go out._ mrs. s. oh dear! oh dear! my tea-party has not been a success. sukey, take it off again, they've all gone away. [_mrs. s., sukey, and polly all sing together_, "sukey, take it off again, they've all gone away!" quick curtain [illustration: . polly put the kettle on. polly put the kettle on, polly put the kettle on, polly put the kettle on, we'll all have tea. sukey take it off again, sukey take it off again, sukey take it off again, they've all gone away.] goosey-gander characters the gander the drake the bailiff farmer giles the countess melissa the gander and the drake have a language of their own which they are supposed to use when speaking to one another, but the parts are here written in ordinary language to be understood by the audience. they understand what the human beings say, but cannot join in conversation with them. scene i _a road, paling at back, parallel to front of stage, with gate supposed to be leading into farmyard. enter gander r. walks rapidly to the centre of the stage, then suddenly stops as if bewildered, looks on ground in every direction._ gander. why, it's gone! [_enter drake l._ drake. good morning, gander. gander. good morning's all very well, but where is it? drake. what? where? which? gander. really, drake, you're the stupidest bird. you're nearly as stupid as my wife, and i never saw such a goose as she is. don't you see what i'm looking for? don't you see what's gone? drake. oh, you don't mean--what! the puddle! gone! gander. of course. only yesterday morning there was a nice large hole just in the middle of the road, and a large puddle in it. drake. so there was. so convenient and delightful. gander. yes, you were always sure of finding a puddle there, however dry the rest of the road was. drake. but where has it gone to? who can have taken it? gander. oh, i know quite well--it's that bailiff, of course. and i know why he did it, too. it was just to spite me, as he knew that was my favourite walk. drake. i've thought for a long time he had a grudge against you. gander. yes, ever since the day that i flapped two of his horrid little children into the pond. drake. serve them right. it will teach them to come rushing about the farmyard as if it belonged to them. gander. and they're so rude, too. just imagine, the other day one of them said to me, "hallo, goosey-poosey"! i ask you, _is_ that the way to speak to a gander? drake. monstrous! gander. i sometimes feel inclined to go up to the castle and complain to the countess. drake. well, why don't you? it's not far across the fields. gander. oh yes, i know the way to the castle gates, but when i got inside it i should be wandering upstairs and downstairs and in my lady's chamber, and not know where i was. but still, something must be done about that bailiff. drake. and the way he comes prancing along on his dapple-grey pony, as if no one could ride a spirited animal but himself! gander. look, here he comes! [_the bailiff rides in on hobby horse and curvets and prances round on stage, and rides into middle where gander and drake are standing._ bailiff. now then, you birds! get out of the way, can't you? [_he hits at them with his stick. the gander and drake flap their wings, hiss and quack, and scurry out of the way. bailiff hitches his horse to the gate by the bridle and walks into the middle of the road, bends down, and looks at where the hole had been._ gander [_to_ drake]. there now, you see. i told you he did it. [_farmer giles comes slowly out and leans over gate at back c._ bailiff [_still in road_]. morning, farmer giles. farmer giles [_pipe in mouth, nods sideways_]. morning. bailiff. i came to have a look at the road. i'm glad to see that the hole's quite gone. gander [_to_ drake]. listen to him, glorying in it! farmer giles. oh ay, they had a grand mending of it. they filled it and rolled it, and they filled it and they rolled it, and they filled it and they rolled it, and then, they filled it and they rolled it again. bailiff. and they've made a good job of it, too. gander [_to_ drake]. let's show him we don't like it. [_they stand in the middle of the road and flap and hiss and quack._ bailiff. those birds are intolerable. farmer giles [_smiling_]. i expect they're looking for their puddle, poor things. they was always splashing about in it. bailiff. then they'll have to do without it, that's all. [_gander comes up near him and flaps at him. bailiff unties hobby horse._] that's a vicious gander of yours, farmer giles. he nearly drowned my children the other day. it really isn't safe. farmer giles. ah, the little uns was teasing of him, i daresay. it'll do them no harm to be learned how to behave in the farmyard. bailiff [_mounting his horse_]. well, he had better not do it again. [_shakes his stick at gander. gander rushes at him. they fight. drake and gander peck and flap. bailiff beats them with his stick. gander gets hold of his coat with his beak. bailiff beats him off. farmer giles looks on, smoking and smiling._ bailiff. my best coat! look! this is intolerable. i shall go straight to the castle and complain to her ladyship. [_gallops off r._ farmer giles [_to_ gander]. look here, old boy, you must behave yourself, mind, or you'll get into trouble. [_goes back through gate and off l._ gander. quick, we must follow that old wretch to the castle and hear what he's saying. come on, drakey. how fast can you waddle? drake. oh, a good pace. i can do a mile an hour easy. gander. capital. come along then. [_they waddle out r._ curtain scene ii _the countess's boudoir. a table r. slanting to the audience with ornamental mirror standing on it. a door at back, l.c. door in r.h. corner, back labelled_ "secret staircase to dungeon." _the countess sitting at the table looking at herself in the mirror. melissa, her maid, standing, with a hat in her hand trimmed with flowers._ countess. now, melissa, give me my garden hat, please. i feel inclined to go down to the farm. melissa [_bringing the hat_]. your ladyship is so fond of the farm. countess. indeed i am, and of the live stock there. i should like to direct it all myself, but i don't think the bailiff would like it. he is rather tiresome sometimes. melissa. still, my lady, he is a most honest man, and his accounts, as your ladyship always says, are a marvel. countess. oh yes, in many ways he is excellent, i know, and yet he is not popular with the poultry--no doubt of that. melissa. that is true. he doesn't seem to get on with the gander. countess. such a pity. i like the gander myself--he is always very civil to me. melissa [_laughing_]. really, my lady, he seems such a sensible bird, sometimes you would really think he understood what you say. [_they both laugh. a knock at the door._ countess. melissa! [_points to door._ [_melissa opens the door. the bailiff is seen._ bailiff. may i enter, madam? melissa. come in, master bailiff. _enter bailiff._ countess. good day, master bailiff. bailiff [_agitated_]. i hope i do not intrude on your ladyship, but i come on a pressing matter---- countess. what is it? bailiff. my coat, madam. countess. what! bailiff. i beg your ladyship to look at it--there is a large tear in it. countess. a somewhat unseemly sight--i should have thought you would have begged me not to look at it. bailiff. but it is your gander, my lady. countess. what is my gander? bailiff. my coat. countess. your coat is my gander, bailiff? you are talking wildly. bailiff. it is no wonder, madam. it was the gander did it. [_showing tear on coat._] i have been attacked by that vicious bird---- countess. and wounded in the coat tails! [_countess and melissa laugh._ bailiff. it does not seem a laughing matter to me, your ladyship. something must be done. countess. with a needle and thread. there, i quite agree with you. bailiff. no, madam--with a big stick. something must be done to make the gander behave better. countess. i am sorry you don't like the gander, bailiff. i always find him very pleasant. bailiff. i regret that your ladyship is inclined to make such a companion of him. he really seems to consider he is on an equality with your ladyship. countess. on an equality with me! you are impertinent, sir. no one is on an equality with me in this castle. but i have a warm regard for the gander, and i consider that you have insulted us both by your complaints. [_a noise at the door._] melissa! [_melissa hastens to open the door. the gander and drake are seen in the doorway. they both bow._ melissa. oh! countess. come in, both of you. bailiff. what, even here! miserable birds, how dare you! [_gander and drake hiss and squawk._ countess. you forget yourself, bailiff. this is not your house. i beg that you will apologise at once for your rudeness to us all. down on your knees at once and pray for forgiveness. bailiff. i am willing to apologise to you, madam, but not to the gander, and i will not go on my knees, even to your ladyship. countess. do you hear that, gander? there stands an old man---- bailiff. old man, madam? countess. yes, old, compared to the gander--who will not say his prayers. take him by the left leg and throw him downstairs. [_fight. the bailiff hits the gander and drake with his stick. they flap and peck. melissa opens the door of the secret staircase. the bailiff falls with his legs through the doorway. they drag him out and a great noise of tumbling is heard. then they come in again._ countess. thank you, gander. now we will go for a nice walk and you shall choose it. you shall take me to your favourite place. [_the gander and drake both shake their heads sadly._ countess. what is it? something wrong? dear me, i wish you could speak. lead the way then. goosey goosey gander, whither shall we wander? [_walk round with steps and out._ curtain [illustration: . goosey gander. goosey goosey gander, whither shall we wander? upstairs and downstairs, in my lady's chamber. there i saw an old man who wouldn't say his prayers, take him by the left leg and throw him downstairs.] oranges and lemons characters mrs. carr kitty, _her daughter_ shoreditch boy st. martin's boy old bailey boy stepney boy bow boy neighbours scene _a street. mrs. carr, with a small basket in her hand in which are two oranges and two lemons, is walking along the street to her house, holding her little daughter kitty by the hand. they are supposed to have just arrived at her house door._ mrs. c. there now, here we are at home again, and i'll take these in and make a nice pot of jam with them. i got them very cheap. kitty. how much were they? mrs. c. twopence each orange, and twopence and three farthings each lemon. [_handbells heard ringing._ kitty. mother, why are the bells ringing? mrs. c. because it is bellringers' day, when everyone who likes may ring a bell in the streets if he calls out the name of his parish and puts a penny into the parish poor box. kitty. oh, i should like to do that. what's our parish? mrs. c. st. clement's. kitty. and i could ring my little bell that i got off the christmas tree. mrs. c. but have you a penny for the poor box? kitty [_coaxingly_]. you give me one, mammy darling. mrs. c. [_smiling_]. i'm afraid i haven't one to spare. i spent my pennies on these. kitty [_looking at the oranges and lemons in basket_]. do let me sell them again and have some pennies! mrs. c. what about the jam then? kitty. oh, i'd much rather have the pennies for the poor box, so that i could ring my bell too. mrs. c. well, you may try to sell them if you like. kitty. oh, mammy darling, you _are_ kind. i'll run in and get my bell. [_rushes in to get it. while she is inside mrs. carr arranges the oranges and lemons in the basket, etc. kitty comes out with the bell._ mrs. c. [_giving her the basket, smiling_]. i'm spoiling you, mind. kitty. it is nice to be spoilt. now you go indoors, mother, and i'll be a real person all by myself. [_mrs. c. smiles, kisses her, and goes in. kitty, alone, walks up and down calling_ "st clement's! st. clement's! st. clement's!" _enter st. martin's boy, ringing his bell._ st. m. st. martin's! st. martin's! [_looks at kitty's basket._ kitty [_sings to tune, ringing bell_]. oranges and lemons, says the bells of st. clement's! st. m. jolly good they look. kitty. buy one? st. m. yes, if they're not too dear. how much are they? kitty. two pennies for each orange, and two pennies and three farthings for each lemon. st. m. all right, i'll have one of each. now, twopence for this, you say, and twopence three farthings for this. can you reckon up how much that is? kitty. no--_you_ must. st. m. girls _are_ silly. that makes fourpence three-farthings. now, here's a sixpence, and you must give me five farthings change. [_sings_] "you owe me five farthings, says the bells of st. martin's." kitty. oh dear, i've got no farthings, no change, no nothing. st. m. then you'll have no sixpence as well, that's all. and i'll have no oranges and lemons--and no nothing. kitty. oh dear, what a pity! [_enter shoreditch boy, ringing bell._ shoreditch. shoreditch! shoreditch! hallo, those look good. look here, little girl, sell me one. [_feels in his pocket._] no, my pocket's empty. [_enter old bailey boy, ringing bell._ old bailey. old bailey! old bailey! jolly things you've got there, young person. kitty. _do_ buy one. shoreditch. _i_ want to buy one if someone will lend me the money. old bailey. here, i've got some money. how much do you want? shoreditch. twopence. old bailey. here you are then. shoreditch. hooray! [_takes orange._] there, little girl. [_gives her two pennies._ kitty. oh, that is nice! old bailey [_to_ shoreditch]. but when will you pay me? [_sings_] "when will you pay me? says the bell of old bailey." shoreditch [_sings, smiling_]. "when i grow rich, says the bell of shoreditch." old bailey. that's all very well, but it's a long time to wait. you put back that orange and give me back the pennies. [_they begin fighting, their bells making a noise as they do so. enter stepney and bow, ringing bells, stepney in front._ stepney. stepney! bow. and bow! stepney. stepney! bow. and bow! [_they look at the boys fighting._ bow. what's all this about? old bailey. i've lent this shoreditch boy twopence, and he says he'll pay me when he grows rich. stepney [_to shoreditch, sings_]. "when will that be? says the bell of stepney." [_shoreditch shakes his head and laughs._ bow [_in a deep voice, sings_]. "i'm sure i don't know, says the big bell of bow." old bailey. don't know, indeed! bow. well, don't quarrel on bellringers' day. let's make a great noise and disturb the neighbours, that's much more amusing. come on now, let's each shout something. [_each one sings a line, ringing the bell on the first beat of the bar._ kitty. oranges and lemons, says the bell of st. clement's. st. m. you owe me five farthings, says the bell of st. martin's. old bailey. when will you pay me? says the bell of old bailey. shoreditch. when i grow rich, says the bell of shoreditch. stepney. when will that be? says the bell of stepney. bow. i'm sure i don't know, says the big bell of bow. capital. now, all together, about the chopper. [_all sing very loud._ here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head. neighbours. oh, what a noise! bow. it's bellringers' day, ma'am. we may make as much noise as we like. now then, all together. [_they stand in a row and sing the song straight through. then they either march round in single file without singing, but ringing their bells, while the tune is played on the piano, or else dance. in either case the neighbours may join in._ curtain [illustration: . oranges and lemons. oranges and lemons, says the bells of st. clements. you owe me five farthings, says the bells of st. martins, when will you pay me? says the bells of old bailey. when i grow rich, says the bells of shoreditch. when will that be? says the bells of stepney, i'm sure i don't know, says the big bell of bow. here comes a candle to light you to bed--and here comes a chopper to chop off your head!] ride a cock-horse scene i _timmy and jimmy in separate beds, feet to audience, as the curtain goes up. tim sits up cautiously._ tim. jim, are you asleep? jim [_sitting up and laughing_]. yes, sound, are you? tim. yes. i _do_ think it's so boring being in bed, don't you? jim. horrid. i hate being asleep. tim. but it's so difficult to keep awake sometimes, even if one has a book to look at. jim. i can't think why nurse doesn't like us to bring our book to bed. this is just the time to have it. it gives one nice dreams. [_he takes up book from the ground by his bed._] look, i've got mine. tim. it would be safer to wait till she's been. jim [_putting it under pillow_]. perhaps it would. tim. i _do_ like it when nurse looks in very softly and then says to mother outside, "they're sound asleep, ma'am," when we're awake all the time! jim. take care, here she comes. [_nurse opens door with precaution, comes to beds, looks at both boys, who pretend to be sound asleep. she goes on tiptoe to door, opens it, says, "they're sound asleep, ma'am," and goes out quietly. the boys put out their heads, listen, and then sit up._ tim. now the book! jim. read something very nice. then we can think about it afterwards. that will keep us awake. [_they sit up._ tim. oh, this is the one i like--"ride a cock-horse to banbury cross, to see a fine lady upon a white horse: rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she shall have music wherever she goes." jim. oh yes, i love that one. let's talk about it. tim. what do you think a cock-horse is? jim. i can't imagine. do you think it's a horse with a cock's head? tim. oh, i wonder if he'd be like our chanticleer, all white with a beautiful red comb. jim. or perhaps he'd be like our rooster, all black and speckly. i wonder if he'd crow all the same, as our cocks do in the morning under our windows. tim [_laughing_]. oh dear, how funny chanticleer would look with a horse's body! or is it a cock's head and a horse's body? jim [_laughing_]. you couldn't ride him so easily. tim. i should think it's a great big cock and wings sticking out like that [_stretching his arms_], and with a beautiful horse's back and a long tail. oh, i should like to ride him! jim. so should i. [_they begin to talk sleepily._ tim. and what about the fine lady? what do you think banbury cross is like? jim. oh, there's the picture. look, it's a great stone thing; and there's the fine lady all in white, with a crown on. tim. i wish there was a picture of the cock-horse too. jim [_more sleepily_], i should like to ride on it--and--go to see the fine lady. tim. yes, we'd go to banbury cross and--see--her. [_talking more and more sleepily. the book falls out of his hand on to the floor as they both go to sleep._ curtain scene ii.--the dream _a market place. a ring of children dancing hand in hand round banbury cross, which stands in the middle, half way up stage. children sing_: "ride a cock-horse to banbury cross to see a fine lady upon a white horse: rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she shall have music wherever she goes." _at the end of the tune they leave off dancing after singing it through._ first child. oh, i'm _so_ out of breath. second child. let's rest a little. third child. yes, till the procession comes. [_they all stand and sit at back._ fourth child. oh, look! there's someone coming. [_enter jimmy and timmy, riding cock-horses (hobby horses with cocks' heads). they gallop round cross._ tim. there, rooster, we've just done it. you _are_ a good one to go. jim. so are you, chanticleer. first child. oh, are you the beginning of the procession, please? jim. what procession? child. the fine lady that is coming on a white horse--the queen of the revels. tim. what are revels? child. games and dancing and all sorts of fun. tim. oh, how nice! child. isn't it! [_the children jump for joy and clap their hands._ jim [_to_ tim]. i _am_ glad we came. tim. so am i. children. hooray! hooray! here she comes. [_looking off r. enter the fine lady on her white horse. the master of the revels leads her. two boys walk in front playing a tune on cazoos, etc. escort of fairies, etc., if available. the queen's horse stops at the foot of banbury cross--she hands a roll of paper to the master, who receives it with a bow._ crowd. hooray! hooray! master. here is the list of the revels--the first will be a race. jim [_to_ tim]. that will be fun. i like seeing races. master. first race, cock-horses--three times round banbury cross. how many entries? jim [_to_ tim]. do you suppose that's us? tim. i don't see any others. master [_loud_]. any entries? jim. cock-horse chanticleer, ridden by jim. tim. cock-horse rooster, ridden by tim. master. one, two, three, off! [_they ride round and round, crowd cheer, etc. they come in a dead heat._ master. a dead heat--no prize. jim. no prize? master. no. don't talk. next revel, a dance. [_all dance, tim and jim and their steeds marking time._ master. next revel, crowing competition. [_one after another they crow, very badly. chant. crows, everyone claps. then rooster crows, they clap again._ child. that's not fair--he's a professional. another child. never mind! well done, rooster. [_all clap._ [_scene must be changed as quickly as possible, the crowing going on uninterruptedly from the time the curtain falls until after it goes up again._ [illustration: . ride a cock horse. ride a cockhorse to ban-bury cross, to see a fine lady up-on a white horse, rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, she will make music wher-e-ver she goes.] scene iii _same as scene i. tim and jim in bed asleep--crowing going on outside. tim sits up and rubs his eyes._ tim. no, no, rooster, leave off now. you've got the prize. [_he sits up and rubs his eyes._] jim, we must ride back now. [_gradually more wide-awake._] why, that's chanticleer crowing outside! [_jim also sits up._ jim. what's that crowing? where am i? tim. i've been dreaming i was riding a cock-horse. jim. and i dreamt i saw the fine lady. oh, i'm so sleepy. [_they both fall back on pillow and go to sleep again._ _enter nurse._ nurse. what, asleep still! come, it's time to get up. and you've been taking a book to bed, you naughty boys, and reading it instead of going to sleep. that's why you're so tired this morning. what's it about? why, what absurd stuff! ride a cock-horse to banbury cross, to see a fine lady upon a white horse: with rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, she shall have music---- curtain _falls as she reads_ little miss muffet _nurse and miss muffet, reading at table._ muffet [_reading her lesson_]. c, a, t, cat; m, a, t, mat. i've done my lessons very well to-day, haven't i? nurse. yes, miss muffet dear, you've been a very good little girl. now, just read those two sentences and then we will go out. muffet [_reading_]. the cat is on the mat. the bat is on the mat. oh, i don't like that story. nurse [_surprised_]. why not? muffet. about the bat. it frightens me to read about a bat on the mat. i don't like bats. nurse. why, you silly little girl, they don't do you any harm. muffet. they make me afraid. i can't bear bats--they're nearly as bad as spiders. nurse. i never saw such a foolish little child. spiders don't do you any harm, either. muffet. oh, they're worse than bats. you won't let one come near me, nursie, will you? nurse [_smiling_]. of course not, my poppet. now, it's time to go out. put your things on and we'll take the baby into the grounds. [_nurse ties on muffet's hat, and while she dresses her they talk._ muffet. nursie, you know that you said if i were good at my lesson i could choose my luncheon? nurse. i did, yes. muffet. and _do_ let me take it out with me to have outside. nurse. then you must have something that's easy to carry. what do you say to some nice bread and butter? muffet. no. nurse. then what about a nice ginger-nut? muffet. no. nurse. or a nice scone? muffet. no. nurse. or a nice albert biscuit? muffet. no. nurse. then what _do_ you want? muffet. something that begins with a k. nurse. with a k.? what can that be? muffet [_triumphantly_]. curds and whey! nurse. oh, my dear child, what spelling! curds begins with a c. muffet [_decidedly_]. no, nursie, i've done my spelling for to-day. you'll let me have it outside, won't you? just for a treat. nurse. it won't be much of a treat if you spill it all on the path. muffet. no, i don't want to give the path a treat, do i? oh, i'll be so careful, nursie, you'll see. _do_ let me. nurse. very well then, just for once you may. but mind, you mustn't begin curds with a k. muffet. i'll begin it with a spoon, dear nursie--that's best. i'll go and get it from the kitchen. nurse. and i'll go and fetch the darling baby. bless his pretty heart for a popsy wopsy toodelums. scene ii _the grounds--a grassy hillock--some trees. enter the spider, prowling mysteriously._ _the spider should have eight legs, made of thick wire, bent and covered with black. two curving from his feet, two from his hands, two from his head (fastened on to a round frame), two from his shoulders._ spider. ha, none of those horrid two-legged creatures about, i am glad to say. i should be ashamed to have so few legs. now, let me see. where shall i start my spinning? [_sits on tuffet and looks round._] that bough, i think, would be best ... it's just the right kind of day--not too shiny, nor too damp. just the sort of day for a fly not to see a web. [_looks round._] perhaps i'd better look round and see if there's a better place. dear me, now there's a bluebottle gone swaggering past. if i'd had the web ready he'd have blundered straight into it. fat blue thing! these winged creatures _are_ so stupid sometimes. well, i mustn't lose any more time. [_goes out r._ [_enter nurse, pushing pram in which the baby is supposed to be; muffet following, carrying a bowl very carefully and a spoon._ nurse. now, miss muffet, you had better sit down and eat your curds and whey or you'll be splashing it down your frock. suppose you sit on that tuffet and eat it while i walk the baby about. muffet. is that called a tuffet? what a nice name! nurse. yes, it's called a tuffet because that's where people sit to eat curds and whey. muffet. oh, i'll sit there then. [_establishes herself carefully._] now i'll pretend i'm on a desert island, nurse, and you go away. nurse [_smiling_]. very well. i leave you to the savages. good-bye. muffet [_calls after her_]. nurse! nurse. well? muffet. you won't really go away, will you? you'll only pretend? nurse. of course. muffet. and they won't be real savages? nurse. certainly not. muffet. i always think it's so much nicer to pretend. [_nurse goes off r. muffet goes on eating her curds and whey. spider comes in l. with coil of string. spider, before seeing muffet, looks up at bough._ spider. no, this is the best place, i'm sure. [_sees muffet, who has nearly eaten her curds. she looks up and sees him, and cries out._ muffet. oh! oh! oh! nurse! nurse! here's an enormous spider! spider. you are very rude--that's worse than being enormous. muffet [_looking frightened_]. i'm very sorry--i didn't mean to be rude. spider [_mollified_]. and i didn't mean to be enormous. but i was born so. muffet. nurse! nurse! [_she begins crying._ spider. what's the matter, little two-legs? [_sits down by her on the tuffet. miss muffet puts down the curds and whey and rushes in to meet nurse coming in l. with baby._ nurse. what is it, darling? what's the matter? muffet. oh, nursie, it's a spider--the biggest you ever saw, and he came and sat down beside me and frightened me away. nurse [_seeing_ spider]. oh! he _is_ a monster. spider. really, the manners of these two-legged persons! nurse. i'll soon chase it away. shoo! shoo! i'll stamp upon him if i get a chance. that will teach him to be a spider. [_spider gets down off the tuffet and runs rapidly round the tree. nurse pokes at it with her umbrella. prolong chase ad libitum. then spider hides behind tree, looking out at intervals._ nurse. there now, he's gone. muffet. oh dear, nursie, i want to go home. i'm so frightened. nurse. well, come along home then. [_takes up bowl and pushes the pram._] poor little miss muffet! muffet. i sat on a tuffet eating my curds and whey and there came that big spider ... [_buries her face against her nurse._ nurse. and sat down beside her and frightened miss muffet away! well, never mind, darling, he's gone into his hole, and you will never see him again. [_they go out l. spider puts his head round the tree._ spider. hole, indeed! [_comes out._] no hole for me, but a nice big web where i can see what is going on. now, where shall i begin it? [_looks round._] ah, there, i think! but i'll just have a dance first--it's a great thing having so many legs for these new dances. [_dances round. at end of dance._] and now to work! [_throws rope over bough._ quick curtain [illustration: . little miss muffet. little miss muffet sat on a tuffet eating of curds and whey. there came a big spider and sat down beside her, and frightened miss muffet a-way.] humpty dumpty characters mrs. dumpty king's man mrs. pringle colonel soldiers _ad lib._ humpty dumpty sergeant-major scene _one side of a village street--a wall about two feet high up stage, parallel to the audience. this can be represented by anything that a child could stand on for a minute before jumping down. behind it r.c. mrs. dumpty's house is seen--a little gate in the wall at back l.c. leading to house. there should be exits r., l., and c. at back through gate. mrs. dumpty and mrs. pringle standing at gate._ mrs. p. well, good morning, mrs. dumpty, i must be running off now. mrs. d. very kind of you to have come in, mrs. pringle. i am sorry humpty was out, i'd like you to have seen him. mrs. p. oh, i can do without seeing him every day, thank you. is he as fat as ever? mrs. d. how you _do_ go on about his being fat, mrs. pringle. you don't want me to starve the child, do you? mrs. p. no, but there's a lot of difference between starving and over-feeding. i'm sure my billy don't get the half of what you give humpty, and just look at him! mrs. d. look at him, indeed! humpty only gets the same as we get, and has done ever since he's been born. i suppose your billy gets nothing but bread and milk. mrs. p. he didn't have pork chops when he was six months old, if that's what you mean, mrs. dumpty. mrs. d. well, i was never one to grudge a baby a bit of anything it cried for, and no one can say humpty's not a fine boy now. mrs. p. he may be a fine boy, but he is a very naughty one. he makes more noise than all the rest of the boys put together. [_noise heard outside._] that sounds like him now. mrs. d. it's just his high spirits, mrs. pringle. i like a boy to have a bit of spirit. [_enter humpty with a great noise._ humpty. hallo, mother! mrs. d. don't you see mrs. pringle, dear? humpty. yes, i wish i didn't. i don't like mrs. pringle. mrs. d. oh, humpty, i'm surprised at you. mrs. p. [_offended_]. i think i'd best be going, mrs. dumpty. humpty. look out that you don't miss the procession, mrs. pringle. mrs. d. what procession? humpty. haven't you heard? all the king's horses and all the king's men are coming along here on their way to the coronation. mrs. d. well, that's very nice. i'll take you to the end of the road, and we'll look at them. humpty. but we needn't go to the end of the road--they pass right along here. i shall only have to get on the wall and i shall see beautifully. mrs. d. you're not to get on without me holding on to you. i'm not going to have you falling off and breaking all your bones. mrs. p. i don't believe he's got bones to break. he is made of nothing but fat and naughtiness. humpty [_boisterously_]. that's right, mrs. pringle. stick up for me. mrs. p. i'm not sticking up for you, you naughty boy--i'm only sorry for your poor mother having such a son. so unlike my billy! mrs. d. oh, it's only his playful way, mrs. pringle. run along and wash your face, humpty, there's a good boy. humpty. i don't want to wash my face. mrs. d. well, i'm sure i don't know what the king will say if he sees you with a face like that. mrs. p. it's enough to make him abdicate. humpty. the king's not coming, you silly old things, it's his horses and men. mrs. d. you're a rude boy, and you're to go and wash your face at once. humpty. well, i don't mind, just for once--it's nearly a week since i last did, and it's monday--that's the day my face goes to the wash. [_exit._ mrs. d. hadn't you best stop and see the procession with us, mrs. pringle? it would be a nice change for you instead of looking at your billy all day---- mrs. p. you're not very civil-spoken, mrs. dumpty, but i _do_ like to see a procession when i can. but i'm hardly fit to be seen like this. i'd best slip home and put on my new shawl. mrs. d. well, if you do that, i'll just pop on my sunday bonnet--it won't take a minute. [_mrs. p. exit l., mrs. d. c. at back. exeunt. enter humpty._ humpty. hurrah--they've both gone--i'll get on the wall. [_climbs up._] i can see beautifully now. i expect the procession will soon be coming----yes, i can hear them. oh, what fun! [_enter mrs. d._ mrs. d. oh, you naughty boy, didn't i tell you not to get on the wall without me holding you? humpty. i'm all right--i shall see them beautifully from here. mrs. d. don't jump about like that--you'll fall off for a certainty. humpty. oh, let me alone. can't you hear them coming? mrs. d. take care, humpty, take care. what did i say...! [_humpty falls off--this must be done by jumping from the wall and rolling over. mrs. d. flies to pick him up. humpty groans. enter mrs. p._ mrs. p. here i am, mrs. dumpty. why, what's that down there? mrs. d. it's humpty. he's been and fallen off the wall, and i can't get him up again. mrs. p. here, let me try. give me your hand, humpty. mrs. d. no, it's no use, he is so heavy, you see. mrs. p. didn't i tell you he was too fat? my billy would be up in a minute. mrs. d. bother your billy--if only someone would come and pick him up. [_music heard. enter the king's horses and men._ mrs. d. oh, sirs--oh, sirs--do, pray, stop a minute. [_they walk right across the stage before they stop, so their backs are to her--and then turn right round so that they face her._ king's man. halt! about turn! yes, ma'am? mrs. d. oh, sir, you look so beautiful--but i'm sorry to tell you that my son, while waiting to see you, has fallen off the wall--he's down there. king's man. yes, ma'am! i see him. is that all, ma'am? good morning. about turn!---- [_they turn away again._ mrs. d. oh, sirs! oh, sirs! don't go away--i want you to pick him up again. king's man. well, ma'am, we may be late for the coronation, but anything to oblige. [_to soldiers._] about turn! [_they turn back._] first file, take hold of the boy's arms! second file, catch hold of his legs! now--all together, on to the wall--lift! [_they try to pick him up._] i'm sorry, ma'am. we can't move him--he's rather stout, you see. mrs. p. what did i say! if only it was my billy now. [_more music heard._ king's man. here's another regiment coming--perhaps they can do it. [_enter more soldiers._ king's man. if you please, colonel---- colonel. halt! what is it, my man? king's man. there's a young feller there fallen off the wall--we can't get him up again, sir. colonel. what! all you king's horses and all you king's men can't do a simple thing like that! preposterous! ridiculous! [_he twirls his moustache and is very warlike._] sergeant-major! sergeant-major. yes, colonel! colonel. fall out the regiment, and replace that boy on the wall. sergeant-major. right turn! dismiss! now then, all together. [_both regiments dash at humpty and try to pick him up._ colonel. h'm--it's not so easy as i thought. a charge of cavalry might do it. [_humpty starts._] or, upon my word, an explosion of dynamite would be better. sergeant-major! [_humpty trembles._ sergeant-major. yes, colonel. colonel. blow this boy off the ground with dynamite. mrs. d. [_hurriedly_]. oh, thank you so much--i won't trouble you to do that. colonel. no trouble at all, madam, i assure you. it won't take a moment. sergeant-major! mrs. p. oh, how exciting! mrs. d. be quiet, mrs. pringle. _pray_ don't trouble, colonel--i think he is very comfortable where he is, thank you. colonel. just as you wish, madam--but if we can't do anything for you i think we had better be moving on. sergeant-major! sergeant-major. yes, colonel. colonel. fall in the regiment. sergeant-major. regiment! fall in! [_they fall in and stand at ease._ colonel. attention! right turn. quick march! [_exeunt._ mrs. d. what a dreadful man! mrs. p. oh, did you think so? i thought him so pleasant. mrs. d. why, what's humpty doing? [_humpty rolls over and faces the audience._ humpty. phew! i felt rather anxious then--i thought i should have to get up---- mrs. d. get up! but can you get up, my poppet? [_humpty sits up._ humpty. of course i can, if i like--only it was such fun having them all crowding round and pulling at me. mrs. p. well, i never! it would have served you quite right if they had blown you up as they said. mrs. d. how hard you are on the poor child, mrs. pringle. mrs. p. my billy would never have done such a thing. humpty. of course he wouldn't--he's much too stupid. mrs. p. stupid! not he--he's got too much sense to go falling off a wall just when a procession was coming. i shall go home and tell him what you did. humpty. and mind you tell him that all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't pick humpty dumpty up again--till he chose! [_gets up._ curtain [illustration: . humpty dumpty. humpty dumpty sat on a wall. humpty dumpty had a great fall. all the king's horses and all the king's men, could'nt pick humpty dumpty up again.] generously made available by the internet archive.) [illustration] [illustration: alice: you're humpty dumpty! just like an egg. [page ]] alice in wonderland a dramatization of lewis carroll's "alice's adventures in wonderland" and "through the looking glass" by alice gerstenberg author of "the conscience of sarah platt", "unquenched fire," "a little world," etc. chicago a.c.mc.clurg & co. copyright a. c. mcclurg & co. published december, rights to produce this play in all countries of the world are reserved by alice gerstenberg w. f. mael printing company, chicago [illustration: to the memory of lewis carroll] this dramatic rendering of _alice in wonderland_, by alice gerstenberg of chicago, was produced by the players producing company of chicago (aline barnsdall and arthur bissell), at the fine arts theater, chicago, february , . after a successful run it opened at the booth theater, new york, march , . the scenery and the costumes were designed by william penhallow henderson of chicago. the music was written by eric de lamarter of chicago. the advertising posters and cards were designed by jerome blum of chicago. the illustrations of the characters of the play in this book were drawn by j. allen st. john from photographs by victor georg of chicago. w. h. gilmore staged the play with the following cast: lewis carroll frank stirling alice vivian tobin red queen florence leclercq white queen mary servoss white rabbit donald gallaher humpty dumpty alfred donohoe gryphon fred w. permain mock turtle geoffrey stein mad hatter geoffrey stein march hare fred w. permain dormouse j. gunnis davis frog footman walter kingsford duchess kenyon bishop cheshire cat alfred donohoe king of hearts frederick annerly queen of hearts winifred hanley knave of hearts foxhall daingerfield caterpillar walter kingsford two of spades rule pyott five of spades france bendtsen seven of spades john a. rice alice in wonderland the scenes act i scene i--alice's home. scene ii--the room in the looking glass. scene iii--the hall with doors. scene iv--the sea shore. act ii scene----the march hare's garden. act iii scene i--the garden of flowers. scene ii--the court of hearts. scene iii--alice's home. miss gerstenberg's manuscript called for costumes after the illustrations of john tenniel, and scenery of the simple imaginative type, the "new art" in the theater. alice in wonderland alice in wonderland act i scene one _alice's home. lewis carroll is discovered, playing chess. golden-haired alice, in a little blue dress, a black kitten in her arms, stands watching him._ alice that's a funny game, uncle. what did you do then? carroll a red pawn took a white pawn; this way. you see, alice, the chessboard is divided into sixty-four squares, red and white, and the white army tries to win and the red army tries to win. it's like a battle! alice with soldiers? carroll yes, here are the kings and queens they are fighting for. that's the red queen and here's the white queen. alice how funny they look! carroll see the crowns on their heads, and look at their big feet. alice it's a foot apiece, that's what it is! do they hump along like this? carroll here! you're spoiling the game. i must keep them all in their right squares. alice i want to be a queen! carroll here _you_ are [_he points to a small white pawn_] here _you_ are in your little stiff skirt! alice how do you do, alice! carroll and now you are going to move here. alice let me move myself. carroll when you have traveled all along the board this way and haven't been taken by the enemy you may be a queen. alice why do people always play with kings and queens? mother has them in her playing cards too. look! [_alice goes to the mantel and takes a pack of playing cards from the ledge._] here's the king of hearts and here's his wife; she's the queen of hearts--isn't she cross-looking? wants to bite one's head off. [_carroll moves a pawn._] you're playing against yourself, aren't you? carroll that's one way of keeping in practice, alice; i have friends in the university who want to beat me. alice but if you play against yourself i should think you'd want to cheat! carroll does a nice little girl like you cheat when she plays against herself? alice oh! i _never_ do! i'd scold myself hard. i always pretend i'm _two_ people too. it's lots of fun, isn't it? sometimes when i'm all alone i walk up to the looking glass and talk to the other alice. she's so silly, that alice; she can't do anything by herself. she just mocks me all the time. when i laugh, she laughs, when i point my finger at her, she points her finger at me, and when i stick my tongue out at her she sticks her tongue out at me! kitty has a twin too, haven't you darling? [_alice goes to the mirror to show kitty her twin._] carroll i'll have to write a book some day about alice--alice in wonderland, "child of the pure unclouded brow and dreaming eyes of wonder!" or, alice through the looking glass! alice don't you wish sometimes you could go into looking-glass house? see! [_alice stands on an armchair and looks into the mirror._] there's the room you can see through the glass; it's just the same as our living-room here, only the things go the other way. i can see all of it--all but the bit just behind the fireplace. oh! i do wish i could see that bit! i want so much to know if they've a fire there. you never _can_ tell, you know, unless our fire smokes. then smoke comes up in that room too--but that may be just to make it look as if they had a fire--just to pretend they had. the books are something like our books, only the words go the wrong way. won't there ever be any way of our getting through, uncle? carroll do you think kitty would find looking-glass milk digestible? alice it doesn't sound awful good, does it; but i might leave her at home. she's been into an awful lot of mischief today. she found sister's knitting and chased the ball all over the garden where sister was playing croquet with the neighbors. and i ran and ran after the naughty little thing until i was all out of breath and so tired! i am tired. [_she yawns and makes herself comfortable in the armchair._] carroll [_replaces the playing cards on the mantel and consults his watch._] take a nap. yes, you have time before tea. alice [_half asleep._] we're going to have mock turtle soup for supper! i heard mamma tell the cook not to pepper it too much. carroll what a funny little rabbit it is, nibbling all the time! [_he leans gently over the back of her chair, and seeing that she is going to sleep puts out the lamp light and leaves the room. a red glow from the fireplace illumines alice._] [_dream music. a bluish light reveals the red chess queen and the white chess queen in the mirror._] red queen [_points to alice and says in a mysterious voice._] there she is, let's call her over. white queen do you think she'll come? red queen i'll call softly, alice! white queen hist, alice. red queen alice! white queen hush--if she wakes and catches us-- both queens alice, come through into looking-glass house! [_their hands beckon her._] alice [_rises, and talks sleepily. the queens disappear. alice climbs from the arm of the chair to the back of another and so on up to the mantel ledge, where she picks her way daintily between the vases._] i--don't--know--how--i--can--get--through. i've tried--before--but the glass was hard--and i was afraid of cutting--my fingers-- [_she feels the glass and is amazed to find it like gauze._] why, it's soft like gauze; it's turning into a sort of mist; why, it's easy to get through! _why--why_--i'm going _through_! [_she disappears._] scene two [_is scene one, reversed. the portieres are black and red squares like a chessboard. a soft radiance follows the characters mysteriously. as the curtain rises alice comes through the looking glass; steps down, looks about in wonderment and goes to see if there is a "fire." the red queen rises out of the grate and faces her haughtily._] alice why, you're the red queen! red queen of course i am! where do you come from? and where are you going? look up, speak nicely, and don't twiddle your fingers! alice i only wanted to see what the looking glass was like. perhaps i've lost my way. red queen i don't know what you mean by your way; all the ways about here belong to _me_. curtsey while you're thinking what to say. it saves time. alice i'll try it when i go home; the next time i'm a little late for dinner. red queen it's time for you to answer now; open your mouth a _little_ wider when you speak, and always say, "your majesty." i suppose you don't want to lose your name? alice no, indeed. red queen and yet i don't know, only think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without it! for instance, if the governess wanted to call you to your lessons, she would call out "come here," and there she would have to leave off, because there wouldn't be any name for her to call, and of course you wouldn't have to go, you know. alice that would never do, i'm sure; the governess would never think of excusing me from lessons for that. if she couldn't remember my name, she'd call me "miss," as the servants do. red queen well, if she said "miss," and didn't say anything more, of course you'd miss your lessons. i dare say you can't even read this book. alice it's all in some language i don't know. why, it's a looking-glass book, of course! and if i hold it up to a glass, the words will all go the right way again. jabberwocky 'twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. it seems very pretty, but it's _rather_ hard to understand; somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas--only i don't exactly know what they are. red queen i daresay you don't know your geography either. look at the map! [_she takes a right angle course to the portieres and points to them with her sceptre._] alice it's marked out just like a big chessboard. i wouldn't mind being a pawn, though of course i should like to be a red queen best. red queen that's easily managed. when you get to the eighth square you'll be a queen. it's a huge game of chess that's being played--all over the world. come on, we've got to run. faster, don't try to talk. alice i can't. red queen faster, faster. alice are we nearly there? red queen nearly there! why, we passed it ten minutes ago. faster. you may rest a little now. alice why, i do believe we're in the same place. everything's just as it was. [illustration] red queen of course it is, what would you have it? alice well, in our country you'd generally get to somewhere else--if you ran very fast for a long time as we've been doing. red queen a slow sort of country. now _here_ you see, it takes all the running _you_ can do, to keep in the same place. if you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that. alice i'd rather not try, please! i'm quite content to stay here--only i _am_ so hot and thirsty. red queen i know what you'd like. [_she takes a little box out of her pocket._] have a biscuit? [_alice, not liking to refuse, curtseys as she takes the biscuit and chokes._] red queen while you're refreshing yourself, i'll just take the measurements. [_she takes a ribbon out of her pocket and measures the map with it._] at the end of two yards i shall give you your directions--have another biscuit? alice no thank you, one's _quite_ enough. red queen thirst quenched, i hope? at the end of three yards i shall repeat them--for fear of your forgetting them. at the end of _four_, i shall say good-bye. and at the end of five, i shall go! that square belongs to humpty dumpty and that square to the gryphon and mock turtle and that square to the queen of hearts. but you make no remark? alice i--i didn't know i had to make one--just then. red queen you _should_ have said, "it's extremely kind of you to tell me all this," however, we'll suppose it said. four! good-bye! five! [_red queen vanishes in a gust of wind behind the portieres. rabbit music. white rabbit comes out of the fireplace and walks about the room hurriedly. he wears a checked coat, carries white kid gloves in one hand, a fan in the other and takes out his watch to look at it anxiously._] white rabbit oh the duchess! the duchess! oh! won't she be savage if i've kept her waiting! alice i've never seen a rabbit with a waistcoat and a watch! and a waistcoat pocket! if you please, sir-- white rabbit oh! [_he drops fan and gloves in fright and dashes out by way of the portieres in a gust of wind. alice picks up the fan and playfully puts on the gloves. the portieres flap in the breeze and a shawl flies in._] alice [_catches the shawl and looks about for the owner; then meets the white queen._] i'm very glad i happened to be in the way. white queen [_runs in wildly, both arms stretched out wide as if she were flying, and cries in a helpless frightened way._] bread-and-butter, bread-and-butter. alice am i addressing the white queen? white queen well, yes, if you call that a-dressing. it isn't my notion of the thing, at all. alice if your majesty will only tell me the right way to begin, i'll do it as well as i can. white queen but i don't want it done at all. i've been a-dressing myself for the last two hours. alice every single thing's crooked, and you're all over pins; may i put your shawl straight for you? white queen i don't know what's the matter with it! it's out of temper. i've pinned it here, and i've pinned it there, but there's no pleasing it. alice it _can't_ go straight, you know, if you pin it all on one side, and dear me, what a state your hair is in! white queen the brush has got entangled in it! and i lost the comb yesterday. alice [_takes out the brush and arranges the queen's hair._] you look better now! but really you should have a lady's maid! white queen i'm sure i'll take you with pleasure. two pence a week and jam every other day. alice [_who cannot help laughing._] i don't want you to hire me--and i don't care for jam. white queen it's very good jam. alice well, i don't want any today, at any rate. white queen you couldn't have it if you _did_ want it. the rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday--but never jam today. alice it must come sometimes to "jam today." white queen no, it can't, it's jam every _other_ day; today isn't any _other_ day, you know. alice i don't understand you, it's dreadfully confusing! white queen that's the effect of living backwards, it always makes one a little giddy at first-- alice living backwards! i never heard of such a thing! white queen but there's one great advantage in it--that one's memory works both ways. alice i'm sure _mine_ only works one way. i can't remember things before they happen. white queen it's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards. alice what sort of things do you remember best? white queen oh, things that happened the week after next. for instance now: [_she sticks a large piece of plaster on her finger._] there's the king's messenger--he's in prison being punished; and the trial doesn't even begin till next wednesday; and of course the crime comes last of all. alice suppose he never commits the crime? white queen [_binding the plaster with ribbon._] that would be all the better, wouldn't it? alice of course it would be all the better, but it wouldn't be all the better his being punished. white queen you're wrong _there_, at any rate; were _you_ ever punished? alice only for faults. white queen and you were all the better for it, i know! alice yes, but then i _had_ done the things i was punished for; that makes all the difference. white queen but if you hadn't done them that would have been better still; better and better and better! alice there's a mistake somewhere-- white queen [_screams like an engine whistle, and shakes her hand._] oh, oh, oh! my finger's bleeding. oh, oh, oh! alice what _is_ the matter? have you pricked your finger? white queen i haven't pricked it yet--but i soon shall--oh, oh, oh! alice when do you expect to do it? white queen when i fasten my shawl again; the brooch will come undone directly. oh, oh! [_brooch flies open and she clutches it wildly._] alice take care! you're holding it all crooked! white queen [_pricks her finger and smiles._] that accounts for the bleeding, you see; now you understand the way things happen here. alice but why don't you scream now? [illustration] white queen why, i've done all the screaming already. what would be the good of having it all over again? oh! it's time to run if you want to stay in the same place! come on! alice no, no! not so fast! i'm getting dizzy!! white queen faster, faster! alice everything's black before my eyes! [_there is music, and the sound of rushing wind, and in the darkness the white queen cries: "faster, faster"; alice gasps: "i can't--please stop"; and the queen replies: "then you can't stay in the same place. i'll have to drop you behind. faster--faster, good-bye."_] scene three _when the curtain rises one sees nothing but odd black lanterns with orange lights, hanging, presumably, from the sky. the scene lights up slowly revealing alice seated on two large cushions. she has been "dropped behind" by the white queen and is dazed to find herself in a strange hall with many peculiar doors and knobs too high to reach._ alice oh! my head! where am i? oh dear, oh dear! [_she staggers up and to her amazement finds herself smaller than the table._] i've never been smaller than any table before! i've always been able to reach the knobs! what a curious feeling. oh! i'm shrinking. it's the fan--the gloves! [_she throws them away, feels her head and measures herself against table and doors._] oh! saved in time! but i never--never-- white rabbit oh! my fan and gloves! where _are_ my-- alice oh! mr. rabbit--please help me out--i want to go home--i want to go home-- white rabbit oh! the duchess! oh! my fur and whiskers! she'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! oh! _you_ have them! alice i'm sorry--you dropped them, you know-- white rabbit [_picks up fan and gloves and patters off._] she'll chop off your head! alice if you please sir--where am i?--won't you please--tell me how to get out--i want to get out-- white rabbit [_looking at his watch._] oh! my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting. [_a trap door gives way and rabbit disappears. alice dashes after only in time to have the trap door bang in her face._] alice [_amazed._] it's a rabbit-hole--i'm small enough to fit it too! if i shrink any more it might end in my going out altogether like a candle. i wonder what i would be like then! what does the flame of a candle look like after the candle is blown out? i've never seen such a thing! humpty dumpty [_sits on the wall._] don't stand chattering to yourself like that, but tell me your name and your business. alice my _name_ is alice, but-- humpty dumpty it's a stupid name enough, what does it mean? alice _must_ a name mean something? humpty dumpty of course it must; _my_ name means the shape i am--and a good, handsome shape it is, too. with a name like yours, you might be any shape, almost. alice you're humpty dumpty! just like an egg. humpty dumpty it's _very_ provoking, to be called an egg--_very_. alice i said you _looked_ like an egg, sir, and some eggs are very pretty, you know. humpty dumpty some people have no more sense than a baby. alice why do you sit here all alone? humpty dumpty why, because there's nobody with me. did you think i didn't know the answer to _that_? ask another. alice don't you think you'd be safer down on the ground? that wall's so very narrow. humpty dumpty what tremendously easy riddles you ask! of course i don't think so. take a good look at me! i'm one that has spoken to a king, i am; to show you i'm not proud, you may shake hands with me! [_he leans forward to offer alice his hand but she is too small to reach it._] however, this conversation is going on a little too fast; let's go back to the last remark but one. alice i'm afraid i can't remember it. humpty dumpty in that case we start fresh, and it's my turn to choose a subject. alice you talk about it just as if it were a game. humpty dumpty so here's a question for you. how old did you say you were? alice seven years and six months. humpty dumpty wrong! you never said a word about it. now if you'd asked _my_ advice, i'd have said, "leave off at seven--but--" alice i never ask advice about growing. humpty dumpty too proud? alice what a beautiful belt you've got on. at least, a beautiful cravat, i should have said--no, a belt, i mean--i beg your pardon. if only i knew which was neck and which was waist. humpty dumpty it is a--_most--provoking_--thing, when a person doesn't know a cravat from a belt. alice i know it's very ignorant of me. humpty dumpty it's a cravat, child, and a beautiful one, as you say. there's glory for you. alice i don't know what you mean by "glory." humpty dumpty when i use a word, it means just what i choose it to mean--neither more nor less. alice the question is, whether you _can_ make words mean different things. humpty dumpty the question is, which is to be master--that's all. impenetrability! that's what i say! alice would you tell me, please, what that means? humpty dumpty i meant by "impenetrability" that we've had enough of that subject, and it would be just as well if you'd mention what you mean to do next, as i suppose you don't mean to stop here all the rest of your life. alice that's a great deal to make one word mean. humpty dumpty when i make a word do a lot of work like that i always pay it extra. alice oh! humpty dumpty ah, you should see 'em come round me of a saturday night, for to get their wages, you know. that's all--good-bye. alice good-bye till we meet again. humpty dumpty i shouldn't know you again, if we _did_ meet, you're so exactly like other people. alice the face is what one goes by, generally. humpty dumpty that's just what i complain of. your face is the same as everybody has--the two eyes--so--nose in the middle, mouth under. it's always the same. now if you had the two eyes on the same side of the nose, for instance--or the mouth at the top--that would be _some_ help. alice it wouldn't look nice. humpty dumpty wait till you've tried! good-bye. [_he disappears as he came._] alice oh! i forgot to ask him how to-- [_she tries to open the doors. they are all locked; she begins to weep. she walks weeping to a high glass table and sits down on its lower ledge. she sits on a big golden key and picks it up in surprise. she tries it on all the doors but it does not fit. she weeps and weeps--and wonderland grows dark to her in her despair. in the darkness she cries, "oh! i'm slipping! oh, oh! it's a lake; oh! my tears! i'm floating!" a mysterious light shows a "drink me" sign around a bottle on the top of the table. alice floats up to it panting, and holding on to the edge of the table takes up the bottle._] alice it isn't marked poison. [_she sips at it._] this is good! tastes like cherry tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffy and hot buttered toast--all together. oh! oh! i'm letting out like a telescope. [_a mysterious light shows her lengthening out._] [_music._] but the lake is rising too. oh! oh! it's deep! i'm drowning. help, help, i'm drowning, i'm drowning in my tears! gryphon hjckrrh. hjckrrh! [_the gryphon, a huge green creature with big glittering wings, appears where humpty dumpty had been and reaches glittering claws over to grab and save alice._] scene four _is symbolic of a wet and rocky shore in a weird green light. the mock turtle is weeping dismally._ gryphon hjckrrh. hjckrrh. hjckrrh. mock turtle [_answers with his weeping._] gryphon [_drags alice in._] drop your tears into the sea with his. alice he sobs as if he had a bone in his throat. he sighs as if his heart would break. what is his sorrow? mock turtle oh, gryphon, it's terrible! gryphon it's all his fancy that. mock turtle hasn't got no sorrow. this here young lady, she wants for to know your history, she do. mock turtle i'll tell it her. sit down both of you, and don't speak a word till i've finished. alice i don't see how you can _ever_ finish, if you don't begin. mock turtle once, i was a real turtle. [_a long silence is broken only by the exclamations, "hjckrrh," of the gryphon and the heavy sobbing of the mock turtle._] mock turtle when we were little, we went to school in the sea. the master was an old turtle--we used to call him tortoise-- alice why did you call him tortoise, if he wasn't one? mock turtle we called him tortoise because he taught us; really you are very dull. gryphon you ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question. drive on, old fellow! don't be all day about it! mock turtle yes, we went to school in the sea, tho' you mayn't believe it-- alice i never said i didn't. mock turtle you did. gryphon hold your tongue! mock turtle we had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day. alice i've been to a day school too; you needn't be so proud as all that. mock turtle with extras? alice yes, we learned french and music. mock turtle and washing? alice certainly not! [illustration] mock turtle ah! then yours wasn't a really good school. now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, french, music, _and washing_--extra. alice you couldn't have wanted it much; living at the bottom of the sea. mock turtle i couldn't afford to learn it, i only took the regular course. alice what was that? mock turtle reeling and writhing, of course, to begin with, and then the different branches of arithmetic--ambition, distraction, uglification, and derision. alice i never heard of uglification. what is it? gryphon never heard of uglifying! you know what to beautify is, i suppose? alice yes, it means--to--make--anything--prettier. gryphon well then, if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton. alice what else had you to learn? mock turtle well, there was mystery; mystery, ancient and modern, with seaography, then drawling--the drawling-master was an old conger eel, that used to come once a week; what _he_ taught us was drawling, stretching, and fainting in coils. alice what was _that_ like? mock turtle well, i can't show it you, myself. i'm too stiff. and the gryphon never learned it. gryphon hadn't time; i went to the classical master, though. he was an old crab, _he_ was. mock turtle i never went to him; he taught laughing and grief, they used to say. gryphon so he did, so he did. alice and how many hours a day did you do lessons? mock turtle ten hours the first day, nine the next, and so on. alice what a curious plan! gryphon that's the reason they're called lessons, because they lessen from day to day. alice then the eleventh day must have been a holiday? mock turtle of course it was. alice and how did you manage on the twelfth? gryphon that's enough about lessons, tell her something about the games now. [_mock turtle sighs deeply, draws back of one flapper across his eyes. he looks at alice and tries to speak but sobs choke his voice._] gryphon [_punching him in the back._] same as if he had a bone in his throat. mock turtle [_with tears running down his cheeks._] you may not have lived much under the sea-- alice i haven't. mock turtle and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster. alice i once tasted--no, never! mock turtle so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a lobster quadrille is. alice no, indeed. what sort of a dance is it? gryphon why, you first form into a line along the seashore. mock turtle two lines; seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jellyfish out of the way-- gryphon _that_ generally takes some time. mock turtle you advance twice-- gryphon each with a lobster as a partner. mock turtle of course, advance twice, set to partners. gryphon change lobsters, and retire in same order. mock turtle then you know, you throw the-- gryphon the lobsters! mock turtle as far out to sea as you can-- gryphon swim after them! mock turtle turn a somersault in the sea. gryphon change lobsters again! mock turtle back to land again, and--that's all the first figure. alice it must be a very pretty dance. mock turtle would you like to see a little of it? alice very much indeed. mock turtle come, let's try the first figure. we can do it without lobsters, you know; which shall sing? gryphon oh, _you_ sing, i've forgotten the words. [_creatures solemnly dance round and round alice, treading on her toes, waving fore-paws to mark time while mock turtle sings._] first verse "will you walk a little faster!" said a whiting to a snail, "there's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. see how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! they are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? second verse "you can really have no notion how delightful it will be when they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" but the snail replied, "too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. [_the creatures dance against alice, pushing her back and forth between them. she protests and finally escapes; they bump against each other._] alice thank you; it's a very interesting dance to watch, and i do so like that curious song about the whiting. mock turtle oh, as to the whiting, they--you've seen them, of course? alice yes, i've often seen them at din-- [_checks herself hastily._] mock turtle i don't know where din may be, but if you've seen them so often, of course you know what they're like. alice i believe so, they have their tails in their mouths--and they're all over crumbs. mock turtle you're wrong about the crumbs, crumbs would all wash off in the sea. but they _have_ their tails in their mouths; and the reason is-- [_mock turtle yawns and shuts his eyes._] tell her about the reason and all that. gryphon the reason is, that they _would_ go with the lobsters to the dance. so they got thrown out to sea. so they had to fall a long way. so they got their tails fast in their mouths. so they couldn't get them out again. that's all. alice thank you, it's very interesting. i never knew so much about a whiting before. gryphon i can tell you more than that, if you like. do you know why it's called a whiting? alice i never thought about it. why? gryphon _it does the boots and shoes._ alice does the boots and shoes! gryphon why, what are _your_ shoes done with? i mean, what makes them so shiny? alice they're done with blacking, i believe. gryphon boots and shoes under the sea, are done with whiting. now you know. alice and what are they made of? gryphon soles and eels, of course; any shrimp could have told you that. alice if i'd been the whiting, i'd have said to the porpoise, "keep back, please; we don't want _you_ with us." mock turtle they were obliged to have him with them, no wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise. alice wouldn't it really? mock turtle of course not; why if a fish came to me and told me he was going a journey, i should say, "with what porpoise?" alice don't you mean purpose? mock turtle i mean what i say. [illustration] gryphon shall we try another figure of the lobster quadrille? or would you like the mock turtle to sing you a song? alice oh, a song please, if the mock turtle would be so kind. gryphon um! no accounting for tastes! sing her "turtle soup," will you, old fellow? mock turtle [_sighs deeply and sometimes choked with sobs, sings._] "beautiful soup, so rich and green, waiting in a hot tureen! who for such dainties would not stoop? soup of the evening, beautiful soup! soup of the evening, beautiful soup! beau--ootiful soo--op, beau--ootiful soo--oop, soo--oop of the e-e-evening, beautiful, beautiful soup." white rabbit [_enters, stretching out a red and white checked sash with which he separates alice from the creatures._] check! mock turtle they won't let her stay in our square. white rabbit the queen is coming this way. gryphon she'll chop our heads off. come on, come on, let's fly! [_the mock turtle and gryphon grab alice and fly into the air._] curtain [_the curtain rises to reveal small silhouettes of the gryphon, mock turtle, and alice in an orange-colored moon far away in the sky. down below the white rabbit is shouting to them, "you'll be safe in the march hare's garden."_] curtain act ii scene _the march hare's garden, showing part of the duchess' house. on a small platform there is a tea table, set with many cups, continuing into wings to give impression of limitless length. the march hare, hatter, and dormouse are crowded at one end. alice sits on the ground where she has been dropped from the sky. finding herself not bruised she rises and approaches the table._ march hare and hatter no room! no room! alice there's plenty of room! [_she sits in a large armchair at one end of the table._] i don't know who you are. march hare i am the march hare, that's the hatter, and this is the dormouse. have some wine? alice i don't see any wine. march hare there isn't any. alice then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it. march hare it wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited. alice i didn't know it was _your_ table; it's laid for a great many more than three. hatter your hair wants cutting. alice you should learn not to make personal remarks; it's very rude. hatter why is a raven like a writing-desk? alice come, we shall have some fun now! i'm glad you've begun asking riddles--i believe i can guess that. march hare so you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it? [illustration: hatter: your hair wants cutting.] alice exactly so. march hare then you should say what you mean. alice i do; at least--at least i mean what i say--that's the same thing, you know. hatter not the same thing a bit! why, you might just as well say that "i see what i eat" is the same thing as, "i eat what i see!" march hare you might just as well say that "i like what i get," is the same thing as "i get what i like." dormouse you might just as well say that "i breathe when i sleep" is the same thing as "i sleep when i breathe." hatter it _is_ the same thing with you. [_takes out his watch, looks at it uneasily, shakes it, holds it to his ear._] what day of the month is it? alice the fourth. hatter two days wrong. i told you butter wouldn't suit the works! march hare it was the _best_ butter. hatter yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well; you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife-- march hare [_takes the watch, looks at it gloomily, dips it into his cup of tea and looks at it again but doesn't know what else to say._] it was the _best_ butter, you know. alice what a funny watch! it tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell what o'clock it is. hatter why should it? does _your_ watch tell you what year it is? alice of course not, but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together. hatter which is just the case with _mine_. alice i don't quite understand you. what you said had no sort of meaning in it and yet it was certainly english. hatter [_pouring some hot tea on the dormouse's nose._] the dormouse is asleep again. dormouse of course, of course, just what i was going to remark myself. hatter have you guessed the riddle yet? alice no, i give it up, what's the answer? hatter i haven't the slightest idea. march hare nor i. alice i think you might do something better with the time, than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers. hatter if you knew time as well as i do, you wouldn't talk about wasting _it_. it's _him_. alice i don't know what you mean. hatter of course you don't. i dare say you never even spoke to time. alice perhaps not, but i know i have to beat time when i learn music. hatter ah, that accounts for it. he won't stand beating. now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything you liked with the clock. for instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons. you'd only have to whisper a hint to time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! half past one, time for dinner. march hare i only wish it was. alice that would be grand, certainly, but then--i shouldn't be hungry for it, you know. hatter not at first, perhaps, but you could keep it to half past one as long as you liked. alice is that the way _you_ manage? hatter not i, we quarreled last march--just before _he_ went mad, you know. it was at the great concert given by the queen of hearts and i had to sing. "twinkle, twinkle, little bat! how i wonder what you're at!" you know the song, perhaps. alice i've heard something like it. dormouse twinkle, twinkle, twinkle-- hatter well, i'd hardly finished the first verse when the queen bawled out, "he's murdering the time! off with his head!" alice how dreadfully savage! hatter and ever since that, he won't do a thing i ask! it's always six o'clock now. alice is that the reason so many tea things are put out here? hatter yes, that's it; it's always tea time, and we've no time to wash the things between whiles. alice then you keep moving round, i suppose? hatter exactly so, as the things get used up. alice but when you come to the beginning again? march hare suppose we change the subject. i vote the young lady tells us a story. alice i'm afraid i don't know one. march hare and hatter then the dormouse shall. wake up dormouse. [_they pinch him on both sides at once._] dormouse [_opens his eyes slowly and says in a hoarse, feeble voice._] i wasn't asleep, i heard every word you fellows were saying. march hare tell us a story. alice yes, please do! hatter and be quick about it, or you'll be asleep again before it's done. dormouse once upon a time there were three little sisters, and their names were elsie, lacie, and tillie and they lived at the bottom of a well-- alice what did they live on? [illustration] dormouse they lived on treacle. alice they couldn't have done that, you know, they'd have been ill. dormouse so they were, _very_ ill. alice but why did they live at the bottom of a well? march hare take some more tea. alice i've had nothing yet, so i can't take more. hatter you mean, you can't take _less_; it's very easy to take _more_ than nothing. alice nobody asked _your_ opinion. hatter who's making personal remarks now? alice [_helps herself to tea and bread and butter._] why did they live at the bottom of a well? dormouse [_takes a minute or two to think._] it was a treacle-well. alice there's no such thing! hatter and march hare sh! sh! dormouse if you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself. alice [_very humbly._] no, please go on. i won't interrupt you again. i dare say there may be _one_. dormouse one, indeed! and so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know-- alice what did they draw? dormouse treacle. hatter i want a clean cup. let's all move one place on. [_hatter moves on, dormouse takes his place, march hare takes dormouse's place and alice unwillingly takes march hare's place._] alice i'm worse off than i was before. you've upset the milk jug into your plate. march hare it wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited. alice where did they draw the treacle from? hatter you can draw water out of a water well, so i should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle well--eh, stupid? alice but they were _in_ the well. dormouse of course they were--well in. they were learning to draw, and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an m-- alice why with an m? [illustration] march hare why not? [_alice is silent and confused. hatter pinches dormouse to wake him up._] dormouse [_wakes with a little shriek and continues._] --that begins with an m, such as mousetraps and the moon and memory and muchness--you know you say things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness? hatter did you? alice really now you ask me, i don't think-- hatter then you shouldn't talk. march hare no! alice [_rises and walks away._] you are very rude. it's the stupidest tea party i ever was at in all my life-- [_white rabbit enters carrying a huge envelope with a seal and crown on it._] march hare and hatter no room! no room! [_rabbit pays no attention to them but goes to the house and raps loudly. a footman in livery with a round face and large eyes like a frog and powdered hair opens the door._] white rabbit for the duchess. an invitation from the queen to play croquet. frog from the queen. an invitation for the duchess to play croquet. [_white rabbit bows and goes out._] march hare and hatter [_to white rabbit._] no room! no room! no room! [_the frog disappears into the house but leaves the door open. there is a terrible din and many sauce pans fly out._] march hare she's at it again. hatter it's perfectly disgusting. march hare let's move on. [_the platform moves off with table, chairs, march hare, hatter, and dormouse. meanwhile the frog has come out again and is sitting near the closed door, staring stupidly at the sky. alice goes to the door timidly and knocks._] frog there's no sort of use in knocking, and that for two reasons: first, because i'm on the same side of the door as you are; secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you. alice please then, how am i to get in? frog there might be some sense in your knocking if we had the door between us. for instance, if you were _inside_, you might knock, and i could let you out, you know. alice how am i to get in? frog i shall sit here, till tomorrow. [_the door opens and a large plate skims out straight at the frog's head; it grazes his nose and breaks into pieces._] [_frog acts as if nothing had happened._] or next day, maybe. alice how am i to get in? frog _are_ you to get in at all? that's the first question, you know. alice it's really dreadful the way all you creatures argue. it's enough to drive one crazy. frog i shall sit here, on and off, for days and days. alice but what am i to do? frog anything you like. [_he begins to whistle._] alice where's the servant whose business it is to answer the door? frog which door? alice _this_ door, of course! [illustration: frog: i shall sit here till tomorrow.] [_the frog looks at the door, and rubs his thumb on it to see if the paint will come off._] [illustration] frog to answer the door? what's it been asking for? alice i don't know what you mean. frog i speaks english, doesn't i? or are you deaf? what did it ask you? alice nothing! i've been knocking at it. frog shouldn't do that--shouldn't do that, vexes it, you know. [_he kicks the door._] you let _it_ alone, and it'll let _you_ alone, you know. alice oh, there's no use talking to you-- [_she starts to open the door just as the duchess comes out carrying a pig in baby's clothes. she sneezes--frog sneezes and alice sneezes._] duchess if everybody minded her own business-- [_she sneezes._] alice it's pepper. duchess of course, my cook puts it in the soup. alice there's certainly too much pepper in the soup. duchess sneeze then and get rid of it! [_duchess begins to sing to the baby, giving it a violent shake at the end of every line of the lullaby._] "speak roughly to your little boy, and beat him when he sneezes; [_frog and alice sneeze._] he only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases. [_duchess sneezes, frog sneezes, alice sneezes._] i speak severely to my boy, i beat him when he sneezes; [_frog sneezes, alice sneezes._] for he can thoroughly enjoy the pepper when he pleases!" [_duchess sneezes, frog sneezes, alice sneezes, duchess gasps and gives a tremendous sneeze._] alice oh dear! [_she jumps aside as kettles and pots come flying out of the door. the duchess pays no attention._] what a cook to have! [_she calls inside._] oh! _please_ mind what you're doing! [_another pan comes out and almost hits the baby._] oh! there goes his _precious_ nose! duchess if everybody minded her own business, the world would go round a deal faster than it does. alice which would not be an advantage. just think what work it would make with the day and night! you see the earth takes twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis-- duchess talking of axes, chop off her head! [_the head of a grinning cheshire cat appears in a tree above a wall._] alice oh, what's that? duchess cat, of course. alice why does it grin like that? duchess it's a cheshire cat! and that's why. [_to baby._] pig! [illustration: duchess: i speak severely to my boy, i beat him when he sneezes.] alice i didn't know that cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, i didn't know that cats _could_ grin. duchess they all can and most of 'em do. alice i don't know of any that do. duchess you don't know much and that's a fact. here, you may nurse it a bit, if you like! [_flings the baby at alice._] i must go and get ready to play croquet with the queen. [_she goes into the house._] alice if i don't take this child away with me, they're sure to kill it in a day or two. cheshire puss, would you tell me please, which way i ought to walk from here? cat that depends a good deal on where you want to get to. alice i don't much care where-- cat then it doesn't matter which way you walk. alice so long as i get _somewhere_. cat oh, you're sure to do that, if you only walk long enough. alice please, will you tell me what sort of people live about here? cat all mad people. alice but i don't want to go among mad people. cat oh, you can't help that; we're all mad here. i'm mad. he's mad. he's dreaming now, and what do you think he's dreaming about? alice [_goes to the frog to scrutinize his face._] nobody could guess that. cat why, about you! and if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be? alice where i am now, of course. cat not you. you'd be nowhere. why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream; and you're mad too. alice how do you know i'm mad? cat you must be, or you wouldn't have come here. alice how do you know that you're mad? cat to begin with, a dog's not mad. you grant that? alice i suppose so. cat well then, you see a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. now i growl when i'm pleased, and wag my tail when i'm angry. therefore i'm mad. alice i call it purring, not growling. [illustration] cat call it what you like. do you play croquet with the queen today? alice i should like it very much, but i haven't been invited yet. cat you'll see me there. [_vanishes._] alice [_to squirming baby._] oh, dear, it's heavy and so ugly. don't grunt--oh--oh--it's a--pig. please mr. footman take it! frog [_rises with dignity, whistles and disappears into the house; a kettle comes bounding out. alice puts pig down and it crawls off._] cat [_appearing again._] by-the-bye, what became of the baby? alice it turned into a pig. cat i thought it would. [_vanishes._] [_frog comes out of the house with hedgehogs and flamingoes._] cat [_reappearing._] did you say pig, or fig? alice i said pig; and i wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly; you make one quite giddy. cat all right. [_it vanishes slowly._] [_frog puts flamingoes down and reenters house. while alice is examining the flamingoes curiously, tweedledum and tweedledee, each with an arm round the other's neck, sidestep in and stand looking at alice._] alice [_turns, sees them, starts in surprise and involuntarily whispers._] tweedle--dee. dum dum! dee if you think we're waxworks, you ought to pay. dum contrariwise, if you think we're alive, you ought to speak. dee the first thing in a visit is to say "how d'ye do?" and shake hands! [_the brothers give each other a hug, then hold out the two hands that are free, to shake hands with her. alice does not like shaking hands with either of them first, for fear of hurting the other one's feelings; she takes hold of both hands at once and they all dance round in a ring, quite naturally to music, "here we go round the mulberry bush."_] alice would you tell me which road leads out of-- dee what shall i repeat to her? dum the "walrus and the carpenter" is the longest. [_gives his brother an affectionate hug._] dee the sun was shining-- alice if it's very long, would you please tell me first which road-- dee the moon was shining sulkily. dum the sea was wet as wet could be-- dee o oysters, come and walk with us the walrus did beseech-- dum [_looks at dee._] a pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, along the briny beach-- dee [_looks at dum._] the eldest oyster winked his eye and shook his heavy head-- dum [_looks at dee._] meaning to say he did not choose to leave the oyster bed. dee but four young oysters hurried up and yet another four-- dum and thick and fast they came at last, and more, and more, and more-- dee the walrus and the carpenter walked on a mile or so, dum and then they rested on a rock conveniently low, dee and all the little oysters stood and waited in a row. dum "a loaf of bread," the walrus said, "is what we chiefly need. dee now if you're ready, oysters dear, we can begin to feed." dum "but not on us!" the oysters cried, turning a little blue. dee "the night is fine," the walrus said, "do you admire the view?" dum the carpenter said nothing but "cut us another slice. i wish you were not quite so deaf-- i've had to ask you twice!" dee "it seems a shame," the walrus said, "to play them such a trick, after we've brought them out so far, and made them trot so quick!" dum "o, oysters," said the carpenter, "you've had a pleasant run! dee shall we be trotting home again?" dum but answer came there none-- dee and this was scarcely odd, because dum they'd eaten every-- dee [_interrupts in a passion, pointing to a white rattle on the ground._] do you see _that_? alice it's only a rattle-- dum [_stamps wildly and tears his hair._] i knew it was! it's spoilt of course. my nice new rattle! [_to dee._] you agree to have a battle? [_he collects sauce pans and pots._] dee [_picks up a sauce pan._] i suppose so. let's fight till dinner. [_they go out hand in hand._] alice [_hears music._] i wonder what is going to happen next. [_she backs down stage respectfully as the king and queen of hearts enter, followed by the knave of hearts carrying the king's crown on a crimson velvet cushion, and the white rabbit and others. when they come opposite to alice they stop and look at her._] [_the duchess comes out of her house._] queen [_to the knave._] who is this? [illustration] knave [_bows three times, smiles and giggles._] queen idiot! what's your name, child? alice my name is alice, so please your majesty. queen off with her head! off-- alice nonsense! king consider, my dear, she is only a child. queen can you play croquet? alice yes. queen come on then. get to your places. where are the mallets? duchess here. [_the frog appears with the flamingoes and hedgehogs._] queen off with his head! [_no one pays any attention._] knave what fun! alice what is the fun? knave why she; it's all her fancy, that. they never execute anyone. alice what does one do? queen get to your places! [_she takes a flamingo, uses its neck as a mallet and a hedgehog as a ball. the frog doubles himself into an arch. the king does the same with the followers and the knave offers himself as an arch for alice. even though alice does not notice him he holds the arch position. the queen shouts at intervals, "off with his head, off with her head."_] alice where are the chess queens? rabbit under sentence of execution. alice what for? rabbit did you say, "what a pity"? alice no, i didn't. i don't think it's at all a pity. i said, "what for?" rabbit they boxed the queen's ears. [_alice gives a little scream of laughter._] rabbit oh, hush! the queen will hear you! you see they came rather late and the queen said--oh dear, the queen hears me-- [_he hurries away._] alice [_noticing the knave who still pretends to be an arch._] how _can_ you go on thinking so quietly, with your head downwards? knave what does it matter where my body happens to be? my mind goes on working just the same. the fact of it is, the more head downwards i am, the more i keep on inventing new things. king did you happen to meet any soldiers, my dear, as you came through the wood? alice yes, i did; several thousand i should think. king four thousand, two hundred and seven, that's the exact number. they couldn't send all the horses, you know, because two of them are wanted in the game. and i haven't sent the two messengers, either. alice what's the war about? king the red chess king has the whole army against us but he can't kill a man who has thirteen hearts. [_the duchess, queen, frog, and followers go out. the knave and the five-spot, seven-spot, and nine-spot of hearts stand behind the king._] [illustration: king: i only wish i had such eyes; to be able to see nobody!] king just look along the road and tell me if you can see either of my messengers. alice i see nobody on the road. king i only wish i had such eyes; to be able to see nobody! and at that distance too! why, it's as much as i can do to see real people, by this light. alice i see somebody now! but he's coming very slowly--and what curious attitudes he goes into--skipping up and down, and wriggling like an eel. king not at all, those are anglo-saxon attitudes. he only does them when he's happy. i must have two messengers, you know--to come and go. one to come and one to go. alice i beg your pardon? king it isn't respectable to beg. alice i only meant that i didn't understand. why one to come and one to go? king don't i tell you? i must have two--to fetch and carry. one to fetch, and one to carry. march hare [_enters, pants for breath--waves his hands about and makes fearful faces at the king._] king you alarm me! i feel faint--give me a ham sandwich. another sandwich! march hare there's nothing but hay left now. king hay, then. there's nothing like eating hay when you're faint. alice i should think throwing cold water over you would be better. king i didn't say there was nothing _better_; i said there was nothing _like_ it. king who did you pass on the road? march hare nobody. king quite right; this young lady saw him too. so of course nobody walks slower than you. march hare i do my best; i'm sure nobody walks much faster than i do. king he can't do that; or else he'd have been here first. however, now you've got your breath, you may tell us what's happened in the town. march hare i'll whisper it. [_much to alice's surprise, he shouts into the king's ear._] they're at it again! king do you call _that_ a whisper? if you do such a thing again, i'll have you buttered. it went through and through my head like an earthquake. give me details, quick! [_the king and march hare go out, followed by five, seven, and nine spots._] duchess [_runs in and tucks her arm affectionately into alice's._] you can't think how glad i am to see you again, you dear old thing! alice oh! duchess you're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. i can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but i shall remember it in a bit. alice perhaps it hasn't one. duchess tut, tut, child! everything's got a moral, if only you can find it. [_squeezes closely, digs her chin into alice's shoulder, and roughly drags alice along for a walk._] alice the game's going on rather better now. duchess 'tis so, and the moral of that is--"oh, 'tis love, 'tis love, that makes the world go round!" alice somebody said, that it's done by everybody minding their own business. duchess ah, well! it means much the same thing, and the moral of _that_ is--"take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves." alice how fond you are of finding morals in things. duchess i daresay you're wondering why i don't put my arm round your waist. the reason is, that i'm doubtful about the temper of your flamingo. shall i try the experiment? alice he might bite. duchess very true; flamingoes and mustard both bite. and the moral of that is--"birds of a feather flock together." alice only mustard isn't a bird. duchess right, as usual; what a clear way you have of putting things. alice it's a mineral, i _think_. duchess of course it is; there's a large mustard mine near here. and the moral of that is--"the more there is of mine, the less there is of yours." alice oh! i know, it's a vegetable. it doesn't look like one, but it is. duchess i quite agree with you, and the moral of that is--"be what you would seem to be;" or, if you'd like it put more simply, "never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise." alice i think i should understand that better if i had it written down, but i can't quite follow it as you say it. duchess that's nothing to what i could say if i chose. alice pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that. duchess oh, don't talk about trouble; i make you a present of everything i've said as yet. alice uhm! duchess thinking again? alice i've got a right to think. duchess just about as much right as pigs have to fly, and the moral-- [_the arm of the duchess begins to tremble and her voice dies down. the queen of hearts stands before them with folded arms and frowning like a thunderstorm._] duchess a fine day, your majesty. queen now, i give you fair warning, either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time. take your choice! [_the duchess goes meekly into the house._] [illustration] queen let's go on with the game. [_she goes off and shouts at intervals, "off with his head; off with her head."_] cat how are you getting on? alice it's no use speaking to you till your ears have come. i don't think they play at all fairly and they all quarrel so and they don't seem to have any rules in particular. and you've no idea how confusing it is with all the things alive; there's the arch i've got to go through next walking about at the other end of the ground--and i should have croqueted the queen's hedgehog just now, only it ran away when it saw mine coming. [_music begins._] cat how do you like the queen? alice not at all; she's so extremely-- [_the king, queen and entire court enter. the queen is near to alice. the music stops and all look at alice questioningly._] [_alice tries to propitiate the queen._] --likely to win, [_music continues._] that it's hardly worth while finishing the game. [_queen smiles and passes on._] king who _are_ you talking to? alice it's a friend of mine--a cheshire cat--allow me to introduce it. king i don't like the look of it at all; however, it may kiss my hand if it likes. cat i'd rather not. king don't be impertinent and don't look at me like that. alice a cat may look at a king. i've read that in some book, but i don't remember where. king well, it must be removed. my dear! i wish you would have this cat removed. queen off with his head! knave but you can't cut off a head unless there's a body to cut it off from. king anything that has a head can be beheaded. queen if something isn't done about it in less than no time, i'll have everybody executed, all round. alice it belongs to the duchess; you'd better ask her about it. duchess it's a lie! cat you'd better ask me. do it if you can. [_it grins away. the duchess and frog escape into the house._] queen cut it off! king it's gone. everybody it's gone! it's gone! where, where, where-- queen cut it off. cut them all off! everybody no, no, no! alice save me, save me! knave [_shouts to alice and gives her a tart for safety._] take a tart! queen [_seeing alice stand out a moment from the others._] cut hers off! cut hers off! others [_glad to distract queen's attention from themselves._] cut hers off, cut hers off, cut-- alice [_cries in fear and takes a quick bite at the tart. if there is a trap door on the stage alice disappears down it, leaving the crowd circling around the hole screaming and amazed. if the stage has no trap door, a bridge is built across the footlights with stairs leading down into the orchestra pit. when the crowd is chasing alice she jumps over the footlights onto the bridge and as the curtain is falling dividing her from the crowd she appeals to the audience, "save me, save me, who will save me?" and runs down the stairs and disappears._] curtain act iii scene one _is a garden of high, very conventional and artificial looking flowers. on a large mushroom sits the caterpillar smoking a hookah. alice is whirling about trying to get her equilibrium after her fall. she goes to the mushroom timidly and, conscious of her size, for her chin reaches the top of the mushroom, she gazes at the caterpillar wonderingly. he looks at her lazily and speaks in a languid voice._ caterpillar who are you? alice i--i hardly know, sir, just at present. the queen frightened me so and i've had an awfully funny fall down a tunnel or a sort of well. at least i know who i was when i got up this morning, but i think i must have been changed several times since then. caterpillar what do you mean by that? explain yourself. alice i can't explain myself, i'm afraid, sir, because i'm not myself, you see. being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing. [illustration] caterpillar you! who are you? alice i think you ought to tell me who you are, first. caterpillar why? [_as alice turns away._] come back. i've something important to say. [_alice comes back._] keep your temper. alice is that all? caterpillar no. [_he puffs at the hookah in silence; finally takes it out of his mouth and unfolds his arms._] so you think you're changed, do you? alice i'm afraid i am, sir; i don't keep the same size. caterpillar what size do you want to be? alice i don't know. at least i've never been so small as a caterpillar. caterpillar [_rears angrily._] it is a very good height indeed. alice but i'm not used to it; i wish you wouldn't all be so easily offended. caterpillar you'll get used to it in time. alice are you too big or am i too small? [_she compares her height wonderingly with the tall flowers._] caterpillar [_looks at her sleepily, yawns, shakes himself, slides down from the mushroom and crawls slowly away._] one side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter. alice one side of what? the other side of what? caterpillar of the mushroom. [_alice hesitates, then embraces mushroom and picks bit from each side._] [_three gardeners representing spades enter carrying brushes and red paint cans._] two-spot look out now, five. don't go splashing paint over me like that. five-spot i couldn't help it. seven jogged my elbow. seven-spot that's right, five, always lay the blame on others. five-spot you'd better not talk. i heard the queen say only yesterday you deserved to be beheaded. two-spot what for? seven-spot that's none of your business, two. five-spot yes, it is his business, and i'll tell him. it was for bringing the cook tulip roots instead of onions. seven-spot well, of all the unjust things-- [_sees alice; others look around, all bow._] alice could you please tell me what side to eat? [_five and seven look at two._] two-spot i don't know anything about it. [_he paints a white rose, red._] you ought to have been red, we put you in by mistake, and if the queen was to find it out we should all have our heads cut off. [_a thumping is heard off stage and the music grows louder and louder._] alice what's that? five-spot the white chess queen. seven-spot don't let her see what we are doing. two-spot she'll tell on us. seven-spot run out and stop her from coming here. five-spot [_to alice as she runs to the right._] no, no, the other way. alice but she's off there! two-spot you can only meet her by walking the other way. alice oh! what nonsense. all the gardeners go the other way! alice [_re-enters in dismay and dashes out to the left._] she's running away from me. [_the white queen backs in from right and alice backs in from left. they meet. the gardeners cry "the queen" and throw themselves flat upon the ground; their backs are like the backs of the rest of the pack. music stops. alice looks at the queen curiously._] alice oh, there you are! why, i'm just the size i was when i saw you last. white queen of course you are, and who are these? i can't tell them by their backs. [_she turns them over with her foot._] turn over. ah! i thought so! get up! what have you been doing here? two-spot may it please your majesty, we were trying-- white queen [_examines rose._] i see! begone, or i'll send the horses after you, and tell the queen of hearts. [_gardeners rush off. the red queen enters. alice has gone to the mushroom again to look at its sides and there to her amazement finds a gold crown and scepter, which she immediately appropriates. music. the queens watch alice superciliously. alice puts on her crown, proudly exclaiming in great elation, "queen alice," and walks down stage bowing right and left to the homage of imaginary subjects. she repeats as if scarcely daring to believe it true, "queen alice." music stops._] red queen ridiculous! alice isn't this the eighth square? red queen you can't be a queen, you know, till you've passed the proper examination. white queen the sooner we begin it, the better. alice please, would you tell me-- red queen speak when you're spoken to. alice but if everybody obeyed that rule, and if you only spoke when you were spoken to, and the other person always waited for you to begin, you see nobody would ever say anything, so that-- red queen preposterous. alice i only said "if." red queen she says she only said "if." white queen [_moans and wrings her hands._] but she said a great deal more than that. ah, yes, so much more than that. red queen so you did, you know; always speak the truth--think before you speak--and write it down afterwards. alice i'm sure i didn't mean-- red queen that's just what i complained of. you _should_ have meant! what do you suppose is the use of a child without any meaning? even a joke should have some meaning--and a child's more important than a joke, i hope. you couldn't deny that, even if you tried with both hands. alice i don't deny things with my _hands_. red queen nobody said you did. i said you couldn't if you tried. white queen she's in that state of mind, that she wants to deny _something_--only she doesn't know what to deny! red queen a nasty, vicious temper. i invite you to alice's dinner party this afternoon. white queen and i invite _you_. alice i didn't know i was to have a party at all; but if there is to be one, i think i ought to invite the guests. red queen we gave you the opportunity of doing it, but i dare say you've not had many lessons in manners yet. alice manners are not taught in lessons; lessons teach you to do sums, and things of that sort. white queen can you do addition? what's one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one and one? alice i don't know. i lost count. red queen she can't do addition; can you do subtraction? take nine from eight. alice nine from eight i can't, you know, but-- white queen she can't do subtraction. can you do division? divide a loaf by a knife--what's the answer to that? alice i suppose-- red queen [_answers for her._] bread and butter, of course. try another subtraction sum. take a bone from a dog; what remains? alice the bone wouldn't remain, of course, if i took it--and the dog wouldn't remain; it would come to bite me--and i'm sure i shouldn't remain. red queen then you think nothing would remain? alice i think that's the answer. red queen wrong as usual; the dog's temper would remain. alice but i don't see how-- red queen why, look here; the dog would lose its temper, wouldn't it? alice perhaps it would. red queen then if the dog went away, its temper would remain! alice they might go different ways! what dreadful nonsense we _are_ talking. both queens she can't do sums a bit! alice can _you_ do sums? white queen i can do addition, if you give me time--but i can't do _subtraction_ under _any_ circumstances. red queen of course you know your a, b, c? alice to be sure i do. white queen so do i; we'll often say it over together, dear. and i'll tell you a secret--i can read words of one letter. isn't that grand? however, don't be discouraged. you'll come to it in time. red queen can you answer useful questions? how is bread made? alice i know _that_! you take some flour-- white queen where do you pick the flower? in a garden or in the hedges? alice well, it isn't _picked_ at all. it's ground-- white queen how many acres of ground? you mustn't leave out so many things. red queen fan her head! she'll be feverish after so much thinking. [_they fan her with bunches of leaves which blow her hair wildly._] alice please--please-- red queen she's all right again now. do you know languages? what's the french for fiddle-de-dee? alice fiddle-de-dee's not english. red queen who ever said it was? alice if you tell me what language fiddle-de-dee is, i'll tell you the french for it! red queen queens never make bargains! alice i wish queens never asked questions! white queen don't let us quarrel; what is the cause of lightning? alice the cause of lightning is the thunder--no, no! i meant the other way. red queen it's too late to correct it; when you've once said a thing, that fixes it, and you must take the consequences. white queen we had _such_ a thunderstorm next tuesday, you can't think. red queen she _never_ could, you know. white queen part of the roof came off, and ever so much thunder got in--and it went rolling round the room in great lumps--and knocking over the tables and things--till i was so frightened, i couldn't remember my own name! alice i never should _try_ to remember my name in the middle of an accident. where would be the use of it? red queen you must excuse her. she means well, but she can't help saying foolish things, as a general rule. she never was really well brought up, but it's amazing how good tempered she is! pat her on the head, and see how pleased she'll be! a little kindness and putting her hair in papers would do wonders with her. white queen [_gives a deep sigh and leans her head on alice's shoulder._] i _am_ so sleepy! red queen she's tired, poor thing; smooth her hair--lend her your night cap--and sing her a soothing lullaby. alice i haven't got a night cap with me, and i don't know any soothing lullabies. red queen i must do it myself, then. [illustration: alice: do wake up, you heavy things!] hush-a-by lady, in alice's lap! till the feast's ready, we've time for a nap; when the feast's over, we'll go to the ball-- red queen and white queen and alice and all! and now you know the words. [_she puts her head on alice's other shoulder._] just sing it through to _me_. i'm getting sleepy too. [_both queens fall fast asleep and snore loudly._] alice what _am_ i to do? take care of two queens asleep at once? do wake up, you heavy things! [_all lights go out, leaving a mysterious glow on alice and the queens._] white rabbit [_blows trumpet off stage._] the trial's beginning! alice what trial is it? white rabbit who stole the tarts. alice i ate a tart. white rabbit you've got to be tried. alice i don't want to be tried. white rabbit you've got to be tried. alice i won't be tried--i won't-i won't! scene two _is a court room suggesting playing cards. the jurymen are all kinds of creatures. the king and queen of hearts are seated on the throne. the knave is before them in chains. the white rabbit has a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. in the middle of the court stands a table with a large dish of tarts upon it._ white rabbit [_blows three blasts on his trumpet._] silence in the court! alice [_watches jurymen writing busily on their slates._] what are they doing? they can't have anything to put down yet, before the trial's begun. knave they're putting down their names for fear they should forget them before the end of the trial. alice stupid things! white rabbit silence in the court! jurors [_write in chorus._] stupid things! one juror how do you spell stupid? alice a nice muddle their slates will be in before the trial's over. queen there's a pencil squeaking. cut it down! jurors [_in chorus as they write._] squeaking-- king [_wears a crown over his wig; puts on his spectacles as he says._] herald, read the accusation! [illustration] white rabbit [_blows three blasts on his trumpet, unrolls parchment scroll and reads to music._] the queen of hearts, she made some tarts, all on a summer day; the knave of hearts, he stole those tarts, and took them quite away! king consider your verdict! white rabbit not yet, not yet; there's a great deal to come before that. king call the first witness. white rabbit first witness! hatter [_comes in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread and butter in the other._] i beg your pardon, your majesty, for bringing these in, but i hadn't quite finished my tea when i was sent for. king you ought to have finished; when did you begin? hatter [_looks at the march hare, who follows him arm-in-arm with the dormouse._] fourteenth of march, i _think_ it was. march hare fifteenth. dormouse sixteenth. king write that down. jury fourteen, fifteen, sixteen--forty-five. reduce that to shillings-- king take off your hat. hatter it isn't mine. king _stolen!_ jury stolen! hatter i keep them to sell. i've none of my own. i'm a hatter. queen of hearts [_puts on her spectacles and stares at hatter, who fidgets uncomfortably._] king give your evidence and don't be nervous, or i'll have you executed on the spot. [_the hatter continues to shift nervously from one foot to the other, looks uneasily at the queen, trembles so that he shakes off both of his shoes, and in his confusion bites a large piece out of his teacup instead of the bread and butter._] hatter i'm a poor man, your majesty, and i hadn't but just begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what with the bread and butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the tea-- king the twinkling of _what_? hatter it began with the tea. king of course twinkling begins with a t. do you take me for a dunce? go on! hatter i'm a poor man and most things twinkled after that--only the march hare said-- march hare i didn't! hatter you did. march hare i deny it. king he denies it; leave out that part. queen but what did the dormouse say? hatter that i can't remember. king you _must_ remember or i'll have you executed. hatter [_drops teacup and bread and butter and goes down on one knee._] i'm a poor man, your majesty. king if that's all you know about it you may stand down. hatter i can't go no lower; i'm on the floor as it is. king then you may sit down. hatter i'd rather finish my tea. king you may go. [_the hatter goes out hurriedly, leaving one of his shoes behind._] queen [_nonchalantly to an officer._] and just take his head off outside. [_but the hatter was out of sight before the officer could get to the door._] king call the next witness! white rabbit next witness! [_the duchess enters with a pepper pot, which she shakes about. everybody begins to sneeze. march hare sneezes and rushes out._] king give your evidence! duchess shan't! white rabbit your majesty must cross-examine _this_ witness. king well, if i must, i must. what does your cook say tarts are made of? duchess pepper. [_the duchess shakes the pot and the court sneezes._] dormouse treacle! [_the duchess shakes the pot at him. he sneezes for the first time._] queen collar the dormouse! behead the dormouse! turn that dormouse out of court! suppress him! pinch him! off with his whiskers! [_the whole court is in confusion, turning the dormouse out, and while it is settling down again the duchess disappears._] white rabbit the duchess! court she's gone--she's gone. king never mind! [_in a low tone to the queen._] really, my dear, _you_ must cross-examine the next witness. it quite makes my forehead ache! call the next witness! white rabbit [_fumbles with the parchment, then cries in a shrill little voice._] alice! alice here! king what do you know about this business? alice nothing whatever. king [_to the jury._] that's very important. white rabbit _un_important, your majesty means, of course. king _un_important, of course i meant. important--unimportant--unimportant-- important. consider your verdict! [_some of the jury write "important" and some write "unimportant."_] white rabbit there's more evidence to come yet, please your majesty; this paper has just been picked up. queen what's in it? white rabbit [_fumbles with a huge envelope._] i haven't opened it yet, but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody. king it must have been that unless it was written to nobody, which isn't usual, you know. alice who is it directed to? white rabbit it isn't directed at all; in fact, there's nothing written on the _outside_. [_takes out a tiny piece of paper._] it isn't a letter at all; it's a set of verses. queen are they in the prisoner's handwriting? [_the jury brightens up._] white rabbit [_looks at the knave's hand. knave hides his hand; the chains rattle._] no, they're not, and that's the queerest thing about it. [_the jury looks puzzled._] king he must have imitated somebody else's hand! knave please, your majesty, i didn't write it and they can't prove i did; there's no name signed at the end. king if you didn't sign it that only makes the matter worse. you _must_ have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your name like an honest man. [_at this there is a general clapping of hands._] queen that _proves_ his guilt. alice it proves nothing of the sort! why, you don't even know what they're about. king read them! white rabbit [_puts on his monocle._] where shall i begin, please your majesty? king begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end, then stop. white rabbit "they told me you had been to her, and mentioned me to him; she gave me a good character, but said i could not swim. "i gave her one, they gave him two, you gave us three or more; they all returned from him to you, though they were mine before. "my notion was that you had been (before she had this fit) an obstacle that came between him, and ourselves, and it. "don't let him know she liked him best, for this must ever be a secret, kept from all the rest, between yourself and me." king that's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet; so now let the jury-- alice if anyone of them can explain it, i'll give him sixpence. i don't believe there's an atom of meaning in it. jury she doesn't believe there's an atom of meaning in it. king if there's no meaning in it, that saves a world of trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. and yet i don't know. [_spreads out the verses on his knee and studies them._] i seem to see some meaning after all. "said i could not swim." you can't swim, can you? knave [_shakes his head sadly and points to his suit._] do i look like it? king all right, so far; "we know it to be true," that's the jury, of course; "i gave her one, they gave him two" why that must be what he did with the tarts, you know-- alice but it goes on "they all returned from _him_ to _you_." king [_triumphantly pointing to the tarts._] why, there they are! nothing can be clearer than that. then again, "before she had this fit," you never had fits, my dear, i think? queen never! king then the words don't _fit_ you. [_there is dead silence, while the king looks around at the court with a smile._] king it's a pun! [_everybody laughs. music._] king let the jury consider their verdict. queen no, no! sentence first--verdict afterwards. alice stuff and nonsense! queen [_furiously._] hold your tongue! alice i won't! queen off with her head! alice who cares for you? queen cut it off! alice you're nothing but a pack of cards! [_as lights go out and curtain falls all the characters hold their positions as if petrified._] curtain scene three [_the curtain rises to show alice still asleep in the armchair, the fire in the grate suffusing her with its glow._] carroll wake up, alice, it is time for tea. [_off stage the characters repeat their most characteristic lines, "off with her head," "consider your verdict," "oh! my fur and whiskers"; the duchess sneezes, the cat cries, as if the characters were fading away into the pack of real playing cards which shower through the mirror all over alice. there is music._] alice [_wakes, rises, and looks about in surprise and wonderment._] why----it was a dream! curtain this project is dedicated with love to emmy's memory. [transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected without note. this book was published in and is a product of its time; it contains ethnic and racial stereotypes that modern readers may find offensive.] christmas candles _plays for boys and girls_ by elsie hobart carter [illustration] new york henry holt and company copyright, , by henry holt and company published november, printed, november, printed in the u s a by the quinn & boden company rahway n j [illustration: marie tells the story _the babushka_, page ] to the memory of w.n.h. who loved both plays and players thanks are due to the century company; mr. tudor jenks; miss k.a. prichard; mrs. mary wilkins freeman; the lothrop, lee & shepard company; colonel thomas e. davis; miss gertrude hall; harper & brothers; the john church company; and the universalist publishing house, for permission to use copyrighted material, as particularly acknowledged throughout the book. contents page suggestions for production xv i. the christ-candle. _in two scenes_ seventeen characters: two, the mother and st. nicholas, played by adults; seven boys and four girls from six to twelve years; four boys, or three boys and a girl, fourteen to eighteen. important parts fall to three of the younger children, two boys and one girl, and the star-child must be able to sing alone. setting: st. snow-scene in forest. nd. interior,--a poor hovel. time of playing: minutes. this play makes use of the old german belief that the christ-child returns to earth each christmas eve to seek shelter among men. a little waif, lost in the snow, is refused help by the selfishness of happiness, of ill-temper, of poverty, of riches, and is at last received by two little children who take him for the holy child indeed. ii. toinette and the elves. _in two acts_ ten characters: mother's part taken by an adult; three girls and two boys from six to fifteen; four very little boys for elves. setting: quaint cottage interior. time of playing: minutes. toinette, pretty, dreamy, and self-absorbed, tries the elves' christmas-eve gift of fern seed, to make her invisible, and learns that the little brothers and sisters do not love an impatient and unkind older one. much grieved, she tries through the year to correct her faults, but is almost afraid to repeat the experiment when the elves again bring their gift. the friendly elves urge her, and the result is so happy that toinette and the elves have a gay little celebration all by themselves. iii. tom's plan. _in two acts_ nine characters: one adult, for santa claus; four boys and four girls from six to fifteen years. chief part by a boy of eight or nine. setting: one simple interior. time of playing: minutes. tom, hearing that santa claus will bring sticks or ashes to children who are bad, can think of no way to test the disturbing statement, except to be as naughty as he knows how. but santa claus explains matters. iv. their christmas party. _in two acts_ characters: one adult for santa claus; five older children, two boys and three girls; two boys and two girls, seven to nine years for the important parts, and a dozen children from four to ten, with no speaking parts. setting: st. a winter street-scene. nd. simple interior. time of playing: minutes. dick and dot, a lonely little brother and sister, decide to share their christmas with two poor children, while several older friends, hearing the children's wish for a christmas party, plan, independently of each other, to arrange for one. the result is a christmas surprise for everyone. v. the christmas brownie. _in one act_ twenty-four characters: santa claus; three older children for adults, one boy and two girls; three boys and three girls from five to twelve, the important parts being for two boys of ten; four little boys and two little girls, and eight children who can sing, for the tableaux of the christmas dream. setting: simple interior. time of playing: minutes. santa claus' brownie allows ted to help fill the stockings, with a result that perplexes and disturbs their owners, and teaches ted that it takes thoughtfulness as well as good will to make people happy. the brownie's especial gift to ted is a christmas dream. vi. a puritan christmas. _in two acts_ twenty characters: seven boys and four girls, from five to twelve years; the mother, and other adult colonists, taken by boys and girls from seventeen to twenty. setting: one interior, a small cabin in the early days of the colonies. time of playing: minutes. the little puritan family, hearing from their young mother of happy christmas in old england, decide on a celebration of their own. the colonists, surprising them, are very angry, and inclined to severe punishment, until a little indian boy, who has been befriended by mistress delight and her children, shows that, for the sake of her kindness to him, the settlement has been spared a dreaded indian raid. the peace and good will of christmas touch the stern hearts of the puritans, and they end by a friendly sharing of the festival. vii. the christmas monks. _in three acts_ twenty-five characters, all but two with speaking parts. two may double. one adult for the abbot. eight older boys, four older girls. seven boys, five girls, from five to ten years. setting: st. roadway, outside the convent walls. nd. the christmas garden. rd. chapel of the convent. time of playing: minutes. it is unknown to many people that the christmas toys grow from seed in the garden of the christmas monks. the play relates the adventures of the prince, peter, and peter's little sister, in this wonderful place. viii. the spell of christmas. _in two scenes_ fourteen characters: eight boys and six girls, from six to sixteen years. also a few voices for the singing of the waits' carol off stage. setting: two scenes--seventeenth century interiors. time of playing: minutes. the old belief that at midnight on christmas eve the family portraits come to life, step down from their places, and join hands in a stately dance, leads the children to slip out of their beds at an unwonted hour, and so to take a hand in the adventures of their elders, quite beyond their ken. ix. the babushka. _a russian legend, in one scene_ twenty-four characters: one adult, or older girl, able to bring intelligence and sympathy to the part of the mysterious babushka; two men, or older boys; five boys and four girls, from six to fourteen; and village children, five boys, seven girls. one of the men and one boy, the village fiddlers, should be able to play their violins to accompany the carol. setting: interior,--a russian hovel. time of playing: minutes. tells the story of the strange old woman, who, refusing at the wise men's call to follow the star to the manger of the new-born christ, has ever since in the winter season wandered over the world, seeking in every nursery, in every cradle, for the holy child. x. a canvas christmas. _in two acts. for a boys' club_ fourteen characters: twelve boys, twelve to sixteen; two little boys, six and eight. setting: one scene, interior of a circus tent. time of playing: minutes. two little farm boys who have never seen either a circus or a christmas tree, creep into the tent just as the discontented men are planning rebellion against their leader. the christmas spirit of friendliness softens not only the men, but the surly ringmaster, and the strict and severe father of the boys. xi. minty-malviny's santa claus. _in one act_ seven characters: three adults, two men, one woman; four children, three girls, and one boy, six to ten years. the important part of the pickaninny taken by a girl of ten. setting: modern interior. time of playing: minutes. minty-malviny, the little black drudge of an old-time new orleans boarding-house, falls asleep on the rug of a handsome sitting-room, and waking, takes the owner for ole marse santa claus himself. her faith inspires him to play the part. xii. the hundred. _in one act_ six characters: five women, one little girl of eight or nine, who must be able to carry an important part. setting: mrs. darling's dressing-room. time of playing: minutes. mrs. darling, a charming young widow with a quick temper, has dressed a hundred dolls for an orphan asylum. on christmas eve, sally, the kitchen-maid, brings a little east-side friend to see the dolls, one of which is accidentally broken, to the consternation of the household. but mrs. darling is not the ogress the servants believe her, and tibbie goes home happy, with her arms full of dollies. general notes suggestions for carols illustrations marie tells the story. [_the babushka._] _frontispiece_ facing page hans and gretel. [_the christmas-candle._] hollyberry. [_toinette and the elves._] their christmas party the brownie. [_the christmas brownie._] prudence. eaglefeather. [_a puritan christmas._] the prince. peter and the prince. [_the christmas monks._] allison. [_the spell of christmas._] suggestions for production these little plays were written for the classes and clubs of a small sunday-school, where the christmas celebration consisted of a play to introduce santa claus and a christmas-tree. they are equally suitable for children at home or in day schools, and they have been so used. in most of the plays children greatly enjoy playing the adult parts and do good work in them. but several of the adult rôles call for adult players, because a deeper appreciation of the feeling contained in the story is required than can be given by girls in their teens. such parts are the babushka, the mother in "the christ-candle," and the mother in "toinette." partly for the same reason, a man should be chosen for the abbot in "the christmas monks," but also his presence will lend dignity, and much greater orderliness to rehearsals in a play with a large cast. the last two plays, adapted from stories by well-known writers, "minty-malviny's santa claus" and "the hundred," were not especially intended for children, but as parlor plays for home production. these two throw heavier work upon a single child than any of the other plays, but though they were made with special children in view, it would not be difficult to find, in any group of children, a little girl who could play "minty" or "tibbie" as well as those for whom the parts were first made. the length of the cast in some of the plays need not be daunting, as the principal characters are usually few, the minor ones often having been introduced in answer to the frequent pleading "may _i_ be in the 'show' this year?" though some of the parts are rather long, none are in the least calculated to strain the actors in any way--children act them with zest and absolute naturalness. very little children have sometimes done remarkable work in them--the very youngest, a tiny girl of four, cast for "rosalia" in "the christmas monks," played also another part at twenty-four hours' notice, when a little cousin inopportunely came down with measles on christmas eve. the two children had studied together, and little "rosalia" knew "peggy's" part as well as her own. lighting. no one factor is more important for success in producing children's plays than adequate lighting. no matter how charmingly the setting and costuming may be carried out, no matter how well the children may act their parts, if the audience cannot _see_ them easily, the pains and trouble of the stage force, the best efforts of the children, will be lost. this is an individual problem, each case varying so much from the next that definite directions to fit all cases cannot well be given. but the importance of this one factor can hardly be overestimated. fortunate indeed is the miniature stage with footlights and upper lights so arranged that red and white bulbs are controlled by different switches, each switch having also a dimmer. nor are these things so expensive as to be beyond even rather moderate means, especially if included in the original equipment of the stage. it is more often from lack of experience than because of their initial cost that they are omitted. stage settings. through the same lack of experience or forethought, settings are often provided which are of use in the minimum instead of the maximum number of plays. the simplest cottage interior is more adaptable, and can be used in a greater number of instances than the most attractive of more pronounced "sets." it is therefore invaluable for a small stage, where perhaps but one indoor and one outdoor scene must cover all requirements. all but two of the plays in this volume have been acted upon such a little stage. delays. another point of real importance is to avoid delays. the director should make every effort to this end by attention to the smallest details beforehand, by preparedness when the time of performance comes, and by perfect control of the stage forces. lateness in beginning, and long waits between scenes, are tedious to any audience. they do much to dampen enthusiasm and destroy otherwise happy impressions. care and forethought, practice for those who are to handle scenery, and system in the arrangement of properties and costumes will go a long way towards the elimination of this difficulty. costumes and properties. in giving stage directions and descriptions of costumes, the effort has been towards suggestiveness rather than too great definiteness, and strict adherence to all details is not necessary or intended. it is most important to keep the christmas spirit of the play from being smothered in the mechanics of production. setting and costuming may be elaborate or simple, and every director will know his or her own resources. groups of people interested in such work are apt to accumulate sets of costumes, odd properties, even pieces of furniture, which are convertible to many other uses than those for which they were made. few things are really impossible to compass if one is set upon them. a friendly janitor will spend his leisure upon stage-carpentry. friends rise up--or may be sought--who are interested enough to lend their treasures, or to use their talents. one will draw a latticed window which may be pinned or basted upon a bit of plain wall; another will manufacture a scutcheon for the decoration of a medieval hall, or even paint a sea scene before which alice, the gryphon, and the mock-turtle may disport themselves. materials. gifts of old silk gowns, or even scraps of material, can all be utilized in some way. and in this connection, a word must be said as to the value of _real_ things. use cheese-cloth, cambric, and canton-flannel if you must--a good variety of color may be found in them; canton-flannel is heavy, and hangs well, and up to a certain point they are all effective. but if better things can be had, through gift or loan, it is a matter for rejoicing. not only because better materials mean softer and richer colors, but because they very greatly improve the _texture_ of the stage picture. this difference in quality makes a very marked difference in beauty of effect. occasionally it will be found necessary to hire costumes, and, more often, wigs. but all such things as can be made, with help, by the children and their friends, will add just so much to their interest in the performance, and the good they can get from it. make-up. for plays produced under artificial light, some "make-up" must be used, as otherwise faces are often pale to ghastliness. but for children it should be put on with a very careful and sparing hand, and except in certain character-parts, only a little dry rouge is needed. rehearsing. children's plays should not be over-rehearsed. the smoothness and finish which it is right to demand of older players is hardly possible, or even desirable, for them. the charm of their acting lies in its sweet simplicity and freshness, a part of which is almost sure to be lost in any attempt at professional perfection. when they weary of rehearsals, and lose their enjoyment of them, not only are the director's troubles multiplied, but something vital has been lost from the charm of the final performance. as a preliminary to rehearsals the children should be brought together and the cast read to them, so that each child may know just which part he or she is to act, and the play then read to them by someone thoroughly in sympathy both with its story and with the children themselves. in this way they most quickly catch the spirit of the play, and are at once full of interest and ready with their own suggestions. then the parts may be given out, and the play read again, each child reading his or her own part. mistakes of pronunciation and emphasis are thus guarded against, and the children are ready to begin learning their parts. in the case of school plays, where the whole group can meet daily, more than one such preliminary reading and discussion should be held. if it is a possible thing, rehearse from the beginning on the stage where the play is to be given, having scenery arranged and properties of some sort on hand, in order that lines and action may be impressed on the children's minds together, not learned as distinct and separate things. put into practice early whatever music is to be used. finally, don't let the rehearsals at any time descend to the level of mere _drill_. the director must enjoy them with the children, establishing a happy co-operation which makes the whole work a joy from beginning to end. they will share the spirit of adventure in the matter of obtaining or contriving the most difficult things in the way of costumes, scenery, and properties. their inventiveness will be quickened, their hands will grow skillful, and their triumphant enjoyment of success in these preliminary labors will stimulate them to greater success in the acting of the story. in this, they will be quick to appreciate hints--frequently to offer them--as to the best ways of expressing the meaning and spirit of the play, and work with them becomes an inspiration to all alike. with such whole-hearted co-operation, nothing is impossible of attainment, and the pleasure of the work more than repays ungrudging lavishment of time, labor, patience, and love. the christ-candle a christmas play in two scenes characters mother madelon } who live in the little black hut hans } in the woods. gretel } friedel, whom the christ-child sent. old marta } rich johann } who would not share their christmas. cross jacob } woodcutter } the star child, who brought a christmas message. fritz } heinrich } oscar } to whom the good st. nicholas always karl } comes. jan } barbara } katrina } the good st. nicholas. [illustration: hans and gretel] the christ-candle scene i _christmas eve, in the forest near_ mother madelon's _cottage. the ground is covered with snow and the little evergreens all about are weighted down with it. enter_ fritz (_l._) _with his brothers and sisters, laden with holly boughs and evergreens. the boys drag a sled with a small evergreen tree on it. as they come they sing "softly the echoes come and go."_[ ] [footnote : _hosanna_, p. . new church board of publication, west th st., new york.] fritz. stop here and rest, heinrich. this is too big a load for the little ones. barbara. yes, karl is all out of breath, and little jan can hardly keep up. heinrich [_dropping the sled rope_]. i'm not tired. i'm going to run back to the holly trees to get a few more sprays. [_exit._] oscar [_who has been measuring the tree with his arm._] fritz, do you think the good st. nicholas can cover such a big tree as this? karl. it's pretty big. it's bigger than me--or katrina--i guess it's bigger than fritz or barbara or heinrich. katrina. i think it's bigger than the one st. nicholas filled for us last year. jan. but then, you see, we are bigger children than we were last year. fritz. but the tree is almost big enough to hold you on the top branches, kleiner bruder, if the good st. nicholas wanted to put you there. see! [_he and_ barbara _help_ jan _on top of the load. enter_ heinrich _excitedly._] heinrich. fritz, fritz! and, barbara, and all of you! listen to what i've seen. i was running over to the holly trees, you know, when i tripped on a bit of grape-vine, and rolled over in the snow. [_brushes snow from his clothes._] and when i sat up there was the queerest little black cottage right there. i do believe it just came up out of the ground like a house in a fairy-book. fritz. oh no, it didn't, heinrich, it's always been there! i've seen it many a time. heinrich. i don't believe it! why didn't i ever see it then? barbara. oh, never mind that! tell us some more about the house. heinrich. i crept up, and looked in at the window, for, of course, i thought there might be brownies, or gnomes, or kobolds there, and i saw---- children [_breathlessly_]. what? oh, what? heinrich. a poor woman and two little children---- children [_disappointed_]. o-o-h! fritz. that all? heinrich. just wait! they looked so poor and hungry--there wasn't a thing on the table but a dry little loaf of bread--and only a few little sticks on the fire. katrina. oh, it makes me so sorry. heinrich [_shaking his head wisely_]. that's not the worst of it. when i got to the window the two children were standing by the mother's chair, looking up in her face and asking her something. i couldn't hear what they said, but she shook her head oh, so sadly, and said: "no, my little ones, the good st. nicholas will not find his way to us this christmas." that's what she said! [_silent consternation._] fritz. what? what did you say, heinrich? barbara. it couldn't be so! karl. st. nicholas! oscar. not find his way everywhere! katrina. not give them any beautiful tannenbaum! fritz. oh, i don't believe it! you didn't hear right! heinrich. i did. and i do believe it! you would if you had seen how sorry they looked. fritz. well, but--well, i don't see--well, heinrich, it isn't so hard to find. he _must_ come surely. heinrich. no, he isn't coming. the poor woman said so and she must know. [_sitting down on sled._] barbara. yes, she must know. father and mother always see the good saint first, you know, and tell him whether we've been naughty or good. they always know whether he is coming or not. katrina. but he always _does_ come to us. oscar. brother fritz, mother says the good st. nicholas loves to give presents to little children. wouldn't he be sorry if there was a house anywhere in the _world_ that he didn't know about? karl. brother fritz, couldn't _we_ show him the way? fritz [_claps him on the shoulder_]. well spoken, karl, my man. we'll tell st. nicholas all about it as soon as he comes to us, and then show him the way to heinrich's little black hut. barbara. and if he shouldn't have enough to go around, he always brings us so much that we can spare some of our things for them. fritz. yes, he puts enough for two trees on our tree. come, oscar and karl, get hold of the rope! barbara, you take katrina's hand. barbara. trot along in front, jan! come, then, let's get home as fast as we can. heinrich. all together now! get up, horses, pull the load home! [_exeunt (r.), singing as before. enter_ friedel _(l.), before the sound of their voices has died away, slowly and wearily. limps to side and peers through the trees after the children, then to the back, then to the left again, like one who has lost his way. stops in the center looking doubtfully after the children once more. enter the woodcutter (l.), axe over his shoulder, whistling as he hurries home._ friedel _silently holds out his cap, but the man shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, and passes on._ friedel _goes slowly to a tree and sits on a log or mound beside it. blows on his fingers, tries to pull his rags more closely around him, and leans his head dejectedly on his hands. lifts his head suddenly to watch_ marta, _who approaches (l.), hobbling under a bunch of fagots._] marta. ach, my old bones! ach, this heavy bundle! will ever old marta get home? [friedel _silently holds out his cap._ marta. what's this! what's this! what's this! was ever heard tell of such insolence? as if old marta wasn't poor enough herself, without giving to every beggar who chooses to ask! the little good-for-nothing sees how i stagger under my own load and yet asks me to help him! [_moves on._] friedel [_softly_]. i would help you carry them. marta [_pausing_]. help me! help me! and lose half the sticks i have worked so hard to gather on the way! [_goes on._] help me, he says. when i want help i'll not ask the beggars that come out of the streets of the town just a purpose to lie in wait for a poor old crone like me. [_exit (r.) mumbling._] that i'll not! that i'll not. friedel [_looking after her_]. why does she think i would drop the sticks? i would be _so_ careful. i wonder why. i almost think she was afraid of me. of _me_! [_enter_ cross jacob _(l.)._ friedel [_timidly_]. please--please, sir, could you tell me the way back to the town? and oh, couldn't you let me come to your fire a little while to warm myself? cross jacob. go away with you! it's as much as ever my wife will do to let me warm myself at my fire. she's got nine boys of her own to fill up my house and drive me away. get away with you! [_shakes his fist threateningly._ friedel _recoils._] go home to your own fire! [_exit (r.)._] friedel. oh, if i only had one! [_enter_ rich johann _(l.). pauses to light his pipe._ friedel [_speaking timidly and hurriedly_]. oh, sir! oh, good, _kind_ sir! don't you want a little boy to help you in your house? johann [_looks him over_]. what's your name, boy? friedel. friedel, sir! johann. friedel what! friedel. just friedel, sir! johann. umph! "just friedel." and who's friedel, i'd like to know. friedel. i don't think i just know myself, sir! but, oh, sir! [_clasps his hands tightly_], please let me work for you. i would pick up wood for you, and build fires, and run errands. i would work _so_ hard and be _so_ faithful! johann [_throwing back his shoulders and putting his hands in his pockets_]. and who do you think i am, boy, that you presume to want to work in my house? to work for me, rich johann, who has many servants in his house, to carry out his commands and do his work and run his errands? umph! do you think i could have one servant about me clothed in such rags as yours? [friedel _hangs his head._] no, no! my servants wear fine clothes and brass buttons [_takes a puff at his pipe_], yes, indeed, brass buttons. no, no! rich johann lives in a very different style--a very different style, indeed. [_exit (r.), his nose very much in the air._] friedel. nobody will take me in. i have walked so far, so far, i can't go back to the town. [_throws himself down on mound (r. center)._] the snow feels almost warm, the wind is so cold. [_points up._] i can see a star up there through the trees. it twinkles and twinkles as if it was laughing. i do believe it is! sometimes i think the stars must be children with little candles in their hands. i wish i could see---- i wish---- [_he falls back asleep. enter the little_ star child _(back center) from behind the fir trees. sings._] [music: the christ child[ ]] [footnote : from _the nursery_, vol. ( ).] wm. taubert. over all the starlight clear, while the world is sleeping, sits the christ child ever dear, nightly watch is keeping. safe the starry host he tends, as his sheepfold shining, cares for us and slumber sends, all to rest resigning, sweetly sleep then, do not fear; look with love before thee, from the golden starlight clear, bends the christ child o'er thee, bends the christ child o'er thee. [_exit backwards slowly._ friedel _suddenly raises himself, stretching out his hand after her._ curtain scene ii _christmas eve in_ mother madelon's _cottage. open fireplace[ ] at the right, door (r.) and window (l.) at the back. snow scene at back, shows through window and door when opened. small table by the window with half a loaf of bread and one or two cracked plates and cups. a stool, a small chair, and by the fire a box._ mother madelon _sits (l.) at a spinning wheel. the children stand beside her_, gretel _rubbing her eyes with her two little fists_, hans _with his hands behind him._ [footnote : see note on fireplace, p. .] hans [_bravely_]. but, mother, the good saint never missed us before. are you sure he isn't coming? gretel. what makes you so sure, mother, dear? mother. yes, my little ones, i am afraid it is true. [_more brightly._] you know, he has so very much to do. just think how many little children he must go to see every year! someone must always be left out. perhaps it is our turn now. we can wait until next year. perhaps he will come then. hans [_rubbing his eyes_]. oh, dear, i wish to-morrow wouldn't come at all. mother. oh, hans, don't say that. think how happy we can be. even if st. nicholas doesn't come, to-morrow is still the bright, beautiful christmas day, when everyone in the world is happy, and we shall hear the chimes ringing, and see people going about wishing each other "merry christmas." and then we have each other. i have my little big daughter who helps me wipe the dishes and put the plates away and my big right-hand man who is going to work so hard for me pretty soon. hans. yes, mother, but i can help you now, right away. let me do something for you right now! gretel. me too, mother, me too! mother. very well! you shall hold this yarn for me, while gretel winds it. [_puts the yarn on_ hans' _hands._ hans _sits on box_, gretel _on stool winding._ mother _turns spinning wheel and sings "bending o'er a cradle low."_] [music: bending o'er a cradle low[ ]] [footnote : copyright, , by the john church company. used by permission.] (a christmas song) lydia avery coonley. george f. root. . bending o'er a cradle low sang a mother long ago, "this is christ the holy child." shepherds, wise men, angels smiled; "what care i for palace walls; what care i for kingly halls! in my arms the king of kings listens while the angel sings. peace on earth, good will for aye, hail the blessed christmas day! hail the blessed christmas day!" . echoing down the ages long comes the herald angel's song, still do shepherds heed the voice, wise men listen and rejoice; while to greet the king of kings earth her noblest offerings brings. and the blessed christ is born in each heart on christmas morn. sing, then, peace, good will for aye, hail the blessed christmas day! hail the blessed christmas day! hans. gretel, i believe st. nicholas _will_ come anyway, i just believe he will. [gretel _gives the yarn to her mother_, hans _remains sitting on the box._] when we aren't thinking about it he'll just walk right in--i'll show you how. [_jumps up and runs out of the door._] now, i'm st. nicholas. [_comes in again, speaking in a loud and pompous tone._] how do you do, little miss gretel,--how are you little--no, big hans! [_shakes hands with_ gretel _and with an imaginary_ hans.] well, mother madelon, have these children been very good indeed? mother. yes, good saint, i couldn't ask for two better, dearer children, or any that i love half so well. hans [_in his own voice_]. oh, mother, do you truly think so? gretel. then, hans, if we've been good children, i 'most _know_ st. nicholas will come. hans [_dancing to look out of door_]. oh, he will! he will! mother, give me something to do so i won't keep thinking about it. gretel. oh, hans, let's have a story! hans. oh, yes, mother, please tell us a story. mother. bring your little stools, then i will tell you a christmas story. gretel [_coaxingly_]. mother, don't you think it is too dark to spin? let me sit in your lap. mother. you funny little fairy! [_takes her on her lap._ hans _brings a stool and sits at his_ mother's _feet nursing his knee._] mother. once upon a time, many, many years ago, it happened that a little child was wandering all alone through the streets of a great busy town. it was christmas eve, and wherever the child looked he saw shining lights and hurrying happy people. his coat was all too thin, and his little feet and hands were bare and frostbitten. the sharp ice on the ground cut his feet as he walked, and the cold wind tossed his soft hair back from his forehead. but he hardly seemed to feel the cold, for everywhere he was watching the eager, happy faces that hastened by. he looked up into a window and saw a beautiful, wonderful tree, covered with little candles and glittering balls, and all about the tree were gathered merry, laughing children. it seemed as if those happy little ones would be glad to have another little boy amongst them, and the child went quietly up the steps and tapped at the door. but the tall man who opened it said crossly, "go away. i can't let you in here." so the child went sorrowfully down the steps and wandered on again. as he went along the street many more houses were full of light and happiness, and wherever he saw the candle-covered christmas trees with their cluster of gay child-faces, he tapped softly at the door, or looked wistfully in at the window. but everywhere the same answer was given him. "you must go on. we can't take you in." some people looked sorry when they said this, but most of them hardly glanced at him at all before they shut the great doors to keep out the cold wind. at last he came to the very last house--a poor little cottage with just one window. but he could see the light streaming out of it, and wearily made his way to the door. in this little house was a mother and two little children---- hans. just like us! mother. and at one side of the room was a cradle---- gretel. but we haven't got any baby! mother. when the little girl heard the soft tapping at the door she said: "shall i open it, mother?" and the mother said, "yes, indeed, we mustn't let anyone stay out in the cold on the beautiful christmas eve." so the child opened the door and led in the little, shivering stranger. the mother took him on her lap and rubbed his frozen hands, and folded her warm arms about him. and the children begged him to stay with them always. then the mother told them the wonderful beautiful story of the first christmas, and how the shining angels came to the poor shepherds in the field and sang "glory to god in the highest, and on earth peace, good will towards men." and how the shepherds went to find the dear baby in the manger, and the wise men were led by a glorious star to find him, too. and while she was talking to them the room seemed filled with a strange, soft light that grew lovelier and brighter every moment, until the children, wondering, turned to their mother to ask what it meant. and then they saw that the child was gone. but the mother said: "children, i think we have had the real little christ-child with us to-night." and after that men used to say that the christ-child sometimes came again on christmas eve to wander from door to door asking for shelter and love. and sometimes men drive him away, and he can find no place to rest. but in some homes he is given a glad and loving welcome. gretel. oh, mother, i wish, i _wish_ he would come here, to us! hans [_looking to the window_]. but, mother, it is all dark--there is no light in the window for him! mother, we've got a little piece of a candle. mayn't i put it in the cup that's broken and light it? mother. yes, my little son. [hans _jumps on the box and reaches a bit of candle from the mantel. fastens it in the cup and lights it._ gretel _watching anxiously. then together they put it in the window and sing "the christ-candle."_ [music: the christ-candle[ ]] [footnote : by permission of the universalist publishing house.] kate l. brown. elizabeth u. emerson. . little taper set to-night, throw afar thy tiny light, up and down the darksome street, guide the tender wand'ring feet of the darling christ child sweet. . he is coming through the snow as he came so long ago, when the stars set o'er the hill, when the town is dark and still, comes to do the father's will. . little taper, spread thy ray make his pathway light as day, let some door be open wide for this guest of christmas-tide, dearer than all else beside. . little christ child come to me, let my heart thy shelter be. such a home thou wilt not scorn, so the bells of christmas morn glad shall ring, "a christ is born." note: the air "hearts and flowers" can also be used for this song. gretel. oh, do you think the little christ-child can see it now, mother? mother. yes, my darling. he can. and whether he comes wandering through the snowy forests or not, he loves to know that little children think of him and try to please him. hans. gretel, i'm going out to see if the light shows outside. [_goes out of the door and peers in at the window._ gretel _keeps the door open a crack to watch him._] hans [_comes in and bends over the fire to warm his hands_]. it sparkles on the snow just the way the moonlight does, and it's ever so much brighter than the stars. do you believe it is as bright as the star of bethlehem? gretel. oh no! it couldn't be like that! there was never another star that shone like _that_. hans. let me put another stick on the fire, mother. if the little christ-child comes he will be so cold. [_puts on one or two sticks._] gretel. oh, hans, i'm afraid he will be hungry, too. let's toast a piece of our loaf for him. hans. yes, let me toast it. gretel. and i'll cut it. [_both clatter to the table, where_ gretel _cuts a piece of bread, and fastening it on a stick gives it to_ hans, _who seats himself on a stool before the fire._ gretel _stands beside him._ friedel _appears at the window and leans his face against it, watching._] gretel. oh, hans, be careful, be careful, you're burning it! hans. no, i'm not, but i'm toasting my face. gretel. let me hold it awhile. [_they change places._ hans _stands with hands on hips and feet apart watching her. the_ mother _sees_ friedel _and rises, beckoning to him._ friedel _leaves the window, and goes to the door, where he taps softly._] gretel. oh, hans! he's come! he's come! [gretel _drops fork and both fly to the door, throwing it wide open, and standing back. an instant's pause, then_ friedel _looks from one to the other and stretches out his hands._] gretel [_shyly taking his hand_]. we--we--we were waiting for you. come in. hans. we're glad you've come. gretel. mother. mother, his hands are like ice. [_leads him to the fire._ hans _shuts the door and comes to watch. the_ mother _comes forward._] mother. sit here, little one, and let me warm the poor cold hands. [_seats_ friedel _on a stool close to the fire, and bending over him chafes his hands._ hans _and_ gretel _draw away, casting furtive glances at him._] hans. do you believe it _is_ the christ-child, gretel? gretel [_slowly_]. i--i don't know. hans [_decidedly_]. i do. it _must_ be. we put the candle there for him--and then he came. and you made toast for him--where _is_ his toast, gretel? gretel. oh, hans! i _dropped_ it when i went to the door! hans [_hurries to pick it up_]. never mind. it didn't hurt it a bit. gretel [_takes it and brushes it_]. he won't care. mother's hearth isn't a bit dusty. [_both go to_ friedel.] gretel [_timidly offering him the toast_]. hans and i thought you would be hungry, and so we made you some toast. friedel. oh, i am, i am. [_takes a bite and turns to them._] i haven't had anything to eat since--since--oh, i can't remember! when was it? [_puts his hand to his head._] mother [_drawing him gently to lean against her_]. there, never mind. eat now. [gretel _and_ hans _draw away again._ hans. are you _sure_ it is the christ-child, gretel? gretel. i don't know. but i think--i think if it was, his face would be all shining. mother. where is your home, my son? and what is your name? why were you wandering all alone this bitter night? friedel. i am friedel. just friedel. not anything else. and i haven't any home. i wish i had. a home is what i was looking for. i thought perhaps someone would take me in, and let me work to pay for keeping me. but nobody wants a boy, somehow, nobody. [_drops his head in his hands._] mother [_stroking his head_]. you shall never say that again, my son. while we have still our little hut, you shall live with us, and be an elder brother to my little ones. hans. you hear that, gretel? it isn't the christ-child, after all. [_rubs his fists in his eyes._] gretel. oh, but hans, i believe the christ-child would like this almost as much. i mean he would like our putting the candle in the window, and making the toast and everything for this poor little boy, almost as much as if it was really for him. because it's his little boy, you know. [_the chimes begin._ hans. really and truly? gretel. yes, i'm _sure_! perhaps the christ-child sent him to us. oh, hans, listen! the chimes are beginning to ring. [_both run to the window to listen. after a moment voices in the distance begin singing "oh, happy night."_] [music: oh, happy night[ ]] [footnote : courtesy of lothrop, lee & shepard company.] music written for "wide awake" words by m.e.b. by louis c. elson. . oh, happy night! that brings the morn to dawn above the lord new-born, and bids the angels sing again their message to the sons of men, we hail thee! we hail thee! . oh, happy star! whose radiance sweet did guide the wise men's eager feet, to seek the way unknown, untried, that led them to the manger's side, we hail thee! we hail thee! . oh, happy manger! that hath known this precious burden as thine own, beyond all gifts the world doth hold of pomp and pow'r and gems and gold, we hail thee! we hail thee! . oh, happy day! that gave to men the babe divine of bethlehem, the king of kings the undefiled in semblance of a little child, we hail thee! we hail thee! . oh, happy babe! whose wondrous eyes still hold the light of paradise, look down in blessing from above while, prince of peace and lord of love, we hail thee! we hail thee! (sung by a single voice, several joining in at "we hail thee!") gretel [_at the end of the first verse_]. oh, mother dear, do you hear the singing? [_another verse is sung._ friedel [_wonderingly_]. what is it? angels? [_at the end of the song_ fritz _and others are seen passing the window._ hans _and_ gretel _rush to their_ mother. gretel. oh, mother! he's coming! he's coming! hans. yes, he is! i saw him! mother [_startled_]. who is coming, my children? [_the door is flung open and the children rush in_, st. nicholas _standing at the door._ hans _and_ gretel. st. nicholas! st. nicholas! st. nicholas. yes, old st. nicholas again. mother madelon, may i come in? mother. may you come in? ask the little ones here! [hans _and_ gretel _run to draw him in._ fritz. you see, mother madelon, our heinrich heard you say the good saint couldn't find you this year---- barbara. so we hurried right home---- heinrich. and as soon as he came we told him about you---- fritz. and begged him to let us show him the way! jan. and of course, he came! karl _and_ oscar. yes, of course! mother. it was very thoughtful of you, little friends. hans _and_ gretel. thank you, thank you all so much! gretel. oh, good saint, we were _so_ afraid you wouldn't come. hans. mother _said_ you couldn't find us. st. nicholas. and i doubt if i could have found you, if it hadn't been for that little gleaming candle that you put in the window to light my way. gretel [_holding his hand_]. oh, but, st. nicholas, we ought to tell you that we didn't put the candle there for you. katrina. why, who was it for? gretel [_softly_]. it was for the christ-child. we thought perhaps he would be out in the snow and cold--and we were so warm and happy! st. nicholas. let me tell you, little gretel, though the christ-child did not come, it is just as true that he sent me to you as it is that i was led here by the clear shining of the christ-candle. curtain notes on costume and setting the parts of the mother and st. nicholas should be played by adults: other adult parts taken by young people sixteen to eighteen. mother madelon. plain dark dress, white kerchief, white peasant's cap. hans. (eight years old.) white shirt, bright-colored vest, full blue trousers, red stockings. toboggan cap. gretel. (six years.) full white waist, black bodice, red skirt, or dark skirt and red stockings. white peasant's cap. both children may wear wooden shoes. friedel. (boy of nine.) very ragged coat and trousers. bare feet. no hat. (should be a thin little fellow whose appearance may give the touch of pathos.) old marta. (may be taken by a boy, if preferred.) poorly dressed, in old shawl and hood, carrying a bundle of fagots. face deeply wrinkled and lined, with an ill-tempered expression. rich johann. velvet coat, flowered vest, full knee-breeches, shoes with silver buckles. broad-brimmed felt hat. silver-headed cane. is very pompous. cross jacob. rough farm clothes, heavy boots. woodcutter. fur cap, warm gloves, high boots. carries an ax. is young, wholesome, rosy with work, and happy. star child. (child of seven or eight, who can sing.) white gown, hanging straight from neck to ground, with flowing sleeves. carries a gold wand with a star on the end, and wears a star on the forehead. if taken by a boy, he should wear a short white sleeveless tunic, white stockings, and sandals. fritz and his sisters and brothers, children from twelve years down to six, are dressed in ordinary outdoor winter costumes, with as much as possible of bright color about them. st. nicholas differs somewhat from the accepted idea of santa claus, being dignified, benign, and kindly, rather than lively and jolly. costume about the same,--long coat, high boots, fur cap, flowing white beard. note for snow scene. if not feasible to have a winter scene for the back drop, cover the back wall with white, and fasten drooping branches of evergreen at sides, to suggest the limbs of trees just out of sight. the wings may be treated in the same way,--or screens, if given in home or schoolroom. cover the floor with white, piling with cushions beneath in some places to give an irregular surface, and to make the bank (r. center), where friedel lies down. four or five evergreen trees will make an effective forest, and if quite small, they should be raised to different heights, and banked about with white. leave opening between them (back center), in which the star child should appear, coming and going very silently and slowly. cotton snow upon the little trees and "diamond-dust" over all, help to make this a very pretty scene. for chimes, play the music of the carol "oh, happy night" on a xylophone, behind the scenes. toinette and the elves in two acts characters mother. toinette, girl of twelve or fourteen. marie, girl of eleven. jeannette, little girl of five or six. pierre } marc } boys of ten or eleven. the elves: hollyberry } mistletoe } evergreen } little boys of five or six. icicle } [illustration: hollyberry] toinette and the elves from the story by susan coolidge, _st. nicholas_ for january, . act i time: _christmas eve._ scene: _the kitchen of a peasant cottage. open fireplace[ ] (r.) with large pot, hung from a crane, or standing directly upon the logs. on the shelf above, small bowls and spoons. beside fireplace, a narrow exit leading to_ toinette's _room: opposite, door to other rooms. outside door, r. back. l. window. down stage l. a low table with small chairs, where the children sit for their supper, used later by the elves. before the fire, a large old-fashioned wooden rocker._ [footnote : see note on fireplace, p. .] mother _bends over sewing, near window, from time to time glancing at_ toinette, _who sits dreamily gazing into the fire._ mother. toinette! [toinette, _absorbed in thought, apparently hears nothing._] toinette! bless the child, is she asleep? toinette! toinette [_absently_]. yes, mother. mother. come, toinette, it is time to brush the hearth and set the kettle on to boil. toinette [_without moving_]. yes'm, in a minute. mother [_sharply_]. toinette, the dusk is coming. it is nearly supper-time, and the candle must be lit. come, brush the floor quickly, child. toinette [_flinging impatiently out of her chair_]. i hate to work! [_sweeps slowly and absently, stopping to lean on her broom. enter_ marie _and_ jeannette, _with sewing and book, and sit down on low chairs._] marie. toinette, will you show me how to fasten this off? toinette [_who has been leaning on her broom, begins suddenly to sweep_]. no, i won't. i'm busy sweeping. marie. oh, i didn't know you were busy. toinette. what are your eyes for? don't you see me sweeping? marie. well, you were standing still, and i just thought---- toinette [_sweeping furiously_]. you're always "just thinking" things. jeannette. i'm hungry, mother. mother. are you, dear? toinette [_crossly, leaning on her broom_]. she's always hungry. i never saw such a little pig. marie [_putting her arms indignantly around_ jeannette]. no, she isn't at all. you're very unkind, toinette. mother. hush, children. don't quarrel. [_shakes her head sadly and looks perplexed._] [_enter_ pierre _and_ marc, _the latter with knife and bits of wood._ marc _sits down against the fireplace, whittling._ pierre _lies at full length before the fire._ jeannette. will you tell us a story, toinette? marie [_gently_]. sh, dear, toinette's busy, but i wish she would. she can tell such lovely fairy stories when she likes to. and this is christmas eve, jeannette. perhaps the fairies are out, looking for good children. fairies are always helping st. nicholas; toinette says so. i wish she would get done sweeping. jeannette. when you get done, can't you tell just one story, toinette? toinette. oh, it's so hard to keep thinking up stories all the time. there now, marc, you horrid boy, just see how you've scattered chips all over my clean floor. and, pierre, your old shoes are just as dirty as they can be. what's the use of my sweeping, mother, when the boys are so careless? mother. try to remember to brush your shoes next time, pierre. and, marc, it's better not to bring the whittling into the house. toinette. i should think as much. pierre [_getting up_]. i'm sorry i forgot, mother. come along, marc, we'll go out in the woodshed. marc [_giving the chips a brush towards the fireplace with his cap and then following_ pierre]. it's pretty cold in the woodshed. [_looking resentfully at_ toinette.] i'd rather be cold than get scolded all the time. [_exeunt boys._] mother [_rises, lights candle, puts saucepan over the fire_]. now, toinette, i have other work to do. finish brushing up [toinette _puts down broom_], and set the table. the porridge is over the fire and will be done soon. if you would put your mind on it, daughter, and work quickly, you would get done quickly, and the work would not seem so hard. [_exit._] toinette [_seizes a tablecloth and approaches the table_]. work quickly! marie, how ever can i set the table with you and jeannette in the way, i'd like to know? marie. we'll go in mother's room, toinette. [_takes_ jeannette _by the hand. exeunt._] toinette [_covering table and slapping bowls and spoons pettishly down upon it_]. work quickly! don't i work and work all the time? and i'm never done. the work seems hard because it _is_ hard, that's why. oh, if we weren't so poor, and didn't have to work so hard! [_relaxes her efforts and stands before the fire, dish in hand._] and if we could have beautiful christmas presents to-morrow, instead of just--anything. [_a very gentle knock at the door._] oh, what was that? [_opens._] the boys must be playing tricks on me. [_knocks again._] surely, there is someone there. [_opens door and steps outside._ hollyberry _slips in behind her and hides behind the door. re-enter_ toinette.] it must be the fairies, i think. [_stands looking out._] this is christmas eve and of course it's the right time for good fairies to be about. how i wish i could see one! hollyberry. do you, toinette? just open your eyes and you will, then. toinette [_jumping, rubs her eyes and looks about_]. where? oh, where? [hollyberry _comes from behind the door and makes a low bow._ toinette [_clasping her hands with delight_]. oh, are you really a fairy? hollyberry [_hands on hips_]. yes, i think i'm a pretty real sort of a fairy. we elves have heard you talking about us and you always tell what's true, so we like you. toinette. oh, i'm so glad, because i _love_ fairies. the children do too, and they are always teasing me to tell them fairy tales. hollyberry. i am the leader of the band of elves. my name is hollyberry, and i've come with a message to you. i told you the elves and fairies all like you. so we are going to give you a christmas present. toinette. oh, oh! how kind you are. hollyberry [_arms folded, nodding his head_]. yes, we are. very kind. but people don't always think so. toinette, how would you like to be invisible? toinette. invisible? oh, do you mean to go around wherever i like without being seen? oh, what fun! hollyberry. that's exactly what i mean. _we_ can do it, at any time, because we know how. but mortals like you can only do it on christmas eve, and then only when we help them. toinette. do you mean you are going to show me how? hollyberry. that's it. there are two things you must do. first you must put fern seed in your shoes. toinette. fern seed? why, i didn't even know ferns had seeds. i never saw any. hollyberry. of course not. the elves take very good care of that. toinette. where shall i get any? hollyberry. i'll attend to that. the second thing is to put on the cloak of darkness. toinette. the cloak of darkness! what is that? hollyberry. don't be impatient, toinette. [_waves his holly wand and snaps his fingers above his head. the door opens and the other elves enter, carrying between them the gray cloak and a tiny bag._] elves [_kneeling before_ toinette _and presenting bag and cloak_]. hail, toinette! hollyberry [_touching the kneeling elves as he names them_]. evergreen and mistletoe, present the magic cloak of darkness. icicle, yield the fairy fern seed. now, toinette, put a pinch of fern seed in each shoe, wrap the cloak around you, and _then_,--well, nobody but an elf can find you. mistletoe. the charm is only for to-night. hollyberry. and if you get tired of it before bedtime---- evergreen. take off the cloak---- icicle. and empty your shoes---- hollyberry. and, presto! toinette is herself again. now, farewell. [_all bow low and go to door._] icicle. good-by. mistletoe. we'll take care of the cloak when you're done with it. evergreen. we hope you'll like our christmas present. [_exeunt elves, laughing mischievously._ toinette [_looking after them_]. what cunning little fellows! oh, what fun. [_examines cloak._] i'll put it on right away. [_exit (r.)._] [_enter_ mother _(l.), going at once to the fire._ mother. why, where is toinette? the porridge is almost boiling over. come, children,--marie, jeannette, boys. supper is ready. [_enter children and take their places at table._ mother _fills bowls from saucepan while they talk._ mother [_calls_]. toinette, come to supper, daughter. [_enter_ toinette _in cloak. all are unconscious of her presence._ mother [_giving bread to children, who eat hungrily_]. where can toinette be? boys, have you seen her? marc. no, mother, she lets us alone when we keep out of her way. mother. for shame, marc. pierre, go call her,--she may be in her room. [pierre _crosses the room, almost bumping into_ toinette, _who stands in the way._] pierre [_at door_]. toinette! toinette! we're at supper. [_a moment's silence._ toinette _giggles._] she isn't here, mother. marie. i'm sure i heard her laughing. mother. listen. [toinette _covers her mouth to stifle a laugh._ pierre _sits down again and eats._] toinette [_aside_]. this is such fun. but i'm hungry,--how am i going to get anything to eat? [_goes close to the table and, watching her chance, slips_ marc's _bread off the table and eats._] marc. where's my bread? you took it, pierre. pierre. i did not. here's my own. marie. you must have dropped it on the floor. marc [_looking under chair_]. no, i didn't. marie. well, you ate it, then. marc. i never. [toinette _laughs silently._] mother. here's another piece. never mind where that is gone. i only wish toinette had it. [toinette _nearly chokes._] the child must have gone out. i will go to the gate and look down the road. [_exit._] jeannette. poor toinette's all gone. marc. perhaps a bear has eaten her up. pierre. if he has, i mean to ask mother if i can't have her room. marie. marc, don't talk so, you'll frighten jeannette. marc. well, perhaps it's true. marie. well, you know you'd be sorry if it was. pierre. i wouldn't be very sorry. marie [_horrified_]. oh, you bad boy. pierre. well, of course i don't want her to be _hurt_. marc. but we wouldn't care much if she didn't come back. marie. boys, how can you be so naughty? pierre. but, marie, toinette never does a thing but scold us when she's around. marie. she tells us _beautiful_ fairy stories sometimes. marc. that's just it--"sometimes." you don't catch her doing it unless she wants to. pierre. and she's just a regular old spoil-sport. marc. oh, bother about toinette. she'll come back a good deal sooner than we want her. can't you talk about anything else? marie [_doubtfully_]. well, it is pleasanter when she isn't here, i know. pierre. of course it is. marie. but i hope she's having a good time somewhere else. [_throughout this conversation_ toinette _listens, horrified at first, then angry, then distressed; at one moment about to exclaim, then starting forward to strike one of the boys, and at last covering her face with her hands and crying. enter_ mother. mother [_anxiously_]. not a trace can i see of her. children, have you eaten your porridge? marie, take jeannette to bed. [_exeunt_ marie _and_ jeannette.] boys, go out and cut some wood for our christmas fire. [_exeunt boys._] there will be no christmas in this house unless toinette comes back soon. [_sits down in the rocker to warm herself._] dear, dear, she is a good girl, and a clever girl, but she is a sore puzzle to me. what can make her so thoughtless and careless and full of discontent? why, even little marie is a greater help to me than she is. [_exit_ toinette _in great distress._ mother _sits in silence. enter_ toinette _without cloak, throwing herself on her knees at her mother's feet._ toinette. oh, mother, mother! [_buries her face in her mother's lap._] mother [_trying to raise her_]. toinette, my child! where have you been all this time? toinette [_with great excitement, half crying_]. oh, i've been here--right here--all the time, only you couldn't see me. mother. toinette! toinette. yes, mother, it's all true. i'll tell you. a fairy came and lent me the cloak of darkness--and--and--i thought it would be such fun, but it was horrid. and then the children--they said such cruel things. mother, don't they love me at all? mother. mercy, mercy, what is all this about? fairies--cloak of darkness--the child must have a fever. [_feels_ toinette's _forehead and takes her hand as if to count her pulse._] toinette. no, no! i'm not sick at all. but, mother, don't you love me? mother [_puts her arm about_ toinette]. love you, my child? mother _always_ loves you. toinette. but you said i didn't help you. oh, i wish the fairy had never given me the cloak. mother. fairies again! [_anxiously._] i must put the child to bed at once. stay by the fire, toinette. i will get your bed ready. [_rises, leaving_ toinette _seated on the floor by chair. exit_ mother.] toinette [_slowly_]. mother thinks i dreamed it--or that i'm sick. but i'm not. it's all true, it's all true. [_covers her face with her hands._] how could the children be so unkind?... but perhaps i'm not always kind to the children. the boys are so provoking--but then i needn't scold them even if they are. and marie must care a little, for she hoped i was happy somewhere. happy! how can i be happy? [_gazes at the fire._] perhaps if i began now, and tried and tried every day, i could be kinder--to the children--and then they would love me more--and i could try to help mother--and then she needn't be so tired all the time---- and surely, then i would be happy. [_brightly, facing audience, hands clasped on one knee._] yes, that's just what i'll do. and now, perhaps i can help mother this very minute---- i'll take the candle up to her. [_jumps up, takes candle from table, pauses in center of the stage._] it is christmas--i do think that if i begin to-morrow to try to be kind, i will surely succeed. because christmas is the very best and happiest day in all the whole year. it was on christmas day the angels first sang about peace on earth, good will to men. curtain act ii time: _one year later. christmas eve._ scene: _curtain rises showing_ toinette _and_ marie _seated, sewing_; jeannette _sits upon the floor, leaning against_ toinette's _knee_; marc _leans over the back of her chair_; pierre _sits in the big chair rocking and looking on. all are singing a christmas carol. enter_ mother, _pausing a moment in doorway to watch and smile at the group._ mother. come, chickabiddies, it is time to stop work. marie [_going to_ mother]. oh, mother, must we stop now? toinette was just going to tell us the christmas story about the shepherds and the star in the east. mother. it is supper-time now, and toinette must set the table. [_exit._] pierre. and after supper comes bedtime. oh, dear. toinette [_cheerfully folding her work_]. never mind, pierre, i'll tell it to you to-morrow. marc. that'll be christmas day, toinette. i wish you could tell it on christmas eve. toinette. oh, i think i can tell it better on christmas day, marc. now we all have something to do,--let's get to work. who will fetch water for me to-night? marc _and_ pierre [_springing for the pitcher_]. i will, i will. marc. it's my turn, pierre. pierre. no, you nearly always get water for toinette. i'm going to. toinette. let pierre get the water, marc, and you go and cut the wood. marc _and_ pierre. all right, toinette. [_exeunt._] marie. what can we do for you, toinette, dear? toinette. nothing just now, i think. [toinette _is spreading the cloth and setting the bowls and spoons._] jeannette. but _we_ want to help, too, dear toinette. [_clings to her skirt._] toinette. i'll tell you what. i'd rather send my two little helpers in to see what they can do for poor busy mother. she needs them more than i do. [_exit_ jeannette.] marie [_following_]. won't that be helping you too, toinette? toinette. yes, dear. [_exit_ marie.] how good the children are to-night! i do think they are the best brothers and sisters a girl ever had. [_lighting the candle._] and i think they love me more than they ever used to. oh, i'm so glad! [_tap at the door._] there is someone knocking. [_goes to the door._] hollyberry [_bowing low_]. how do you do, toinette? a merry christmas to you. toinette. oh, how wonderful. it's hollyberry again, and i was just thinking about you. won't you come in? hollyberry. just for a moment. [_enter_ hollyberry. toinette _closes the door._] i've brought you a christmas present, toinette. [_holds out cloak and fern-seed bag._] toinette [_retreating, hands behind her_]. oh, no, no, no! i know what those are, and i don't want them. oh! hollyberry, they made me so unhappy last year. hollyberry. you didn't like the elves' gift, then? toinette. oh, it was horrid--i _hated_ it. hollyberry [_severely_]. do you call that being grateful? toinette [_confused_]. oh, no--i mean, yes--that is, it was very kind of you--but i didn't like it. oh, dear! hollyberry [_kindly_]. never mind, toinette, i'm only teasing you now. and i advise you to take the fern seed. you will like it better this year, i'm sure. toinette [_anxiously_]. truly? hollyberry. truly. [toinette _takes bag and cloak._] and if you like it we are going to ask a favor of you. we want you to make us some fern-seed broth. toinette. fern-seed broth? hollyberry. yes, elves are very fond of it, but they don't get any very often, because it has to be made over a fire, and you see we're afraid of fire. we're so little and light, we might be blown in and burned up. toinette. but how shall i make it? hollyberry. it's very easy. we'll show you how. and now, good-by. we'll come in by and by when the children are in bed. [_exit with a bow._] toinette [_looking gravely at cloak and bag_]. oh, do i dare use them? i have tried to be kinder--i know the children love me more---- yes, i will. [_runs out. boys singing carol in the distance. enter boys singing, with pitcher and wood. enter_ mother, marie, _and_ jeannette.] mother. why, the supper is all ready, but where is that busy bee of ours, toinette? [_goes to door as if to call._] pierre [_catches her arm_]. oh, mother, wait a moment; don't call her yet! you know we've made her some christmas gifts, and we want to put them on her plate and surprise her. mother. run and get them. marc [_under his breath_]. hurry, quick, everybody. [_exit children in haste._ mother _takes saucepan from fire and fills bowls. enter children singing carol, each bearing a homemade gift. they place the presents about_ toinette's _place, and all take their places at the table, sitting with folded hands until hymn is ended. during the singing_ toinette _enters, dressed in cloak, and stands near door (r.), her hands clasped in pleasure at the sight._ marc [_looking towards the door_]. oh, i wish toinette would hurry. marie. won't she be surprised? pierre. and won't she _look_ jolly surprised, too? i love to see toinette when she's surprised. her eyes get so big and shiny, and she just stares. marc. andrew, the blacksmith's son, thinks his sister is prettier than our toinette, but _i_ don't. pierre [_in great scorn_]. aw! i should think not. our toinette is just the prettiest girl in the village. marie. and the very nicest, too! mother [_smiling_]. and toinette is mother's right hand. we all love toinette! don't we? toinette [_softly_]. oh, the dear little things! i can't wait a minute longer. [_exit quickly._] children [_calling_]. toinette! toinette! [_enter_ toinette _without cloak. shows great surprise._] children. merry christmas, merry christmas, toinette! toinette. oh, oh! what do i see? [_sits down in her place._] oh, did you make these lovely things, children? pierre. yes, mademoiselle, we did! marc. every one of them. marie. nobody helped us. jeannette. all for you, toinette, all for you! [_leaves her chair and throws her arms around_ toinette.] toinette [_kissing her_]. oh, thank you, thank you! how _beautifully_ these are made. [_looks them over one at a time._] how good everyone is. i'm so happy i don't know what to do. pierre. and to-morrow's christmas! hurrah! mother. yes, dear, but if you don't go to bed and to sleep, christmas won't come. [_takes_ jeannette _by the hand._] we will leave you to finish, toinette. children. good-night, toinette! toinette. good-night, everyone! [marie _and_ jeannette _throw their arms about_ toinette.] marie. good-night again, dear toinette! [_exeunt all but_ toinette, _who clears the table, shakes off crumbs, and sets fresh bowls and spoons. the children are heard singing carol. when all is ready and the song is done_, toinette _goes to outer door and looks out. after a moment the elves rush in._] elves. here we are, toinette, here we are! hollyberry. now let's proceed to business. where is the saucepan, toinette! icicle, give me the honey-dew; mistletoe, you have the fern seed. [toinette _produces the saucepan and the elves crowd around her and hand her the articles named. the honey-dew is supposed to be in a jar--or pitcher--or anything curious or unusual in appearance; the fern seed in a quaint box._ hollyberry. now, evergreen, give me the holly stick she must stir it with. [toinette _puts it on the fire, the elves watching with great interest._ hollyberry. it's very simple, but it must be made with great care. mistletoe. you must always stir it the same way! evergreen. or else it will curdle. icicle. and you must _never_ let it scorch! [toinette _bends over fire, stirring broth. a very gay waltz in very quick time is played softly outside, and the four elves dance and tumble about, coming up one at a time to peep over_ toinette's _shoulder. they show great fear of the fire, however._ toinette. now, little elves, the feast is ready! elves. oh, joy! oh, joy! [_all seat themselves at table_, toinette _pours out broth, and they eat. music continues_, toinette _refills bowls, and elves drink from them, tipping their heads far back and making grotesque motions. music grows fainter. elves rise and bow to_ toinette.] elves. thank you, toinette! thank you! evergreen. we've had a merry feast. mistletoe. and fairies are never ungrateful. icicle. when you need us, you'll find us ready. [evergreen, mistletoe, _and_ icicle _go outside and stand about door._ hollyberry _remains within._ toinette. but i haven't thanked you at all! hollyberry. no need of that, toinette. [_he brushes door-post with his holly wand._] be lucky, house! we are the luck-bringers, and we have feasted here! [_touches_ toinette _on the head and hands._] be lucky, toinette! good temper, and kindness, and unselfishness are the very best good luck, after all. now, good-by! elves. good-by, good-by! merry christmas to all! [_exeunt._ toinette _closes the door and goes slowly to hearth, where she sits down on floor, resting her arm on a chair and her head on her hand._ toinette [_softly_]. the fairies have been here, and they have taught me a lesson.... after all, it isn't the fairies who make the children love me, or me love the children.... i think--yes, i'm sure--that it is christmas that makes us all love each other! [_her head drops, and she falls asleep. the children's voices are heard, singing, very softly and distinctly, the last verse of the carol_: "thank god on christmas morning! thank god, o children dear." curtain notes on costume and setting the children are dressed in peasant costumes, the girls in bright skirts and stockings, white guimpes, black velvet bodices, and normandy caps; the boys in full trousers, bright stockings, vests of green or blue, fastening in the back, white shirts with full sleeves, and toboggan caps. toinette wears shoes with buckles; the others may wear the same, or sabots. mother. plain dark dress, with full skirt; kerchief on her shoulders, and a white cap. the magic "cloak of darkness" brought by the elves for toinette, is a long cape, with hood attached, made of light gray canton flannel. the fern-seed bag may be made of a bit of the same material, or of the colors of hollyberry's costume. the elves wear harlequin costumes in two shades of the same color, with tall pointed hoods, and long shoes with toes turned up. gilt bells on all points of collar, jacket, and hood. see illustration. sateen is perhaps the best material for these little suits, as it comes in a great variety of rich shades, but cheaper goods may be found. hollyberry. dark red and scarlet. he carries a holly branch in lieu of a wand. mistletoe. brown and yellow. in act ii he carries an odd box supposed to be full of fern seed. evergreen. dark and light green. in act ii he produces the holly stick for stirring the broth. icicle. dark and light blue. in act ii he carries a small jar or pitcher,--something curious or unusual in appearance,--which is supposed to contain the honey-dew. instead of the gilt bells, the points of these suits may be trimmed with bits of holly, mistletoe, evergreen, and glass icicles, as indicated by the names. in setting the stage, it is effective to make small windows, with diamond-shaped panes, and white sash-curtains, placing small pots of scarlet geraniums on the sills. the song is "good news on christmas morning," from _st. nicholas songs_ (century company). where music is indicated through the play, any part of the carol is sung, except the last verse, which is used only once, just before the last curtain. for the elves' dance, the pizzicato from the ballet "sylvia" by delibes, dvorak's "humoresque," or a waltz, very lightly played, may be used. tom's plan in two acts characters father wright. mother wright. phil } daisy } charlie } the little wrights. tom } dot } sarah, the nurse. santa claus. tom's plan act i time: _christmas eve._ scene: _nursery or sitting-room, children sitting about, each working upon a christmas gift. nurse at one side with her work-basket. all singing a christmas carol._[ ] [footnote : see note on carols, p. .] daisy. i just can't believe that to-morrow really will be christmas!... what do you think of that for a book-mark? [_holds it up._] don't you suppose papa will be pleased? phil [_driving a last nail into a bootjack_]. papa says he can't get his new boots off. if he can't do it now, with this, i'm sure he never will be able to. isn't that fine? sarah. sure, master phil, he'll be wantin' a new house to kape that big thing in! daisy. now, sarah, you mustn't say that! you know papa always likes the things we make for him. dot [_crossing to_ sarah]. sarah, please fasten my thread.... now, my spectacle-wiper is done. oh, boys, don't you wish it was to-morrow morning! tom. you bet! i'm going to do papa's knife up in a great big bundle, so he'll think it's a pair of slippers or a book, anyway, and see how surprised he'll be. charlie [_clapping his hands_]. what fun! say, tom, don't you wish we could _see_ santa claus? phil. let's try and stay awake all night. dot. no! you bad boys! santa claus doesn't like to have children see him when he comes to put things in the stockings. daisy. no, of course he doesn't. and, besides, mamma has a better way. she told me to ask you all whether you would rather hang your stockings this year, or get santa claus to come and bring us a tree. charlie. oh, jolly! but how is santa claus going to know in time? phil. that's what i'd like to know. daisy. i asked papa that, and he said, oh, he guessed he could telegraph. tom. then do let's have him come here! children. oh, yes, let's! dot. i want to thank him for my dolly's bed that he brought last year. daisy. well, i'll go tell mamma. [_exit._] sarah. ye'd all better come down and wrap up yer things now. phil. all right. come along. [_exeunt all but_ tom.] tom. i'll be along in a minute. [_looks up chimney._] i'm so glad santa claus is coming this year. [_crosses to front of stage and sits astride a small chair with its back to audience._] there are so many things i want to know about him. i'm just going to count. [_checks off on his fingers._] first, i want to know where he lives. daisy says he lives at the north pole, and she's got a picture of his house, with icicles and snow all over it. but then he always brings us oranges and bananas and nuts and figs, and i know _they_ don't grow at the north pole. i wish i could find out. next, what he feeds the reindeer on. next, how he ever gets all the things into the sleigh. how fast the reindeer can go. and whether they ever get balky. he'd be late all the time if they did. horses do, but perhaps reindeer are different. but the one thing i'd rather know than all the others put together, is just this: sarah _said_, the other day when i took a bite out of one of her hot pies, that santa claus [_very slowly and impressively_] would put a whip in my stocking! now i wonder if he would do that? [_thinks awhile, then shakes his head._] no, no! i don't believe he would. he's always smiling in his pictures, and he looks so jolly. and then, if anybody wanted to spend all his time giving presents, like santa claus, i don't believe he would ever put ashes or whips in anybody's stocking, just because he forgot the pie was for company.... oh, dear! i wish i did know. [_jumps up suddenly, puts one knee on the chair, and holds on to the back with both hands._] oh! oh! i've got such a splendid plan! it'll be easy enough to find out, after all. i don't really want anything for christmas this year ... 'cept maybe a sled, and ... well, i guess phil will let me coast on his sled. now, i'm going to be just as cross, _as cross as a bear_, to-night and _see_ if santa claus will give me a whip. i don't care--i know he won't! anyway, mamma never lets anybody whip me--only papa--and if santa claus wants me whipped he'll have to give the whip to papa. there! i hear somebody coming. i'm just going to begin right off. charlie [_calling, without_]. tom, tom! aren't you coming to wrap up your things? tom [_very crossly_]. no! charlie [_much surprised_]. _why_ not? tom. don't want to. [_chuckles._] he sounded rather surprised. i guess they won't know what to make of it. it'll be such fun! [_sits astride chair again._] here comes somebody else. i won't look around. [_puts his head down on his arms. enter_ dot.] dot. tom! tom. what do you want? dot [_timidly_]. what's the matter, tom? tom. ain't nothing the matter. dot [_aside_]. oh, dear! tom, do you want me to wrap up the knife for you? tom. can if you want to. here. [_takes it from his pocket and hands it to her without looking up._] dot [_aside_]. what can be the matter? we can't any of us be happy if tom isn't. [_exit, putting her handkerchief to her eyes._] tom [_looking after her_]. 'tisn't so much fun as i thought. [_puts his head down. enter_ sarah.] sarah [_hands on hips, looking at_ tom]. well, what 'ud be the trouble here? [_goes about, putting things to rights. dusts chair, giving_ tom _a brush._] tom [_hits out at her_]. go 'way! sarah. oh, is that yerself? tom. yes, it's meself. sarah. well, what's the matter wid yerself? tom. never you mind what! [_the other children run in._] daisy. oh, sarah, sarah, give us our coats, quick! papa says he'll take us along fourth street, to see the shop windows lighted up! charlie. do hurry, sarah! daisy. i can't find my mittens! dot [_softly, nudging_ phil]. phil, tell tom to come. phil. come along, tom, and be quick! tom. won't. phil. you _won't_? charlie. why not? tom. don't want to. charlie. well, then, don't! come on, dot! [_takes her by the arm, and leads her out._ phil _and_ daisy _look at_ tom.] daisy. please come, tom. tom. i tell you i won't. daisy. we'll have such fun. tom. well, you can have it for all me. phil. see here, tom, don't be a donkey! come along! [_takes him by the arm._] tom [_shakes him off_]. get out! daisy. well, i suppose we'll have to go without him. papa is waiting. [_they start._] phil, what is the matter with tom? phil. i don't know. dot said he was cross---- [_exeunt._ sarah. ye'd betther remember what i was a-tellin' ye, master tom. ye gettin' ready for the stick? tom. you be still and clear out, sarah! sarah. oh, i'm a-goin'--i'm a-goin'! shall i tell santa claus to make it out of rattan, master tom? tom. go on out, i say! [_chases her out._] well, it's some fun to be cross to sarah, but i really don't like to be cross to dot and the others. oh, dear! i wish i didn't have to. [_sees_ sarah's _dust-cloth, which he rolls into a wad and tucks into a cap lying on one of the chairs._] he-he! that'll fix her. now she can't find it. [_enter_ sarah. tom _sits down by the fire, holding his knee._] what do you want? sarah. oh, my clearin'-up's not done yet! i declare, if i've redd up this room once, i've done it forty times this day. [_straightens things, then looks for her duster._ tom _watches slyly._] did i take that cloth downstairs wid me? sure, i know i didn't. where did i put it, then? 'tain't here annywheres. maybe that little squirrel hid it. seen my duster, tom? tom. no, i don't see your duster. sarah. did i ax ye if ye saw it now? i said, have ye sane it? tom. and i said i didn't see it. sarah. well, ye little fox, i know yer tricks, and i'll find it yet. them as hides, finds, but sometimes other folks can find, too, when they know who did the hiding. ah! what did i tell ye! i've got it at last. i knew ye put it somewheres. now i can get my work done. tom. well, don't you bother me. sarah [_stands with hands on hips, looking at_ tom, _who scowls at her_]. if i were you, i wouldn't scowl like that, master tom; yer furhead might stay that way. tom. if i were you, i wouldn't either. sarah. ye don't look a bit pretty, master tom. tom. you don't have to look at me. sarah. see, this is what ye look like. [_makes a face and hunches up her shoulders._ tom _refuses to look._] do ye think that's rale handsome? [_aside._] well, since i can't t'ase ye into a good humor, i'll go on down. [_exit._ tom. i did want to laugh at her awfully. if she comes in again, i think i'll just have to. [_enter_ daisy _and_ phil. daisy. we didn't go far, because it was so late. phil, did you ever see anything so perfectly grand as that last window? [_taking off things._] phil. never! don't i wish i had that air-rifle! daisy. i'd rather have the doll's piano than anything else. [_enter_ sarah _with_ dot _and_ charlie. sarah _takes children's coats, etc._ sarah. here, give me yer coats. now just sit down and get warm for a minute, and then ye've got to go to bed. yer ma said so. daisy. let's sing while we're here. we don't know our new carol very well. [_all begin to sing a carol._ tom _claps, stamps, whistles, and bangs his chair up and down, to put them out. they stop._] charlie. see here, tom, if you don't want to sing, you don't have to, but you shan't stop us! sarah. no, sir! that ye shall not. ye can't stay here makin' disturbances, so just be off with ye to bed. [_pushes him out. children sing a carol, and curtain falls during last verse._] curtain act ii time: _christmas morning._ scene: _sitting-room with open fire [back center] in fireplace through which_ santa claus _may enter._ father _and_ mother _sitting by fire_, father _with paper_, mother _sewing._ phil _and_ charlie _in one corner [r. front], reading together._ daisy _and_ dot _[l. front] with dolls._ daisy. and i caught mamma! i hid behind the door, and jumped out and shouted "merry christmas!" before she saw me at all. dot [_leaning towards_ daisy]. daisy, let's say it to santa claus. daisy. oh, do you suppose he would like it? dot. why not? daisy. yes, i guess he would. dear santa claus, nobody ever thinks of saying "merry christmas" to him. dot. poor man! well, daisy, his little boys and girls might say it to him. daisy. oh, dot! he hasn't any little boys and girls to say it. don't you know he's an old man, oh, hundreds of years old? and if he ever did have any little boys and girls, they're all grown up by this time. dot. maybe he's got some grandchildren. daisy. no, i don't believe he has, for then why do they let him do all the work? nobody ever fills stockings but santa claus. dot. poor santa claus! he must get very tired. daisy. i wonder ... i wonder who keeps house for santa claus? dot. maybe nobody does. daisy. oh, yes! he must have somebody to make his fires, and cook his meals, and darn his socks. dot. why, he doesn't wear socks. don't you know, he's all dressed in fur in the pictures. but perhaps fur wears out and has to be mended. i'd like to help her do it. daisy. perhaps she's a real cross, ugly woman, and scolds him when he stays out too long filling stockings, and doesn't give him enough sugar in his tea, and never lets him have but one cup! dot [_shaking her head_]. poor santa claus! aren't you sorry for him, daisy? i am. [daisy _nods._] daisy, if he hasn't any little children, i don't suppose anybody ever gives him any christmas presents? daisy [_pityingly_]. no, i don't suppose anyone ever does. dot [_excitedly_]. oh, daisy, let's _us_ give him a present this year! daisy. oh, how splendid! of course we will. but what do you think he would like? dot. let's think. he travels all the time. perhaps he would like a comb and brush case. daisy. dot! you don't suppose he can ever comb out all that hair! it's a great deal too thick and snarly. he doesn't use a comb and brush. dot. well, i'll give him my new purse. daisy. santa claus doesn't need a pocketbook to carry money--he doesn't buy things. dot. but he might come to a toll-gate on the road, sometime. daisy. all right. and i'll give him my silk muffler, for i'm afraid his housekeeper doesn't give him enough warm clothes. come, let's get them. [_exeunt._] charlie. what's this picture about, phil? phil. that's where santa claus is coming down our chimney. charlie. i wonder why he likes to come down chimneys? i'd have a latchkey, and come in at the front door. phil. everybody doesn't have a front door just like ours, charlie. his key wouldn't fit all the doors. charlie. but i'd have a magic key, that did. when papa shaves, and puts that white stuff all over his face, he looks just like santa claus, but he wouldn't look like him long if he put his head up the chimney. santa claus must get very dirty,--perhaps he looks like the chimney-sweep. phil. oh, no, he doesn't. you'll see how he looks pretty soon. come along, let's try our new sleds. [_exeunt._ mother. my dear, i want to speak to you. [father _drops paper._] sarah tells me that tom has been very naughty and cross. he wouldn't do as she told him, and was disagreeable to the other children. father. tom! why, he's the best-tempered chicken i've got. mother. i believe you think so just because he's named after you. but he is really dreadfully provoking sometimes, and i don't know what to do with him now. father. oh, ho! you've given up in despair, and want to fall back on me? mother. not at all. but i'd like your advice. would you pay no attention to it, or would you take him to task for his naughtiness? father. mary, i always told you you couldn't manage the boys. you are too gentle and yielding. you are never strict enough. you ought to be firm, my dear! mother. firm like yourself? oh, tom, who was it that wouldn't punish the boys when they played truant, and pretended to know nothing about it when they went in swimming unbeknownst? father. oh, well, mary, you couldn't expect me to be hard on them for the very things i did myself! mother. i knew i couldn't, so i attended to them myself. but i'll just send tom in here, and let you try your luck with him. [_exit._] father. try my luck, indeed! i flatter myself that i'll soon bring him around. [_stands before fire. enter_ tom, _very slowly, hands in pockets._] good-morning, tom. [_very pleasantly._] tom [_mutters_]. morning. father. that is no way to speak, my son. good-morning, tom. tom [_a little louder_]. morning. father. see here, tom, we can't have this. your mother says you haven't been very good. tom. don't care. father. thomas, that is not a respectful way to speak to your father. what do you mean by it, sir? [_no answer._] do you mean to tell me? [tom _is silent, and stands looking down and kicking the leg of a chair._] go upstairs and stay there until i send for you. [_exit_ tom.] this is most extraordinary! what can have got into the child? [_enter_ mother. father. ah, here's mary again. mother. well, what did you say? father. i--a--i scolded him. mother. what did he say? father. he said--well--in fact, he didn't say anything. mother. wouldn't, you mean. did you punish him? father. punish him? no, i didn't punish him. come, now, mary, you don't mean to say you want me to punish him on christmas morning? i really couldn't do that. mother. oh, no, i don't want you to punish him. father. well, my dear, on the whole, i think perhaps _you'd_ better talk to him. i'll send him down. [_exit._ mother. i didn't think tom could do much with that boy when he was contrary. [_enter_ tom.] well, tom, dear, don't you want to come and sit with mamma a little while? tom [_rather doubtfully_]. ye-es. mother. here is your little chair all ready. [tom _sits down with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands._] sarah has told me something that makes me sorry. she said that you were naughty last night? is that so? tom [_reluctantly_]. yes, i was cross. mother. she said you were cross again this morning. tom. yes, i was naughty this morning, too. mother. oh-h-h, tommy! i'm so sorry to have my little boy so naughty on christmas day. don't you think that when people want to be happy and glad, everyone ought to be good and pleasant, too? tom [_the words drawn out against his will_]. yes, i think so. mother. and then there is the beautiful story of that wonderful first christmas. don't you think people were very happy on that day? and you know we always think of that on christmas, now. tom. oh, yes, i do too. mother [_reproachfully_]. then, tom, how _could_ you be so naughty? tom. well, mamma, do you think it's so _dread_fully naughty to be cross? mother. it is not so naughty as some things you might do, but it is making other people unhappy, and don't you think that is pretty bad? tom. well, mamma, if a fellow didn't _feel_ cross at all, but had a very good reason for _being_ cross, would that be naughty? mother. i don't think there can be any good reason for being cross. tom. i do. mother. what is it? tom. it's a secret. it's a _very_ good reason. i'm sorry it's naughty. i didn't think it was. but _i'm not sorry i did it_. mother. oh, tommy, it makes me feel badly to hear you talk so. i'll leave you here, and let you think it over. perhaps you'll feel pleasanter after awhile. you can call me when you do. tom [_leaving his little chair for a big one_]. i'm sorry they all think i'm so bad, and i'm really very tired of being cross, but i _must_ find out about santa claus, for if he's the kind of man that would bring anybody ashes or whips on christmas, i don't believe i'll like him at all! [_jingling of bells in chimney._] what's that? [_louder bells._] i do believe he's coming now! [_jumps up._] oh, dear! where are the others? i wish they would come! i--i--i guess i'm just a _little bit_ afraid! [_gets behind his chair. enter_ santa claus _through the fireplace._] santa claus. that's a fine wide chimney! [_stoops to look up it._] why doesn't everybody keep a chimney like that for my special use? [_comes front._] i'm sure when i only come once a year, i ought to have some attention paid to my wants! tom [_faintly_]. santa claus! santa claus. hello! what's this? where are you, anyway? [_looks about, then over chair, and sees_ tom.] what! hiding from me? come out at once, and tell me what's the matter with you. tom [_coming out_]. santa claus, have you got the whip and ashes? santa claus. whip and ashes! bless me, what's the boy talking about? whip? i left my sleigh whip on the roof, if that's what you mean, and i never carry _ashes_ around with me. what are you driving at? hey? tom. sarah said you gave whips to bad boys, and i've been very naughty--oh, dreadfully naughty! santa claus. naughty? dear, dear! i'm sorry to hear that! and on christmas, too! what a pity! when you knew i was coming? dear, dear, dear! tom. _have_ you got the whip, then? santa claus. no, no! i never give anybody whips--excepting toy ones, with a whistle in the end, like this---- [_gives_ tom _one_] ----and sarah was just teasing you. i'll have to see sarah about that. i won't have anybody telling stories about me. but, dear, dear, it makes me unhappy to think you could be so naughty. why did you do it? tom [_looks around cautiously_]. don't tell anybody, santa claus, but i was naughty on purpose, just to see if you would give me a whip. santa claus. well, that's a joke! don't you know enough to see that you ought to have waited to ask me, instead of running such a risk? tom [_remorsefully_]. sure enough! i could have done that! and now i've gone and made them all feel sorry, just for nothing. [_enter_ father _and_ mother. father. well, well, here's santa claus! i haven't seen you for a long time. how do you do, sir, how do you do? [_they shake hands._] mother [_at door_]. children! children! come here! [_enter children._ children. oh, santa claus! santa claus! daisy _and_ dot. merry christmas, santa claus! daisy. we've got some presents for you, santa claus. dot and i thought nobody would remember to give you anything, so we wanted to. [_giving presents._] santa claus. well, really, my dears, these are very nice. bless your little hearts, nobody has remembered me for some time, and that's a fact! mr. wright, how have these children been behaving themselves? can i give them the nice things i have brought for them? father. yes, sir! i'm happy to say, they have been very good, very good, indeed. oh---- [_aside_] ----now i'm forgetting that rascal, tom! [_to_ santa claus.] that is--they've all been good except one--and he--a--well---- mother [_looking at_ tom]. he is sorry now, i hope, santa claus, and will try not to do so any more. santa claus. oh! ha-ha! you're talking about this fellow, are you? [_puts his hand on_ tom's _shoulder and draws him forward._] well, he's just been explaining to me that it was all a mistake---- father [_sternly_]. i hope he has not been trying to hide his misdoings from you, santa claus. santa claus. not at all, sir, not at all. he confessed like a man. but there is this about it that you didn't know. somebody told him that i put whips in the stockings of naughty children. well, he naturally thought i was to be distrusted--shocking way to malign me, wasn't it?--and of course he wanted to find out. so what did he do to test me but _try_ to be naughty--acted it out to perfection, i've no doubt. pretty severe on his brothers and sisters and parents, wasn't it? [santa claus _and_ father _laugh._] mother. why, tommy, it's a pity you didn't just come to me and ask about it. it would have saved so much trouble. why didn't you do that? tom. i never once thought of that way, mamma! santa claus. well, my son, your thinking-cap is the only cap you don't have to take off in the house, so remember to keep it on, next time. mr. wright, i'm sure he feels sorry enough about his mistake to justify me in giving him his full share of presents. come, children, look and see what i've got for you. i brought it last night, to have it all ready, and i think it ought to hold enough for all, don't you? [_curtains at side of stage fall, and disclose the tree._[ ] _general distribution of presents follows._ [footnote : see note on tree, p. , and on tree-songs, p. .] notes on costume and setting for this play, ordinary costume is all that is required. adult parts are taken by two girls and a boy, of fourteen or fifteen, and these, of course, need something especial, but little girls can easily borrow their equipment from mothers or sisters. father wright should wear a mustache and, if desired, a beard. for santa claus costume, see note, p. . see note on fireplace, p. . their christmas party in two acts characters father browne. mother browne. aunt jennie. dick } dot } the little brownes. (eight and six years old.) mary, the nurse. john, the man. jim } a newsboy and his sister, both ragged. (about polly } the age of dick and dot.) the five little blairs. the two little grays. sallie lee. cook's sister's children. _and_ santa claus. [illustration: their christmas party] their christmas party act i time: _afternoon of the th of december._ scene: _a street corner on a snowy day. barrels and boxes in front of a small grocery store. enter_ dick _and_ dot, _well wrapped up, dragging a sled._ dick. whew! that's a dandy coast, but it's pretty hard work pulling up. dot. let's sit down a minute and rest. [_they draw sled to left of stage and sit down side by side on it._] i'm so tired. oh, dick, i thought we were going to run over that poor gray cat, didn't you? dick [_nodding_]. it's lucky for her that she knew how to jump. the comet would have hit her sure! this rope needs tying tighter. [_goes to front of sled and kneels down, fixing rope._] dot [_looking around_]. it's so nice and quiet here. no big boys ever coast on this street. big boys always bump into you. dick [_shaking his mitten at her_]. now, dot, that's just the very reason i don't like it. you don't know how much more fun it would be to have just lots and lots of boys on this track all the time, climbing up and whizzing down. i bet none of them could beat this old sled. dot [_doubtfully_]. maybe it would be nice, but, dick, i think it's such fun to have just us two. dick. that's just because you're a girl and don't know. come along, let's try the hill again. shall we go over the bump? dot. no, i'm afraid. let's start down here. [_exeunt._ [_enter from left_, jim _and_ polly. jim. if you're very cold, sister, we can go home right off now, but i've got four papers left, and i want awful bad to sell 'em, every one, so's i can take the money to granny. polly. no, i'm not so dreadful cold, jim. and, 'sides, maybe granny's not got home yet from work, and then you know we'd just have to sit on the doorstep and wait. jim. we'll stay right here. folks will be going home soon, and lots of men pass this corner. here's a nice box to sit on; i don't believe the store man will mind. you sit on that side, so, polly, and i'll sit here, so, for the wind's blowing this way, and if i sit here it will hit me first, and i can keep it off o' you. [_they sit back to back on the box._] polly. oh, jim, i'm afraid you'll be cold. jim. oh, no, i won't. [_two men cross stage arm in arm._] here's your times, star, evening post. last edition. [_men shake their heads._] [_looking after men._] pshaw! well, maybe the next feller'll want one. [_to_ polly.] see, polly, i can't be cold, i just stuff my hands in my pockets---- [_his hand comes through._] no, that's the wrong place. i just stuff my hands in my pockets like this, and then i kick my heels like this. [_kicks on box with his heels._] that's very warming. and then i whistle. [_whistles lively tune._] if you just whistle you don't have time to think about the wind, see! polly [_drums with her heels and tries to whistle_]. but it hurts to kick your heels, and i can't whistle. jim. i'll tell you what. let's try singing. perhaps that's just as warming. let's sing granny's christmas song. [_they sing a verse of "god rest ye, merry gentlemen," or some other old-world carol._] polly. jim, is to-morrow christmas? jim [_gloomily_]. yes, to-morrow's christmas. [_aside._] and if somebody don't buy these papers pretty soon, i won't have enough pennies to get [_counts on his fingers_] that penny paper doll; nor the penny washtub, nor the jumping jack, nor the paint box, 'cause that's three cents. [_enter man._] here's your evenin' paper, sir! [_man stops and takes one. exit._] [_enter_ dick _and_ dot, _cross stage, and sit down as before._ dot. wasn't that a nice coast, dick? dick [_absently_]. yes. [_rests his chin in his hands and elbows on his knees._] dot, i do wish we lived in an orphan asylum. dot [_jumps_]. oh-h! why, dicky browne, you wouldn't have any papa nor mamma nor aunt jennie, nor anybody, nor anybody. dick. but just think what lots of brothers and sisters we'd have. dot. well, you're all the brothers i want; 'nd i wouldn't give up papa and mamma for all the sisters in the world; so now. dick. well, neither would i, but can't you see how much nicer times we would have if there was a lot of us, on holidays especially? dot. well, i think we have an awfully good time, anyway. you said you liked thanksgiving. dick. that was because of the dinner part. when we tried to play games and dance afterwards, what did we do? we played hide the thimble, and if i hid it there was only you to look, and of course you couldn't help finding it first. we had to play going to jerusalem with just one chair, and the two of us went around and around and around till we felt like the "little rid hin" in john's story. i declare there aren't enough of us to play puss-in-the-corner. two children can't have any fun. [_puts his head down on his arms._] dot [_sighs_]. that's so. dick [_lifts up his head suddenly_]. and i'd just like to know what's the fun of coasting when you haven't anything to shout "clear the track" at, but ash barrels, and hens and cats that you can't run over anyway. i wish there were forty-'leven boys on the track this minute. dot. well, i don't care about the track, but brothers and sisters are nice to play with. wouldn't it be nice if there were two of you and two of me? dick. two of us! i wish there were six of each of us. i wish i could go and live with the ruggles's, in your story about the "birds' christmas carol." there were nine of them and they only got washed about once a year. and folks weren't always saying, "land! where did you get them dirty hands?" dot. that would be fun! we could play just as untidy games---- dick. don't talk about it, it makes me cross. [_folds his arms, crosses his feet, and whistles something sad._ dot _gets out her handkerchief and spreads it in her lap._] jim [_softly_]. i say, polly, that boy's got an awful nice sled. polly. just look at his sister's muff. [_enter man._] jim [_shouts_]. buy a paper, sir! [_man takes paper._] [dot _turns and sees children, looks away, then back again, turns to_ dick. dot. dicky, are you sure you are warm enough? dick. warm enough! how could i be cold with a great big coat like this one? i feel like a polar bear. [_walks up and down to show size of his coat, then sits down._ dot _turns and sees the children's ragged shoes._] dot. but are your feet warm? dick. of course, with boots on. dot [_sees_ polly _examining holes in her mittens_]. but aren't there any holes in your mittens? dick. in my spick-span new mittens that aunt jennie made me? [_holds them up._] dot, you're crazy! [_catches her looking at the children; looks himself, and then walks around the sled to sit facing_ jim _and_ polly. dot _does the same. all four stare in silence._] hullo! jim. hullo, yourself! dick. are you the boy that my papa gets his papers of? jim. don't know. [dot _walks decidedly over to_ polly. dot. let me feel your hands. they're just like ice; i knew it. put them right in here with mine. [_kneels in front of_ polly _and puts her hands in muff._ dick _moves sled close to_ jim _and sits astride of it._] dick. have you sold all your papers? jim. no, i've got two left. dick. isn't it lots of fun to sell papers and earn money? jim. i don't know,--not this kind of weather. dick. i think it would be fun. i wouldn't want to sell 'em on christmas. do you have to work on christmas day? jim. not if i don't want to. i did go out last christmas, but nobody much came along. i suppose they stayed at home to keep warm. dot. no, i guess santa claus was coming to see their little children, and they wanted to see him too. [_to_ polly.] what do you want santa claus to bring you? polly. santa claus hasn't ever been to our house. dot. what, hasn't ever been to your house! dick. haven't you ever seen him? jim. no, she never saw him, but i saw a stuffed santa claus in a window once. dick. why, he comes to our house every single year. dot. i thought he went to everybody's houses in this world. jim [_leaning toward_ dick _and speaking low_]. i get polly presents when i get enough money. dick. but doesn't santa claus fill your stockings? jim. no, and he never goes to nicky smith's house, nor eddy warren's, nor jakey white's. they told me so. here comes another man. post, sir? [_man shakes his head._] polly. jim got me some candy last christmas, and granny gave me a doll, only its head came off the next day. jim. that's an awful nice sled. dick. haven't you got any sled? jim. no, but i coast on a board sometimes. dick. i'll let you try comet. don't you want to take polly down? dot. oh, yes, go; we'll take care of the papers. dick. let's change places; we'll sell papers and you coast. and you must take our coats too. [_pulls off his things_, dot _following his example._] because the wind just whistles right through you, i tell you, when you go down that hill. dot. oh, yes. jim. we're much obliged for the sled, but we can't take your things; you'll be cold. dick. no, we won't, and you must. [_helps him on with his own coat._] you see, you're cold now, and you won't have a good coast if you're not warm. give me your cap. here, take my mittens. dot, take polly's shawl. dot. now, we'll sit right down here. dick, you hold the papers. jim. are you all fixed? dick _and_ dot. oh, beautifully. oh, thank you. [jim _and_ polly _go off._ dick [_calling_]. put polly on behind. dot. mind the bump at the curbstone. dick. oh, dot, isn't this fun? dot. yes, lots. have you got the papers? dick. yes, there are only two left to sell. dot. let me get close up behind you, the way polly did. now you must drum with your heels, and whistle like jim. [dick _does so._] dick. here comes somebody. now i'm going to call. here's your evening papers, last edition! [_enter two men, stop and buy a paper._ first man [_looking back_]. that's a queer-looking newsboy. somehow he looks like a rich child. second man [_pulling him off_]. i can't see but the little scamp is ragged enough. some of these newsboys aren't so poverty-stricken as they make out, anyway. come along. [_exeunt._] dick. i've seen that man somewhere. dot. i think he's been to see papa. wouldn't it be fun if papa came along and bought a paper of you? dick. and didn't know me. what a circus! wish he would. dot. there come jim and polly. wave your paper at them. dick [_waving_]. hurrah, jim, i sold a paper. [_enter_ jim _and_ polly. jim. good for you. it was fine! polly. it was just grand! dick. try it again. we like this, don't we, dot? dot. yes. don't you want to go again, polly? jim. are you warm enough? honest injun? dot. yes, go on. jim. all right. [_exeunt._] dick. i knew jim would think comet was a boss sled. don't you think jim would be a nice brother, dot? dot. yes, if he washed his face. polly would be nice for a sister, too. dick. we could all write letters to santa claus together. [_drums with heels and whistles._] dot [_after a pause, rubbing her nose_]. well, if santa claus's nose ever feels like mine, it's no wonder it's red. dick [_squirming_]. somehow, it's colder than i thought it was. the thermometer must be down to zero. dot. i'm sure it's nineteen below. i--i think a fire would feel real nice. dick. i'll take you home when they come up again. i'm not very cold. i wonder if jim ever flops his arms like a street car driver. maybe that would make him warm. try it, dot. [_both beat themselves with their arms._] dot. i don't believe anything would make me warm. dick [_turning anxiously_]. dot, do you want my handkerchief? dot. oh, no, i'm not going to cry. dick. well, i'm glad, for it's in my pocket that jim's got on. [_enter man._ man. got a times, boy? dick. yes, sir, last one. [_exit man. enter_ jim _and_ polly.] sold the last paper, jim. here's the money. we've got to go home now. [_changing coats._] jim, i think it's very queer about santa claus. is your house hard to find? jim. no, it's just right down this street, there on friendship alley. we're awfully much obliged for the ride. the comet's a beauty. polly. i never was on a sled before. dot. weren't you? we'll let you have ours again, sometime. dick _and_ dot. good-night. [_exeunt._] jim. that's an awfully nice little chap, polly. polly. why, jim, he's 'most as big as you are. jim. oh, well, he's little somehow. i take care of you and that makes me big. let's go home to granny. [_takes her hand. exeunt, singing another verse of their carol._] curtain act ii time: _christmas morning._ scene: _sitting-room, with large old-fashioned fireplace[ ] [back center]. toys scattered about. a small blackboard to left of fireplace._ dick _and_ dot _sitting in little chairs._ dick, _with a knife, whittling._ dot, _with a doll. both wear sprigs of holly._ [footnote : see note on fireplace, p. .] dot. everybody has given us such lovely presents. it couldn't be nicer, could it, dick? dick [_sighing_]. i think it could be just a little nicer. it would be nicer if we had a lot of brothers and sisters to help us play with the soldiers and the blocks and the dolls and everything. oh, i wish--i wish that just for this one day i could have a whole _roomful_ of children to play with. dot. i'm afraid jim and polly aren't having as nice a christmas as ours. dick [_shutting his knife_]. so am i. i don't think friendship alley's a very nice place to have to live. dot. i wish they could have a christmas like ours. i'd like to give them some things. anyway, i'd like to show them our presents. dick [_jumping up_]. let's! dot. when? dick. now, right off. and, dot, don't you know they said they had never seen santa claus, either. it's 'most time for him to come. let's go and bring them over to see him. dot. all right. he'll give them something, too. dick. we'll hide them so as to surprise everybody. dot. will papa and mamma like it? dick. of course they will. papa always likes our surprises, and mamma will, i know, because it would make her feel so sorry if she knew there was anybody in the world that wasn't happy on christmas. she says that's the happiest day in the year, and everybody ought to be happy. so we won't make her sorry by telling her about it. we'll just make them happy too. dot. we can have them take off their things in the nursery, and then jim can wash his face. [_exeunt. enter_ father, _with paper which he throws on table._ father. well, the children seem to have grown tired of their new things already. i don't see what has come over that boy lately. he talks of nothing but big families. i suppose the sight of the five little blair children across the way is tantalizing, and it certainly is lonely for the two little duds with nobody but grown-ups in the house. their efforts to be a large party in themselves, to play games, on thanksgiving day, were really laughable, but they were pathetic, too. if julia had thought of it, we might have had a little christmas party for them. it's a good deal of trouble for santa claus to climb down a chimney for just two children. [_looks at his watch._] the old gentleman ought to be here in about half an hour. i wonder if it's too late to get some children now? mr. blair might lend me his youngsters for an hour or so. it would be such a nice surprise for the children. i could hide them somewhere, and at a given signal have them come out. i'll just step across the way and see. [_exit_ father. _enter_ aunt jennie. aunt. what a dreadful state the children have left this room in. that blessed boy! i knew he couldn't wait to try his new knife. his father would insist on giving it to him, though i'm sure it's dangerous. here are his chips all over the floor, and dot has had dolly dressed and undressed a dozen times at least. [_sits down by fire, laughing indulgently._] the way those children have been talking the last few days is a puzzle! i can't think what started them. i never had but one brother myself, and i'm sure i was quite happy. what they want with ten brothers and sisters is beyond me. a dozen children in the house would be more than their father and julia and i could stand, to say nothing of nurse and john. the two alone can think of quite enough mischief to drive the household crazy. i suppose our having so many friends when we were children made a difference. we never used to be alone at christmas. after all, on holidays it would be forlorn. too bad we didn't think of having a party. there are so many children who would think it a treat to come, too, who have no tree or santa claus at home. that little girl of ellen lee's must be all alone to-day. [_gets up decidedly._] i declare i'll just put on my hat and coat and go around there now and get her. it'll be such a nice surprise for the children. [_exit in haste. enter_ mother. _takes up doll, and sits down thoughtfully before the fire, rearranging doll's dress._ mother. dolly, you'd be surprised if you knew how badly i'm feeling! i think i've been a very stupid, unrealizing sort of a mother, not to plan something to make the children have a really _merry_ christmas, as well as a happy one. it would have been so easy to have a little party of children here. oh, dolly, you know all about it better than i do myself, for didn't i just hear dot confiding in you, and whispering in this little ear under your curls how she wished you were a real live sister to play with her? now you see how i feel! don't you see that if she had a hundred dolls, of wax or china or rags, she would still have a stupid christmas? i haven't a doubt that you mean well, and you do fill a very large corner in a little girl's heart--i haven't got over my fondness for your race yet. [_kisses the doll's curls._] but you certainly are a trifle obstinate about responding to friendly advances. poor children, it's so easy to give you pleasure! [_lets doll fall in her lap._] i might have had a nice, jolly, little ... well, it's too late now. [_sighs, then looks at her watch._] no! i don't believe it is, after all. i still have time to go for little jerry gray and his sister. they are just the ones! the children love surprises so. i'll hurry---- [_exit in haste. enter_ mary _and_ john. _while they talk together they put the room to rights._ mary. well, it do beat all, how thim children can make a room look like so many pigs and chickens had been running through. john. thrue for you, an' it does. mary. an' what fer need they be wishin' there was tin of thim to mess the house up worse? john. an' did they do that, thin? mary. sure they did. "mary," says dicky to me, "don't you wish that i was five little b'ys and dot was five little girls? we do, we're so lonesome." john. an' that's what i heard them sayin' as i was a-carryin' up coal this morning. "i wish i had a whole room full of brothers and sisters," says dick. faix! i wish i could give him some of mine, then. i've enough to spare. mary. 'tis sort of lonesome like, now, ain't it, john? [_hands on hips._] john [_hands on hips_]. yes, it is that. i wonder---- say, mary, me darlin', them three children of cook's sister's ain't going to have much christmas. why can't you and me smuggle them up here to the cupboard on the stairs, and when we comes up to help wid th' tree, we'll just give the word and they'll pop out and say, merry christmas. it'll be sort o' cheerful like, and mistress is that kind-hearted she ain't going to care. mary. john, you have the brains of a elephant. i'll go right down and fetch 'em now. [_exit._] john. poor children! they shall have some fun, that they shall. [_re-enter_ mary _with children._ mary. well, would you look at 'em, john? cook she dressed 'em all up in green ribbons, bless their hearts. says i, "sure to-day's not st. patrick's day." "well," says she, "what's fittin' one holiday is fittin' the next. it's a good color anyhow. them's their best clothes." so i never touched 'em. i've told 'em about it, john. now, just go right up in here, children. john. and when we say "broomsticks!" out you bounces and shouts, "merry christmas!" now, mary, we've redd up, we'll just go below stairs. [_exeunt._] [_enter_ dick _and_ dot _with_ jim _and_ polly. dot. we're so glad you came, because we want to show you our things. dick. and now you can see santa claus. jim _and_ polly. oh-h-hh! we never saw nothin' like this before. dick. and i'm going to put my new necktie on you, because we want to be all dressed up for santa claus. dot _and_ dick. we've got on holly because it's christmas. polly. i've got on my clean apron. will i do? dot. 'course you will; i don't believe santa claus cares. dick. here are my soldiers. dot. and this is my dolly. dick. and just look at my knife. dot. where's my pincushion? dick. oh, see our blackboard. don't you want to draw on it, jim? jim. i don't know how to draw. dick. oh, make a man; it's very easy to make a man. [_demonstrating._] you just make his stomach and his head, and then put on the arms and legs. dot. see our books. dick. this is my new history. it's got a picture of mr. columbus finding the red indians. dot. oh, i hear somebody coming. you must hide straight off. dick. in the chimney is the best place. jim, you go on this side and polly on that. and look out for the fire. remember when we say "sleds!" you must come out. dot. now. [father _puts his head in at the door._ father. oh, children, are you there? don't you think you'd better go and have your hands and faces washed? santa claus likes clean faces, you know. dick _and_ dot. yes, sir, right off. [_exeunt._] [_enter_ father _with five little blairs._ father. now, children, quick, run right into the library here, and when i say "holly!" you must run out and say, "merry christmas!" [_exit_ father. _enter_ aunt _with_ sally lee. aunt. sally, the best place for you to hide is here on the floor behind the blackboard. there, no one can see you. now, when i say "evergreen!" you must come out as we planned. [_exit_ aunt. _enter_ mother _with two little grays._ mother. come right here, dears, behind this curtain. you won't have to wait long. and when i say "mistletoe!" run out. i'll go and find dick and dot. [_exit._ [_enter_ dick _and_ dot _and place two low chairs by the fireplace. both put their heads into the chimney._ dick _and_ dot. are you all right? jim. yes, if we don't have to stay too long. polly. it's very nice and warm here. [_enter_ father, mother, aunt, _and_ mary _and_ john, _who stand by the door._ father. children, what are you doing? [_children come out confused._] mother. were you looking for santa claus? aunt. couldn't you wait for him? dick. it's a whole year since we've seen him. father. i wonder if he's changed any. dot. oh, i hope not. father. we all love santa claus, don't we? he makes us think of so many pleasant things. he always reminds me of---- father. holly! } } mother. mistletoe! } } aunt. evergreen! } } all children [_rushing out_]: dick } sleds! } "merry christmas, merry dot } } christmas, merry christmas!" } john } broomsticks! } mary } } dick _and_ dot. hurrah, hurrah! we're going to have a christmas party, after all! father. i never was so surprised in all my life. mother. nor the rest of us, either. children. goody, goody! santa claus is coming! father. three cheers for santa claus. all together! all. rah! rah! rah! mother. santa claus likes to have children quiet sometimes. it's almost time for him to come now. i know he loves music. suppose we all sit down right where we are and sing. what shall we sing? dot. let's sing---- [_all sing a christmas carol._ father. listen, do you hear anything? [_silence._] children. no, no! father. well, let's sing something about santa claus, and see if that will bring him. [_they sing a santa claus song._] [_enter_ santa claus _through fireplace. children all jump up and gather around him._ santa claus. whew! what a large party! do you think my pack will hold out for so many? children [_dancing excitedly_]. yes! yes! dick. santa claus, before you begin, i want to ask you a question. here are jim and polly, and they have always wanted to see you, but you never went to their house, nor gave them any presents, and they say they know some more poor people that you never go to see. we thought you went everywhere and gave everybody presents! why didn't you ever give anything to jim and polly? we don't think that's quite fair, santa claus! santa claus. i know, and i think i can explain to you. [_recites._] 'tis true, my child, i can't but say i have a very curious way of bringing presents to girls and boys who have least need of pretty toys, and giving books, and dolls, and rings, to those who already have such things. 'tis done for a very curious reason, suggested by the christmas season. should i make my gifts to those who need, 'twould become a time of general greed, when all would think, "what shall we get?" "what shall we give?" they would quite forget. so when i send my gifts to-day, 'tis a hint "you have plenty to give away." and then i leave some poor ones out, that the richer may find, as they look about, their opportunities close at hand, in every corner of the land. my token to those who in plenty live is a gentle reminder, meaning, give.[ ] [footnote : quoted from _st. nicholas_, by courtesy of tudor jenks and the century company.] children. oh, yes, we see, and we'll try to remember. santa claus. that's right. now, can't we have another song? i like to hear you singing. let's have.... [_carol, and distribution of presents._[ ] [footnote : see note on tree, p. , and on carols, p. .] notes on costume and scenery ordinary costumes. santa claus (see note on costume, p. ) should be taken by a man, but the other adult parts are for boys and girls from fourteen to eighteen. two or three older boys enact the homeward-bound pedestrians who merely cross the stage in act i, and father browne and john, in coats and hats, may be among these. the groups of children who come in at the end range from the very smallest up to ten years. if scenery is available, place grocery store in first scene, at the back, and keep the children well in the center. in changing the scene, time can be gained by setting the first scene in front of the interior, as very little space is needed for the first act. if scenery is not to be used, set grocery store less conspicuously [_right_], using screens and placing boxes and barrels before them. the christmas brownie in one act characters father bird. mother bird. kitty } { about twelve years old. ted } { boy of ten. marjorie } the little birds { eight years old. robin } { boy of seven. little rose } { little girl of six. nurse maggie. the christmas brownie. (boy of ten.) _and_ santa claus. characters in ted's dream (series of tableaux at back of stage) i. jack horner. ii. mrs. santa claus. iii. when santa was young. iv. "merry christmas." (little boy.) v. "no christmas." (little boy and girl.) vi. the christmas waits. (four boys and four girls from six to twelve years, who can sing.) the other children in the "dream" should not be over eight years old. [illustration: the brownie] the christmas brownie time: _christmas eve. the story begins at tea-time in the nursery, and ends on christmas morning, the night being bridged over by_ ted's _dream._ scene: _nursery, with fireplace,[ ] across corner [right], nursery pictures on the walls, and toys scattered about. the children seated on little chairs around a low table [l.], having just finished their tea_--ted _at one end_, kitty _opposite him_, marjorie _and_ rose _on one side [facing the audience], and_ robin _with his chair half turned away from the table. curtain rises, showing the children singing a christmas song, while the nurse goes in and out with a tray, clearing the table. the little girls sit with hands folded_, kitty _sometimes helping the nurse, and the boys lounge comfortably in their chairs. when the song is ended_, ted _leans his elbows on the table._ [footnote : see note on fireplace, p. .] any christmas song will do. "oh, ring, glad bells" (from _songs and games for little ones_[ ]) is a very good one. [footnote : see note on carols, p. .] kitty. oh, i do wish papa and mamma would get done their supper and come up here! marjorie. seems to me it takes twice as long to eat supper in the dining-room as it does up here in the nursery! ted. grown folks are so slow about it! robin. guess they have more to eat, too. nurse. no, indeed, master robin, it's because they're polite and don't eat so fast! marjorie. we do gobble just like thanksgiving turkeys! kitty. rosy-posy never does. [_patting little_ rose.] ted. pooh! rosebud doesn't eat more'n a bite, anyway! rose. maggie, please untie my bib. ted. i'll do it for you. [_jumps up and unties it. the others take theirs off, and the nurse carries them all away._] kitty. oh, i'm so excited! i don't believe i can sleep a wink. marjorie. don't you wish to-morrow would come quick? boys. you bet! marjorie. santa claus! kitty. christmas tree! robin. sleds! ted. candy! robin. big drums! boys [_drumming with fists on table_]. b-r-r-rum! b-r-rum! brum! brum! brum! kitty [_covering her ears_]. mercy! what a racket! do be quiet, boys! rose [_shaking her finger_]. santa claus'll hear you 'way up at the north pole! ted. i hope he's started on his travels before this, or he won't get here for a week. robin. wouldn't you like to ride with him in his old sleigh, though? ted. and help him fill the stockings! marjorie. i don't think i'd like going down chimneys much. kitty. what a good chimney-sweep santa claus must make. robin [_going to look up chimney_]. oh, isn't it 'most time to hang up the stockings? [_comes to stand beside_ marjorie.] kitty. maggie has gone to get them, i think. rose. but, sister, how will santa claus know which is which? kitty. he'll know yours the minute he sees it, pet. rose. will he? ted. sure! robin. oh, i say, ted, wouldn't it be a joke if he got 'em all mixed up, and put my things in marjorie's stocking, and yours in kitty's! kitty. he won't. he's such a wise old fellow that he always knows, somehow. marjorie. well, i should think it would be lots easier if we marked them! it must be dreadfully hard for him to remember. ted. i'll tell you what! s'posing we write a list of the things we want him to bring, too? robin. good for you, ted. then he won't have to remember all the letters we've been writing him. marjorie. give us some paper, quick, kitty! kitty [_gets paper and pencils from mantel_, ted _helping her_]. if santa claus has to remember all the letters all the children in the world write him every year, shouldn't you think his head must ache? [_divides paper among children. all sit at table and write._] ted. put your name at the top. marjorie. and the thing you want most, next. rose [_to_ kitty]. will santa claus mind if i print mine? kitty. no, indeed. he likes printing. [_all write busily for a few moments._ robin. i'm done. look at that! [_holds it up._] kitty. my! what a long list! rose. oh-h-h! santa claus'll think you're greedy! robin. i don't expect him to give me all those things. that's just so he can choose. kitty. here come papa and mamma. now, ted, go get the stockings. [_exit_ ted. _enter_ father _and_ mother, _children crowding around them._ kitty. mamma, we've made lists---- robin. of the things we want---- kitty. and we're going to pin them on our stockings---- marjorie. because we thought we ought to save poor santa claus all the trouble we could. mother. what thoughtful children! i'm sure santa claus will appreciate it. robin. now, sit down and write your lists, quick! father [_laughing_]. santa claus will be frightened by such an array of wants. [father _and_ mother _sit down and write._] father. do you think his pack will hold out? robin [_with scorn_]. 'course it will! that pack hasn't any bottom at all. marjorie _and_ rose [_taking hands and dancing_]. oh, goody! goody! goody! [_enter_ ted, _with_ maggie, _who gives stockings to the children and helps them to pin on the lists._ father. i don't see my sock anywhere. this surely isn't mine! [_holds up a long stocking._] marjorie. oh, papa, it would be too mean to hang up one of your horrid little ones! robin. no, sir! ted. socks are no good on christmas eve. we've got one of mamma's for you. father [_laughing_]. oh, i see. very well. but it's lucky they're to be marked. santa claus would never in the world recognize this one. mother [_to_ robin, _who is stretching his stocking as much as possible_]. robin, what are you doing? robin. just making it bigger. now, come along. papa's on the first hook. [_all go to fireplace and hang stockings_, nurse _helping_ rose. _all stand back to gaze._] kitty. don't they make a fine show? boys. hurrah! hurrah! [_children all clap._] mother. softly, children! [_to_ nurse.] maggie, they will never go to sleep if they are so excited! [_to children._] sit down here a little while and sing some of your christmas songs before you go to bed. kitty. oh, no, mamma, let rosebud sing her song for us, and we'll be quiet. mother. very well, dear. ted. let her stand on the table, so everybody can hear. come, rosy! [ted _and_ kitty _help her up._ father _stands by fire_, marjorie _with her arm about_ mother, nurse _in door_, kitty _sits on a corner of the table_, robin _in a chair_, ted _leaning over the back of it._ rose _sings, "in another land and time." (from "songs for little children.")[ ] when the song is ended_, mother _comes forward, kisses_ rose, _and lifts her down._] [footnote : see p. .] mother. now, maggie, take her to bed. [nurse _leads her out._] father. yes, it's high time you all went. good-night, all of you! children. good-night, papa! good-night, mamma! robin [_runs to fireplace, and bends over, shouting_]. good-night, santa claus! father. now, scamper, every one of you! [_chases them out_, mother _follows. stage darkened somewhat. enter the_ brownie _suddenly, through fireplace. stands (center) for a moment, finger on lips, then rushes to door, peeps out, comes back, looks under table, and then, as if satisfied, goes to stockings, and stands examining them, feet wide apart, and hands on hips. comes to_ father's, _measures it with his hands, then lifts it by the toe, and points to it, grinning. doubles up with laughter. suddenly puts his hand to his ear, and bends over, listening. rushes to door, runs back, and vanishes in chimney. enter_ ted.] ted [_softly_]. i just can't go to bed yet. robin went to sleep the very minute he got into bed. don't see how he could. maggie thinks i'm all nicely tucked in, and she's gone downstairs. [_goes to fireplace and looks up chimney._] i do wish i could catch santa claus. no signs of him yet, and i don't hear the sleigh-bells. i think i'll just sit down and wait. [_crosses to his own chair, and sits facing audience, with one elbow on table._] i believe i could give santa claus a few pointers, anyway. [brownie _puts his head out of fireplace, and then shows himself entirely, gradually creeping nearer and nearer_ ted, _as if irresistibly drawn by his remarks._] he does give people pretty much what they ask for, but [_slowly_] if he just stopped a minute to think about it, he'd find out what silly things they do think they want, sometimes. but [_sighs_] he's getting so old that he doesn't find it out at all. [brownie, _behind him, raises his hands in horror, then shakes his fist at_ ted.] i really think it would be a good thing for santa claus to choose one person in each family to help him out,--with the planning, anyway, if he doesn't like to have anyone else fill the stockings. s'posing he chose me! i could help him a lot! [brownie _springs excitedly on the table, and bends over_ ted, _shaking his fist in his face._] ted [_jumps up, and stands off a little way_]. wow! wha--wha---- who are you? brownie [_folds his arms and looks contemptuously down on_ ted]. _who_ is this impertinent snip of a boy who dares to insinuate that my master, santa claus, is too old and decrepit to do his work any longer? ted. indeed, indeed, i didn't say that! brownie [_wrathfully_]. what did you say, then? it sounded very much like it. [_shakes his head fiercely._] ted. i--i--i just said--that i think he makes mistakes sometimes. brownie [_sitting down cross-legged on the table_]. very well, we'll just have this matter settled at once. sit down, now, and let me hear what you have to say. [ted _backs away from his chair._] no, that won't do. sit down, i tell you. [ted _reluctantly obeys, pulling his chair to a safe distance, and sitting astride of it._] now then, young sir, will you tell me what complaints you have to register against your last year's stocking? wasn't everything in it that you asked for? ted [_anxious to appease_]. oh, yes! and more, too! brownie. and wasn't everything in it in perfect order? was anything broken? ted [_emphatically_]. no! everything was just out of sight! brownie. and weren't all the cracks stuffed tight with candy and nuts and raisins? ted. i should say they were! brownie. then i'd like to know the meaning of this discontent! you twentieth-century boys are a set of ungrateful young scamps, who get the best of everything, and then complain of it, and break it up in three days' time. santa claus is spoiling you, _i_ say! boys a hundred years ago were thankful for the slates and schoolbooks we gave them, and the girls were happy enough over corncob dolls. now you must have steam-engines, and motors, and automobiles, and dolls that walk and talk, and are so full of cogs and wheels that no real flesh-and-blood little girl could love them at all. i tell you, in all my thousand years of existence, i have never met anything so grasping as the modern children! [_talks so loud and gesticulates so wildly that_ ted _backs away again._] ted [_meekly_]. please, mr.--mr. brownie, i didn't mean that! honest injun, i didn't! brownie. well, then, explain yourself! ted. i--i--i was just thinking that people ask santa claus for such f-foolish things that it's a wonder he gives them anything at all. brownie. foolish! i should think they were! ted. and if there was anybody that could tell santa claus about it, it would save him a lot of trouble. brownie. and you think you could manage things better, do you? ted. i didn't say that,--i said i would like to help. brownie [_scratches his nose, scowling very hard_]. see here. suppose i let you try. santa claus is unusually busy to-night, and is sending a great number of his brownies out to fill stockings. i was to look out for this house, among several hundred others, and i--a--well, i have a fancy that i should enjoy letting you help. ted. oh, _will_ you, really? brownie [_jumping off table_]. yes, i have about made up my mind to let you into the secrets of the business. you can learn a few things, i think. ted. good for you! thank you, ever so much. brownie. never mind. wait till to-morrow before you thank me. [_grins meaningly._] now, let's be quick about this--the time is getting short. we'll just go over these lists together, and you can tell me what improvements to make. [_they go to the first stocking._] ted. shall i get you a paper to write things down, so you won't forget? brownie [_shouts angrily_]. forget! ted. yes, i thought maybe since you're so old---- brownie. that shows all you know about it! of course there's some excuse for _your_ forgetting, since your memory is only ten years long, but _mine's_ a thousand years long, and i never forget anything! come, read me this list. ted [_reading_]. "encyclopedia britannica." now papa can't possibly want that, because he knows all about everything already. and besides, i heard mamma say she hadn't a bit of room for any more books. "new knife." he did say his old one was dull, but it's altogether too sharp for robin and me to use, and that's sharp enough for anybody! "new pocketbook." why, he said the other day he hadn't any money to put into it, so i don't see what good that'll do him. "key ring." if he has that, he'll put _all_ the keys on it, and there won't be any for robin and me to drop lead through. [_turns to the_ brownie.] so, you see, there isn't a thing that he really wants on that list. brownie. oh, certainly not! ted. now, mamma's. "half a dozen new bibs." bibs! they don't belong on her list. she can't have that! "little rocking-chair." now, if she has a _little_ rocking-chair, there won't be any room for us on the arms of it,--that wouldn't do at all. "a rose vase." all her vases are broken now, and if she had another, maggie'd just smash it, too, so what's the use in giving it to her? [_turns to list._] what's all this at the bottom? "most of all, five _good_ boys and girls to live with till next christmas"! jiminy christopher, how _can_ she want five more? brownie [_significantly_]. she didn't say "_more_." ted [_claps his hand over his mouth_]. oh!... p'r'aps she didn't mean that! p'r'aps she meant _us_! [_stares thoughtfully before him._] brownie. hurry up! look at this one. ted. that's kitty's. let's see. "a boy doll and a girl doll." now, don't you think kitty's altogether too big for dolls? i suppose _little_ girls must have dolls, but they're terribly silly things. "half a dozen girls." that's nothing but an old girl's book. give her stories about fights and indians and bears to read to us. "paper dolls." there it is again. "napkin ring." now, that's the only sensible thing she's got down.... this one's mine. i won't stop to read that, because i only put down the things i've _got_ to have. let's see if i can read robin's. [_puzzles over it._] brownie [_reading_ ted's _list_]. "boxing-gloves. baseball. roller-coaster. skates. boots. marbles." ted. oh, now i see what it is. "rubber boots." he doesn't need those. i'm going to have some new ones, and my others aren't much too big for him. "marbles." he's got more marbles now 'n' any boy i know. "top. kite"--this isn't the time of year for those things. never mind, i'll tell you what he wants in a minute. now, margie. "dolls" again. she's got three dozen if she's got one! "music-box." pshaw! they just go and smash right away. "paints." she'd paint up all the chairs and tables in the house and nobody would like it a bit. "little stove"--that might be nice,--but i'm afraid she'd burn herself. you see, _she_ hasn't got anything good on her list, either. now, rose comes last of all. [_looks at_ rose's _list a moment._] well, i guess rosebud ought to have everything she's asked for. [_turns to_ brownie, _and the two walk away from the fire._] now, didn't i tell you how it was? people want such silly things! now, i'll tell you what to bring instead. [_puts his arm across_ brownie's _shoulder, and whispers in his ear, pointing to one stocking after another._] ... now, i guess that's all. it was awfully good of you to let me help, and i know they'll all be pleased. [_walks around table, sits with his back to audience. stretches his arms above his head, and yawns aloud._] i really believe i could go to sleep now. [_drops his head on his hands._ brownie _waves his wand above_ ted, _who gradually sinks down, head on arms, fast asleep._] brownie. now i guess he's in for a good night's sleep. little scamp! he ought to have some kind of a trick played on him, but santa claus forbids any pranks on christmas eve. [_crosses to fireplace._] what _shall_ i do about these stockings, anyway? these poor children are going to be dreadfully disappointed to-morrow if i keep my promise to that scallywag, ted. perhaps i'd better telephone santa claus about it. [_takes up the toe of a stocking and speaks through it, moving it from mouth to ear as he speaks or listens._] hello! hello, there! north pole! please connect me with santa claus.... hello, is that you, santa? i want to consult you about some doubtful business.... yes, sir, mr. bird's house.... his boy is making a dreadful mess with these stockings.... he wants them all filled with presents for himself.... what's that you say? let him try it?... be a good lesson for him?... all right, sir! thank you. any trouble with icebergs? no?... that's good.... all right, good-by! [_drops stocking._] well, i must see it through, then, i suppose. [_takes down the stockings and carries them into the chimney two at a time. when the last is carried out, he brings them back in the same order, filled. to avoid delay, a double set is prepared, the_ brownie _leaving the empty ones and bringing the full ones instead._] well, he's pretty generous to himself, anyway. and he thinks it's all for their good! [_walks over and stands looking at_ ted.] i'll just say good-night to you, now, young man.... no! before i go, i believe i'll give you a few christmas dreams. [_waves his wand and walks slowly to back of stage. scene darkened, lights thrown on secondary stage, where the curtains part and reveal tableaux as the_ brownie's _song calls for them.[ ] he stands at back, unseen. raise curtain before the end of verse describing picture._] [footnote : see note, p. .] brownie's song air: "fly, little birds."[ ] [footnote : "songs and games for little ones" (p. ). see suggestions for carols, p. .] come, christmas dreams, from fairyland! come, at the beckoning of my wand. 'tis christmas eve, so bring with you bright holly-berries and mistletoe, too. i. now first we have, all full of glee, a youth well known to you and me. his fondest hopes have now become reality--he's found a plum! tableau: jack horner. ii. dear santa claus we've always known, but mrs. santa, full of fun, helps her good husband every year, or else he'd never get done, i fear. tableau: mrs. santa claus. iii. when santa claus was young and gay, and full of fun, like boys to-day, he learned that youth's the key to joy, and so, you see, he's still a boy. tableau: when santa claus was young. iv. this little lad, with happy smile, of toys and candies has a pile. good santa filled his stocking, so-- a merry christmas he has, i know. tableau: "merry christmas." v. but there are children not far away, who scarce know the meaning of christmas day. o share with these, ye whose plenteous store can fill a dozen homes or more. tableau: "no christmas." vi. the christmas waits, in times of old, sang carols sweet, though the night was cold, and wandered thus, from door to door, till morning dawned, in days of yore. tableau: the christmas waits. [_the curtain does not rise until the verse is ended, then shows empty stage. the_ waits _begin their carol behind the scenes, marching single file till the first couple is opposite the opening, when they turn, join hands, and enter two by two. the march of the_ waits _may be as simple or as elaborate as desired, or as the size of the stage permits. or they may walk to the footlights, and stand there during a part of their song. the smallest couple should, of course, lead. the stage, darkened for the earlier tableaux, should be made bright for this march. at the end of the march, the_ waits _pass out as they entered, and the back curtain is dropped._][ ] [footnote : carol used by waits: "noël! noël! the christ is born" (p. , "songs and games for little ones"). no better marching song can be found. see suggestions for carols, p. .] [_the_ brownie _comes forward and stands by_ ted, _tapping him with the wand._ brownie. merry christmas, ted! it has come at last! [_rushes away and vanishes in chimney._] ted [_sits up, stretches, yawns, rubs his eyes, and looks around_]. why! i do believe i've slept here all night! [_sits on table._] and, my! maybe you think i haven't been dreaming! guess i'll go see what time it is. [_goes to door, turns, and sees stockings._] jiminy christmas, just look at those stockings! [_exit._] [_enter_ nurse _with duster. sees stockings._ nurse. well, well! did i ever! santa claus has been pretty good to them this year. marjorie [_without, calling_]. maggie! maggie! mamma says we may have our stockings right off now. please bring them to us, quick! nurse. that i will, miss margie, fast as ever i can! [_lifts them down._] crammed full, i declare! and heavy!--heavy as that good-for-nothing bridget's cake! [_exit_ nurse. _enter_ brownie, _cautiously following her to door._ brownie [_peeping out_]. i've got to see the end of this experiment! [_flies back to chimney and hides._] [_enter_ nurse. nurse [_dusting_]. old santa claus is mighty good to these children. fills up stockings like those, and then comes himself and brings a tree on top of all that. they must be pets of his. [_enter_ ted _dejectedly, sits down, and drops his head on his arms._ nurse. dear, dear! whatever is the matter, master ted? ted [_darkly_]. oh, go downstairs, maggie, and you'll see! nurse. mercy on us! what's happened? [_shakes him._] ted. oh, dear, oh, dear! the children don't like their stockings! nurse. what's that you say? ted [_very despairingly_]. oh, go away! go downstairs, and you'll see. nurse [_in tragic tones_]. such a thing never happened in this blessed house before! [_rushes out._] ted [_sitting up_]. oh, dear, what shall i do about it? it's just dreadful, and it's all my fault. [brownie _pokes his head out._] they don't want my things, either, or i'd be glad to give them all i got. [_puts his head down again. enter_ kitty, marjorie, _and_ robin, _disconsolately. girls sit by fire_, robin _at table._] robin. well, kitty, do you think santa claus couldn't _read_ our letters? kitty. i don't know _what_ to think! marjorie. well, how could he make such dreadful mistakes? robin [_rubbing his eyes_]. didn't bring one single thing i asked for--didn't bring a thing but books and puzzles! kitty [_elbows on knees and chin in hands_]. brought me a box of fishing tackle--and i just _hate_ to fish! marjorie [_putting handkerchief to eyes_]. he gave me big rubber boots--and i don't _like_ to wade in the brook--i'm afraid of _snakes_! [ted, _in the depths of woe, slips to the floor and rests his head on his chair._ robin. don't see why ted feels so badly--santa claus gave him everything he asked for! kitty. yes, and rosy's stocking was all right. i'm glad she got what she wanted--bless her little heart! marjorie [_suddenly_]. oh, kitty, what shall we do when santa clans comes and asks us how we liked them? kitty. i don't care--i _can't_ thank him for those horrid old fish-hooks! robin [_with decision_]. i'm just going to tell him he can take his puzzles and give them to some other boy! [_enter_ father _and_ mother, _sharing the general gloom._ father [_in a puzzled tone_]. it's the most singular thing! mother. i never heard of santa claus making a mistake before. father. two empty cigar boxes in my stocking! ted [_aside, dismally_]. those were for robin and me to make lanterns of! father. i'm sure i don't know who wants those! mother. and a roll of the muslin i make sails of for the boys' boats, in my stocking! with some old rags! ted [_aside again_]. kite-tails! father. well, santa claus has certainly lost his mind! mother. well, he'll be here very soon, and perhaps we shall find out what these queer presents mean. [_looks at her watch._] come, children, you must get your faces washed, and look as bright as you can for him. father. perhaps, after all, it's just some joke of his. [_exeunt all but_ ted. ted [_jumping up_]. i know! i'll see santa claus first, and _beg_ him to take back these things---- [_runs to fireplace, calling softly._] oh, santa claus! santa claus! _do_ hurry! [_sleigh bells in distance._] oh, santa claus! santa claus [_up chimney_]. who's that i hear calling me? ted. it's me--me--me! ted bird! oh, _please_ hurry! santa claus. yes, yes! but this chimney's such a tight squeeze! [_loud jingling._] ted. oh, please be quiet! please don't make such a noise! [_enter_ santa claus, _through fireplace, bowing low to_ ted. santa claus. not make a noise? i'd just like to know who has a better right to make a noise than i? ted. oh, yes, i know, but i _must_ speak to you before the others come in! [_pulls up a chair, stands on it, and puts his arm across_ santa claus' _shoulders._] santa claus. what's all this secrecy about? ted. it's just this, santa claus. the brownie let me help him last night, and i told him such nice things to put in the stockings, and now nobody likes them, and everything's in a terrible muddle! santa claus. oho! so you've been finding out that it isn't so easy, after all, to give people what they want, have you? ted. but, santa claus, i truly thought they would like it, and now it's just dreadful! what shall i do? if you'll only give them what they _do_ want, you can take back all my things! i wish you would! don't you think you could, just for this once? [rose _runs in._] rose. oh, santa claus! santa claus! [_exit, calling._] come, papa, come, mamma, here's santa claus! robin! marjorie! kitty! [_enter all. the older children hang back_, rose _runs to_ santa claus _and stands by him._] father [_shaking hands with_ santa claus]. how do you do, sir, how do you do? mother. we're very glad to see you again, santa claus. [_motions others to come_, nurse _also urging them in pantomime._] santa claus [_patting_ rose's _head, and looking at other children_]. i hear there are some children here who weren't pleased with what i brought them. how's this? [_children turn away, and hang their heads in embarrassment._] santa claus [_to_ father]. what does this mean? can you explain it, mr. bird? father. well--a--you see, the stockings really weren't filled after your usual thoughtful manner. santa claus [_bursts into a loud laugh, at which the children turn in injured astonishment_]. well, well! that's a good joke! kitty [_in an injured tone_]. we didn't think it was a joke at all, santa claus. santa claus. well, my dear, you will when i tell you about it. you see, i had a new helper, last night, and it wasn't to be expected that one so new to the business wouldn't make some mistakes. well, this one made a good many,---- [_to_ ted] didn't he? ted [_dolefully_]. i should think he did! he didn't do anything else at all! santa claus. but when he found out about it, he felt very badly, indeed,---- [_to_ ted] didn't he? ted. he never felt worse in his life! santa claus. so he came to me and begged me to fix the matter for him, and i've agreed to do it. he never suspected that i knew about it before he told me, but i did know, all the time, and so i've come prepared to make it up to you for all the trouble ted caused---- all. _ted!_ santa claus. yes, ted. [_with pretended fierceness._] he meddled with my business last night. children [_shocked_]. oh, santa claus! santa claus. but i'm going to forgive him, because i think he learned a good many things about christmas while he was at it. and i never _could_ bear to see anyone unhappy when i pay my yearly call, so come along, children, come, father and mother bird, and we'll see if we can't find something to suit you all under the branches of my tree![ ] [footnote : see note on tree, p. , and tree-song, p. .] [_unveiling of christmas tree follows. children mingle with audience, and general distribution of presents takes place._ notes on costume, setting, and presentation for the parents, nurse, and children, ordinary costumes. adult parts taken by older girls and boy. ages of children as indicated in cast. brownie. wears a close-fitting suit of dark brown canton flannel, with trimmings of lighter brown or tan--a small collar, cuffs, and a belt with long points. the shoes are long, with points turned up at the toes, and the cap, close-fitting, hides the hair and covers the neck at the back, but allows the ears to show. it is finished with a point (stuffed and wired to keep it upright) which comes from the back and curves above the head. all the brownie's actions and motions should be startlingly sudden and swift. he should alternate between absolute stillness, and a quickness like a wild bird's. a great deal of humor can be put into the scene of disappointment over the stockings, especially by the older girls and boy who play the adult parts. prepare a double set of stockings, one empty, the other filled; the brownie carries out the empty ones, and returns with the full ones. as these are not examined on the stage, they may be stuffed with anything that is most convenient. have in readiness a row of small hooks on the mantel, for hanging them. for santa claus' costume, see note, p. . costumes in the "dream" jack horner. may be dressed, if desired, in kate greenaway style, but ordinary costume is all that is required. jack recites the nursery rhyme, at the end pulling a large plum out of a brown paper pie. mrs. santa claus. a plump little girl in a long dark dress, white apron and kerchief, big white cap with wide frill, and large spectacles on her nose. one hand holds the corner of her apron full of toys, the other is stretched out as if dispensing gifts to the children. young santa claus. little boy in boots, thick coat, toboggan cap and mittens, well covered with white cotton snow, and sprinkled at the last moment with diamond dust. he stands with one hand on a tall red chimney, the other just lifting his heavy pack of toys. make chimney by covering a long dry-goods box with red, and painting bricks with ordinary black ink. set on stage for this tableau. "merry christmas." little boy, daintily dressed, his arms full of toys, with a drum, a horse, etc., piled at his feet. "no christmas." a very ragged boy and girl. the boy stands with his left arm around his little sister, his right hand holding hers. the child looks up into his face confidingly. the christmas waits. four boys and four girls between six and twelve years of age. these children may be elaborately dressed, after seventeenth century pictures, or very simply--the girls in white kerchiefs and caps, the boys in short capes of any dull black material, with steeple hats, made of cardboard covered with black. these children should have good voices for the carol, "noël! noël! the christ is born!"[ ] march as described in text. [footnote : see note, p. .] these tableaux are arranged on a small stage or platform behind scene at back, upon which the light is concentrated, the main stage being darkened. properties should be in readiness, and the children must be taught to take their poses quickly and without noise. for this small stage or platform a kindergarten table serves excellently, covered with dark green, a step being placed for the use of the waits in their march. if practicable, a curtain made to match the scene, and rise for the tableaux, may be used, but plain curtains, hung like portières, and parting in the center, are also effective. attention should not in any way be drawn to this curtain, in order that the first tableau may come as a surprise to the audience. the point of chief importance is that, whatever the arrangement of the curtain, it should work silently and without hitch. a puritan christmas in two acts characters mistress delight goodspeede. roger } myles } nathan } her children. patience } prudence } eaglefeather, son of an indian chief. elder jonathan hopkins } deacon william porter } goodman john turner } dominie peter cobb } gilbert appleton, a hunter } mistress submit wells } colonists mistress praisever porter } desire porter } } and reuben turner } gershom porter } jared perkins } children jane porter } priscilla wells } _the action takes place in a small new england village, not far from boston, in the early days of the colonies._ [illustration: prudence] [illustration: eaglefeather] a puritan christmas suggested by a story in _st. nicholas_ for december, , by s.j. prichard.[ ] [footnote : by courtesy of miss k.a. prichard and the century company.] act i time: _evening of december th._ scene: _kitchen in_ mistress goodspeede's _cottage, a simple and bare little room. open fireplace[ ] [r.], with exit beside it supposed to lead to loft. back r., door; l., window, opening upon a desolate winter scene. l., door, leading to another chamber. down l., a spinning-wheel. furniture, a few plain chairs and stools, and a settle. by the window a table where little_ prudence _and_ patience _are washing the supper dishes._ patience _stands upon a stool in order to reach the dishpan more easily_, prudence _wipes the dishes and lays them on the table._ [footnote : see note on fireplace, p. .] patience [_severely_]. prudence, if thee's not very careful, i know thee'll drop the platter! prudence. oh, no! patience, i'm being very careful. i wouldn't let it drop for anything. it's mother's very best platter, too. patience. and if thee broke it, who knows if dear mother could ever get a new one? she hath told me many a time she brought it with her from old england, and she saith the like cannot be found here--even in boston town. prudence [_gives it an admiring look, then lays it cautiously on the table_]. i'm sure it's the most beautiful platter that ever was seen. are there many more dishes, patience, dear? patience [_in a motherly tone_]. no. poor little maid, i fear me thou'rt very weary. here--just these cups, and i'll help thee. [_gets down from stool and helps to wipe one or two cups._] where are the boys, i wonder? you and i, prudence, can never, never reach to put the dishes away on the shelf. prudence. no, but brother roger or myles can do it. mother says they grow like tall weeds. patience. and the parson says they are brave striplings. [_sighs._] i would i were tall and strong. then i should never be afraid of---- prudence [_looks fearfully over her shoulder_]. afraid of _what_, patience? patience [_putting her arm around_ prudence]. oh, never mind, prudence, dear, not afraid of, of--_anything_. prudence [_pushes her back and shakes her finger_], i know, patience, thee was going to say--indians! oh, patience, doesn't thee wish mother'd come home? [_lays her head on_ patience's _shoulder._ myles _and_ nathan _pass the window._] patience. never mind, sister, here come myles and nathan. [_enter the boys._] myles, has thee seen roger? nathan. roger has gone to fetch our mother home. prudence [_going to table_]. oh, myles, won't thee please put the dishes up for us? patience and i are far too little. [nathan _and_ prudence _carry dishes one at a time to_ myles, _who puts them on mantel._ patience _wrings out her dishcloth._] myles. where is mother, patience? patience. mistress submit wells hath a fever, and after supper mother went to see if there was aught she could do to help. nathan [_looking out of the window_]. i see mother and roger coming up the hill now. patience. quick, nathan! empty the pan for us! [patience _opens the door for_ nathan, _who carries pan out._ patience _hangs up dishcloth in haste._] mother must find everything neat when she comes. [_re-enter_ nathan, _putting pan in cupboard or under table._ myles [_mockingly_]. thou art a great housewife, patience. prudence [_joyfully_]. here they are! [_enter_ mother _and_ roger. prudence, patience, _and_ nathan _gather about her while she takes off her cape and follow her to the door (l.) when she puts it away._ roger, _hanging up his hat, goes to fire._ patience. how did thee find mistress wells, mother? mother. much better to-night, daughter. prudence [_catching at her skirts_]. thou'lt not go back, then, mother? mother. no, little prudence, not to-night. roger. it's fearsome cold out. do stir the fire, myles. [_warms his hands, while_ myles _stirs fire._] nathan. then come sit down with us by the fire, mother. thee surely won't work any more to-night? mother. i am willing, nathan, but i must be knitting. with three great lads who wear out so many stockings, i am kept more than busy, even if the good parson did not exhort us never to be idle. [_exit and re-enter with knitting._] patience [_drawing up her_ mother's _chair and arranging stools_]. here, mother, here's thy big chair. prudence and i will get our stools. oh, roger, do get out of the way! make haste! thee's such a giant thee'll block the firelight out entirely. [roger _gets up and stands before the fire, while the_ mother _sits down_, prudence _beside her with a corncob doll and_ patience _at her knee, also knitting._ myles _sits with his back against the chimney and_ nathan _lies at full length before the fire._ roger [_good-humoredly_]. what a pity thee didn't name that child _im_patience, mother. it would become her so much better. mother [_while_ patience _bends her face low over her knitting_]. does thee think it would make it any easier for her to be good, roger? roger. well, i'm glad thou gavest us good sober english names. i'm sure 'twould never help me to be good if i had been named hate-evil, like elder hopkins' son. think of it--hate-evil hopkins! myles. and if father had called me love-the-truth or have-courage, instead of naming me after our fine captain standish, i know i never would have tried half so hard to be brave and truthful. mother. _that_ was what father cared for, myles, whatever thy name might have been. roger. one of us is fitly named, at any rate, mother, and that is thyself, mistress delight goodspeede! [_bows._] patience. yes, mother _is_ our delight. myles. and everybody's else, too. mother [_laughing_]. take care, children, you will make me vain, and then the parson will preach a whole sermon about vanity, and call out in the midst of it, "delight goodspeede, stand forth!" roger. how terrible! [_all laugh._] nathan. he calleth vanity a light and shallow thing, but i'll warrant me he would turn his hour-glass at the least four times while he discoursed upon it. myles. more terrible still! [_all laugh again. a knock at the door._ roger _goes to answer it_, nathan _sits up with interest, and_ prudence, _who has been walking her corncob doll up and down, rushes to her_ mother's _chair._ roger [_his hand on the lock_]. who knocks? indian [_without_]. eaglefeather! roger [_turning to his_ mother]. mother, 'tis the indian boy you helped when he was wounded last winter. may i let him in? mother. he hath always been friendly. open for him, roger. roger [_opening the door_]. come in, eaglefeather! thou'rt right welcome. [_enter_ indian, _bow in hand._ myles _and_ nathan _go to him._ mother. what does he want, roger? mayhap he is hungry. roger [_pointing to his mouth_]. hungry, eaglefeather? want something to eat? bread? indian [_shakes his head_]. no hungry. braves go hunt. [_draws his bow._] kill much, much, much deer. [_spreads out his arms._] no hungry; cold. [_folds his arms and shivers._] can warm? [_boys bring him to fire._] mother. yes, indeed; make room for him, boys. myles. he can stay as long as he likes, mayn't he, mother? mother [_smiles and nods at the boy_]. yes, we know he is our friend. we trust him. nathan. doesn't thee remember how he taught us to shoot, and make baskets for thee and the girls? indian. hmph! eaglefeather teach young brave much more some day. many, many new thing. nathan. oh, that is good news. what things, eaglefeather? indian. eaglefeather not tell. eaglefeather show, to-morrow. tired now. march long, long time. mother. yes, poor lad. let him rest now, boys. [indian _lies before fire_, roger _and_ myles _as before_, nathan _behind_ mother's _chair._ roger. thou'rt always the one to think of making folks comfortable, mother. what would mistress wells say if she saw eaglefeather here now? myles. he never would be beside _her_ kitchen fire. nathan. not if he was frozen stiff. mother. for shame, boys; mistress wells hath been very kind to us. patience. i think she is a very sour-visaged woman, and i can't see why thee wants to help her. [mother _gazes thoughtfully into the fire._ roger [_watching her_]. i know what mother is thinking of! mother. tell us, then, roger, if thou be a wizard. roger. mother is thinking that in old england this is yule-tide---- mother. verily, i believe thou _art_ a wizard, roger, for thou'st guessed aright! myles _and_ nathan. tell us about the yule-tide, mother. prudence. is _this_ the christmas day, mother? roger. no, prudence. it's the twenty-fifth that is christmas. isn't it, mother? myles. just a week from to-day? mother. yes, children, just a week from to-day it will be christmas in old england. patience. but why did mistress wells make thee think of christmas? mother. 'twas what myles said about mistress wells and eaglefeather here. 'twas because christmas in my father's home in old england was the time of all others when people did kind and friendly deeds, when poor folks came to the houses of rich men without fear of being driven away, and our homes were open to all who needed food and warmth. prudence [_wonderingly_]. why, then, mother, i think it must have been like heaven! nathan. mother, doesn't thee sometimes wish we were all back in england once more? mother [_earnestly_]. never wish that, my son. myles. not after all the bitter cold winters and hardships here, mother? mother. 'tis the very hardships we have endured that will build up a new and better england for us here, myles---- but the old christmas was a happy time. [eaglefeather, _who has been sleeping, sits up, and from this point listens intently._ roger. won't thee tell us more about it, then? mother. i've told thee many times already, roger, how the great yule-log was brought in and lighted on christmas eve--such a monster log that it would burn until twelfth night. we always saved a bit of it, then, to light the next year's log. the old folks said that was for luck. all the young folks went out into the forest to gather the christmas greens, holly, mistletoe, and long festoons of ground pine for wreaths. ah, it was merry work, and the great hall in my father's house was a brave sight when we had decked it in the green. and on christmas day we had our christmas bough covered with shining candles and bright gifts for each other. prudence. how beautiful, mother! mother. and we were awakened at dawning by the poor children of the village singing their joyous carols beneath our windows. myles. how i wish i could hear them! roger. the singing in our meeting on the sabbath isn't very joyful, is it, myles? myles. beshrew me if 'tis. this is the way the elders and deacons stand and sing. [myles _and_ roger _stand side by side, eyes closed and hands folded before them, droning an old psalm tune._][ ] [footnote : as the boys would hardly have been permitted to finish their song, the mother may leave the room before they begin, coming back to reprove them sharply when it is over.] tune: "windsor." my days consume away like smoak mine anguish is so great. my bones are not unlike a hearth parched and dry with heat. such is my grief i little else can do but sigh and groan. so wasted is my flesh i'm left nothing but skin and bone. like th' owl and pelican that dwell in desarts out of sight i sadly do bemoan myself in solitude delight. the ashes i rowl in when i eat are tasted with my bread and with my drink are mixed the tears i plentifully shed. mother [_rising_]. roger and myles, silence! i will not have this wicked mocking of our good elders. haven't you heard the parson tell the story of how the bears ate the children who mocked elisha? roger. forgive us, mother, we meant no disrespect. myles. but, verily, the sound of the singing maketh me almost as sad as the sight of the bears could. nathan. but, mother, why do the good fathers never allow us to have a christmas? roger. there can be no wrong in the things thou'st told us. peace and good will and neighborliness. mother. but that was not all, roger. with the feasting and merriment came much that the good puritan fathers did well to abolish. prudence [_stands at_ mother's _knee_]. but, mother, isn't a birthday always a happy day? [mother _nods and smiles._] then i should think the lord christ's birthday would be the very happiest day of all, and the good parson would like to have us sing and be joyful and glad. mother [_kisses her_]. thou'rt too little to understand it yet, my prudence. [_rises._] come, we have sat too long with our talking. if our candles are not soon out, the tithing-man will be tapping at our door and reproving us. [_leads the two little girls and_ nathan _to door (l.)_]. come, children. myles, see that the fire is safe. roger, is the door fast? [myles _and_ roger _attend to the fire and the door._] indian. must eaglefeather go now? mother. does thee think, lad, that savage though thou art, i would drive thee out into the bitter night? no, there is too much yule-tide in our hearts for that! i have no bed for thee, but lay thee down by the fire and welcome. [_begins to wind the clock._] boys, bring in some straw for a bed---- stay a moment. straw will not do. a chance spark from the fire might light it, and burn the house above our heads. there is an old mat in the shed without. see if you can find it. [_exeunt all three boys_; mother _takes down candles from mantel and slowly extinguishes one; holds the other in her hand, absently snuffing it. stands facing audience._ mother [_musingly_]. i told little prudence she was too young to understand, yet with my years, am i quite sure that i understand it myself? no, the good fathers can never crush and kill the loving christmas spirit. [_enter boys, quietly arranging mat, on which_ indian _stretches himself._ roger _goes to fasten door._] why should little children _not_ be joyous and glad on the holy day? why should not i _help_ them to celebrate it? [_hesitates, then firmly and decidedly._] i believe--i _will_ do it! boys, come here. [_boys come to her side._ reuben turner _and_ gershom porter _pass window, glance in curiously, then bend close, listening to all that is said._] roger, what would thee and myles say to a christmas bough of our very own? myles. oh, mother! roger. does thee mean truly, mother? mother. of a truth i do mean it, roger. roger. but, mother, they will persecute thee---- myles. and drive us all into the wilderness---- roger. and with father away on his ship, who could take care of thee? mother. i have come into one wilderness before, myles. i am not afraid. roger. but how can we do it, mother? mother. i will go up to boston town to-morrow--i can easily walk there and back again before 'tis dusk--and buy what little things i may for gifts. i hear that a ship has but now come into port. myles. doesn't thee wish it was father's vessel, roger? roger. _then_ wouldn't we have a christmas! mother. 'twill be many a weary month before father's ship returns, i fear. but whatever this bark may be, she hath surely brought some small trinkets that will do for us. i'll find them and bring them home with me. then on the day before christmas thou and myles must go into the woods and cut a small evergreen, as perfect a one as you can find. at dark on christmas eve you can bring it home, and when the children are in bed we will dress it. then, early on christmas dawn, before the neighbors are stirring, we will light it and wake the little ones. roger. but, mother, they will surely find us out! myles. that reuben turner is always spying upon us. and so is gershom porter. [_boys at window dodge below the sill._] roger. and, mother, they think thou art only half a puritan now, because thou canst sometimes smile and art not always stern and sour like the rest. myles. and they say thou art vain and frivolous because thou keep'st brazen fire-dogs and candlesticks instead of iron ones. roger. and dost not dress thy daughters in solemn black. mother [_laughing_]. do they say so? what a list of sins! [_seriously._] with thee and myles to help me i am not afraid. we will have our christmas bough--no, not a bough, but a whole _tree_--if we needs must light it at midnight and cover the window with blankets! now get quickly to bed in the loft. 'tis shocking late! [_all turn to go, boys, r._, mother _to door (l.)._ myles [_running after her_]. mother, mother! won't thee teach us some christmas carols, some _real_ joyful ones--so i can forget about those bears? mother. yes, yes, myles. now go quickly. this shall be the first christmas in new england. curtain act ii time: _before dawn of december th._ scene: _same as before. stage quite dark except for firelight. window covered with a blanket. lights high on one side at back to represent moonlight when door is opened. enter_ mother _[l.] with a lighted candle. goes to door [r.]._ mother [_calling_]. roger! myles! make haste. [_looks at clock, arranges fire, examines blanket hurriedly._] myles [_softly_]. we're coming, mother. [_enter_ myles _and_ roger _(r.)._] roger. are the others waked yet, mother? mother. yes, they are dressing. quickly now, bring in the tree whilst i see if they need help. [_exit (l.), leaving candle on mantel. boys open outer door._] roger. how cold it is. see, myles, the moon hath not yet set. myles. yes, yes. come, roger. [_disappear (l.)._] [reuben turner _and_ gershom porter _at door, look cautiously in, then peer around after the boys._ reuben [_softly_]. i see naught of any christmas bough. gershom. yet we surely heard them planning---- how angry the parson would be. i believe he would even drive them away like the quakers. reuben. my father bade me look and bring him word if what they said was true. gershom. beshrew me, if they haven't covered the window so that none may see them. [myles _and_ roger _heard returning with exclamations "have a care!" "gently now!" etc._ reuben _and_ gershom _hide themselves without. enter_ roger _and_ myles _with the tree already decked and fastened in a small wooden box, which they place in center of stage. their backs turned_, reuben _and_ gershom _appear again at door, hold up their hands in horror, whisper together, and make signs of caution. watch until_ mother _appears, then they vanish._ myles. there: we got it in quite safely, roger. dost think the christmas boughs in england could have been prettier? roger [_at door_]. mother, we're ready now. [_enter_ mother, _taking candle again._ mother. roger, roger! shut the door at once, careless boy! art mad? [roger _fastens door._] the children are nearly ready and grow impatient. make torches, both of you, and help me to light the candles. [_boys take splinters of wood from the fireplace and all go about the tree, lighting candles, arranging gifts more firmly, etc., while_ patience _and_ prudence, _without, sing "waken, christian children."_ waken, christian children[ ] [footnote : see note on carols, p. .] (from "christmas carols new and old," novello & company.) waken, christian children, up, and let us sing, with glad voice, the praises of our new-born king. come, nor fear to seek him, children though we be; once he said of children, "let them come to me." in a manger lowly, sleeps the heavenly child; o'er him fondly bendeth mary, mother mild. haste we then to welcome, with a joyous lay, christ, the king of glory, born for us to-day. (there are additional verses, and this hymn is to be found in various collections. a slightly different version is in eleanor smith's "songs for little children," part i.) nathan [_without_]. can't we come now, mother? mother. one moment, children! patience. it grows light, mother. i'm afeared. mustn't we hasten? mother. presently, presently! is all ready, roger? myles. yes, every candle. mother [_going to door (l.)_]. come, now! [_enter_ nathan, patience, _and_ prudence _(l.), the girls singing first verse of their song._ patience [_breaking off_]. _oh_, mother! nathan. how beautiful! prudence. oh, mother, it feels like a dream! mother [_bending over her and leading her near_]. it is no dream, little daughter. come near and see. [prudence _timidly touches one branch with her finger._ prudence [_turning quickly and looking up to her_ mother]. oh! it _is_ real! myles. of course it is real. a real christmas tree. roger [_folding his arms_]. now i feel like a real englishman! nathan. is this like the boughs thee remembers when thee was a little girl, mother? mother. as much like as i could make it, nathan. except that i like this one even better. patience. oh, see the pretty presents! oh, did eaglefeather make these lovely baskets for us? myles. yes, and that's why he wouldn't let thee see what he was working on. nathan. but where _is_ eaglefeather, myles? roger. we can't think where he is. he didn't come back last night. patience. oh, i don't want him to miss it! myles. hark! [_a bob-white is heard without._] that's his whistle now. mother. open cautiously, myles. [myles _and_ roger _open door a little and close it as soon as the indian has slipped through._ patience _and_ prudence _run to draw him to the tree._ patience. see, eaglefeather! just see our christmas tree! prudence. isn't it _beautiful_, eaglefeather? indian. beautiful! eaglefeather think like many stars! [_points to candles, then touches something shining._] like sun shining on snow fields. myles. now, mother, can't we sing our carol? mother. yes, myles, and then it will be more than ever like old england. [_all sing "come ye lofty." at the end of second verse a sound of great knocking, shouting, and calls of "open! open! mistress goodspeede."_ patience _and_ prudence _hide behind their_ mother, nathan _stands at her side_, myles _and_ roger _seize sticks, and_ eaglefeather _draws a small tomahawk._ patience _and_ prudence. 'tis indians! roger. 'tis no indians, 'tis the colonists! myles. they've found us out! [_noise continues._ turner _and_ porter. open! open there! mistress wells. i see the light---- desire porter. it shines through the cracks here---- dominie cobb. verily none need hope to conceal evil! turner [_knocking louder_]. open! open! mistress porter. shut in like wolves---- gershom. yea--like wolves in a cage---- reuben. i told thee the window was covered. jared. mayhap the house is afire! elder hopkins. hold, friends! [_silence without._] mistress goodspeede, in the name of the _governor_ i command you to open for us! roger [_looking to his_ mother]. _must_ i, mother? mother [_huskily_]. open for them, roger. [roger _opens the door and all but_ gilbert appleton _press in. chorus of scandalized exclamations, "oh, oh!"_ porter. what is the meaning of this, woman? dominie cobb. do not attempt to deceive us! turner. answer. mistress wells. she hath not a word to say for herself. mistress porter. ah! we always knew she was not one of the elect! reuben. and they have even one of the hateful savages with them! gershom. who would harbor the wretches? desire [_pulling her mother's sleeve_]. but, mother, see how pretty it all is! priscilla. oh, the beautiful tree! and gifts, too! jane. i would it were my little tree. doesn't thee wish so, desire? dominie cobb. dost see, woman, how swiftly thy ungodly example doth work to corrupt these wenches? mistress porter. silence, desire! [_she and_ mistress wells _try to hustle the children out of sight of the tree._] elder hopkins. speak, woman, and tell us the meaning of this. patience [_timidly_]. please, sir, 'tis--'tis--'tis a christmas tree! porter. we knew it! turner. aye, my son reuben hath told us. he heard them speaking of it not a week since. porter. and gershom, too--they have kept good watch upon these evil-doers. myles [_angrily, to_ reuben]. so thou wast listening at the window. _sneak!_ reuben [_blustering_]. and may not the king's subject walk upon the king's highway, sir cocksparrow? roger [_shaking his fist at boys_]. methinks 'twill take the king's soldiers to protect thee when once we catch thee---- gershom. we'll show thee, thou blusterer, if we be not as free as thou! [turner _and_ porter _seize_ reuben _and_ gershom _and draw them back._ mother [_sternly, touching_ roger's _shoulder_]. peace, roger and myles. is this the christmas spirit we talked of but now? elder hopkins [_severely_]. woman, dost thou forget that we fled from england for this very cause, that we might escape and save our children from just such sinful folly as this? how darest thou, with these baubles and fripperies, bring temptation into our very midst? i know of no punishment too severe for such evil examples! not the ducking-stool, nor the stocks, nor even banishment itself---- [_shakes his finger threateningly, at the same time going a step nearer to her. enter_ gilbert appleton, _remaining in background._] eaglefeather [_springing before_ mistress delight _with lifted tomahawk_]. stop! stop! no hurt good squaw. listen! me tell. me eaglefeather. father big chief--bald eagle. she good, kind squaw. take eaglefeather in, feed, make warm, make hurt foot well. teach eaglefeather be good indian. eaglefeather go home camp. all braves say "this night go burn village." eaglefeather find bald eagle. say, "not burn village. good people. indian's friend. good squaw. kind to eaglefeather." bald eagle listen. eaglefeather tell about tree. say this christmas day. good day. nobody hurt nobody. bald eagle listen. say tell braves. not let braves burn village. now, now! not hurt kind squaw! [_folds his arms proudly._] gilbert appleton [_coming forward_]. every word the lad says is true, sir! all. gilbert appleton! what does he mean! how does thee know? gilbert. because i was there. good friends and neighbors, you all know that i, gilbert appleton, have been much among the savages. i know their speech, and their ways. bald eagle's tribe have always seemed friendly, but two days ago, when i was hunting with my match-lock near their camp, they made a prisoner of me and kept me there until just now. what eaglefeather here hath told you is true. they would have burned the village if he had not begged the chief for the sake of mistress delight's great kindness to spare it. good neighbors, 'tis my belief that this little christmas tree hath saved us all! [_during his story all hang upon his words, drawing close and shuddering at the thought of a massacre, and sighing with relief at the end._] all. strange! wonderful! did'st ever hear the like! gilbert. and, furthermore, the savages, who meant to make me guide them by the quickest way into our village, were moved to set me free at midnight and i have but now made my way back to you! turner. unheard-of forbearance! dominie cobb. can we credit our ears! mistress wells. 'tis like a miracle! mistress delight. 'tis not so strange, either. we do not, we cannot know how much power even a very little good will and friendliness may have. i but thought to make my children happy, and because i loved my dear home in old england i told them of customs there. prudence. mother, i would like to tell the good elder something. patience [_aside_]. he will only say thou art a forward wench, prudence. prudence. will he, mother? will he frown and say, "children should be seen and not heard"? elder hopkins. nay, my little maid. i will listen gladly. [prudence _goes to him and puts her hands in his._ prudence [_earnestly_]. we didn't think it could be wrong, good elder. mother said it was the lord's birthday, and we couldn't help being glad about that, could we? and mother taught us a song about it. elder hopkins. then will you sing it for us, little maids? [prudence _and_ patience, _hand in hand, sing their carol once more, while_ myles _and_ roger _go to_ reuben turner _and_ gershom porter _and in pantomime apologize and shake hands with them._ mistress porter. good friends, these little maids and their song do touch my heart. turner. truly, when we sought to bring truth and righteousness to the new land, i fear we were forgetting charity. jared. was christmas like this in old england? jane. my mother would never tell me of it. priscilla. i would it were so here! patience. mother made the tree for us, but we'd like to give you all something from it. may we, mother? mother. we will gladly share it if the good elder will forgive any harm we may have done. elder hopkins. mistress delight, i have been thinking that perhaps we have grown over hard and stern. [_unhindered now, the children draw close to the little tree._ deacon porter. there was much that was good in the old ways, after all. elder hopkins. i will take a sprig in memory of the happy christmases in old england. mistress wells. perhaps we may e'en keep what was good in the old ways here in this new england. i'll take a bit of green, too. all the others. and i, too. and i! mistress delight. for the sake of the happy christmases of old, and the homes we left, and more than all for the sake of the very first christmas day of all, let us sing one of the dear old carols we have loved so long. elder hopkins. willingly, mistress delight. [_all sing "come ye lofty,"[ ] and while singing come forward and take bits of green from the tree, which_ gilbert appleton, reuben turner, _and_ roger _cut for them._ [footnote : see note on carols, p. .] curtain notes on costume and staging grown people, whose parts are taken by boys and girls from seventeen to twenty, and children, are dressed alike--men and boys in knee-trousers, coats with square white collars and cuffs, large belt- and shoe-buckles, broad-brimmed felt hats, with crowns high and flat. if the costumes are to be fully carried out, all should wear wigs, cropped round. or they may be worn by the elders only. women and girls wear plain dark-colored dresses, with rather full skirts, the children's as long as their mothers'. white kerchiefs, capes, and hoods, of dark colors with bright scarlet or gray-blue linings. the hoods are large and loose, with the edge turned back, giving color about the face. mistress delight, patience, and prudence wear white caps instead of the hoods. pictures of puritan costumes are easily found in the perry or brown collections. these costumes are best made of canton or outing flannel. buckles can be made of cardboard and covered with silver paper, or cut from tin. indian. suit made of tan canton flannel, fringed at edge of coat, sleeves, and trousers, with a band of fringe up and down arms and legs. he wears moccasins, beads, and a feather head-dress on his black wig. he carries bow and arrows, and a wooden tomahawk. a quiver can be made of a good-sized mailing-tube. he must have indian make-up. hunter's dress is more like the indian's than like the colonist's, but he does not wear his hair long, and his suit should be trimmed with furs, not fringe. fur cap with tail hanging down at back. he carries an old gun, not a bow. mistress delight's children range from roger, twelve years old, down to little prudence, five. the indian is a boy of roger's age. the hunter, sixteen or seventeen. the little christmas tree should be a very "homemade" one. strings of popcorn and cranberries, spools and balls covered with bright paper, may be used for decorations, indian baskets, and such toys as the little puritans might have made, or any little quaint and old-fashioned trinkets to carry out this idea. only white candles should be used, and these fastened on in the simplest and most unobtrusive manner. the singing of the old psalm should be made as doleful and droning, even nasal, as possible. it can be sung to the scotch tune of "windsor," which is to be found in most hymn-books. the number of verses used may be determined by the amusement and applause of the audience. the boys who sing it must on no account allow themselves to laugh. the charm and picturesqueness of the stage will be greatly enhanced if quaint old-time household articles can be borrowed or manufactured for properties--bellows, lantern, candlesticks, andirons, an old foot-stove--above all, a warming-pan, which the mother fills at the fire and carries out when she takes the younger children to bed. the dishes and platter so much admired by patience should be rather conspicuously ugly. finally, a word in regard to the old-time english. when the play was first given it was feared that the children would find it a stumbling-block, and that it would have to be dropped. quite the reverse proved to be the case, however, and the children all gave their lines with delightful naturalness and evident enjoyment. this has been equally true of other groups of children by whom the play has since been given. they show no awkwardness in the use of the old forms, but seem to feel that it carries them out of the everyday, and makes danger and adventure real to them. the christmas monks in three acts characters the abbot } father anselmus } father gregory } father ambrose, the leech } the brethren of father sebastian } the convent. father felix } father hilarion, in charge of the comic toys } the prince. courtier. court lady. geoffrey, st page. humphrey, nd page. peter } rosalia, peter's little sister } gilbert, the carpenter's apprentice } robin, the forester's son } village children. walter, the miller's boy } annetta } marianna } mistress spinning } peggy spinning } village mother and child. mistress longlane } dolly longlane } from a distant village. peter's father. peter's mother. [illustration: the prince] [illustration: peter and the prince] the christmas monks from a story by mary e. wilkins freeman.[ ] [footnote : by permission of mrs. freeman and of lothrop, lee & shepard company.] act i time: _the th of april._ scene: _country road leading by the convent. r., an angle of the convent wall. on it a large sign trimmed with evergreens, "wanted, by the christmas monks, two good boys to assist in garden work. applicants will be examined by_ fathers anselmus _and_ gregory, _on april th, th, and th." enter (r.)_ mistress longlane _and_ dolly, _wearily, as if at the end of a long journey._ mistress longlane _carries a large basket._ dolly _hangs back._ mistress longlane [_rather crossly_]. now, dolly longlane, what with your stopping to gather flowers by the roadside, or to watch the clouds, or to listen to the birds in the hedges, we'll never reach our journey's end. make haste, now! dolly [_tearfully_]. but, mother, it's such a long, long way, and i'm _so_ tired. mistress longlane [_relenting_]. so you are, poor lamb. well, a few moments can't make a very great difference, so sit ye down on the basket and take a rest. [_puts basket down (l.), and seats_ dolly _on it, wipes her own face, straightens her bonnet, and then looks about her. sees sign, at which she glances indifferently, then with interest, at last with amazement. reads through, then takes out spectacles and reads again._] mistress longlane. now, what may be the meaning of _this_? dolly. what is it, mother? mistress longlane [_reads sign to_ dolly]. the christmas monks? what manner of men are the christmas monks? here comes some good dame from the village. i'll make bold to ask. [_enter_ mistress spinning, _with little_ peggy _(l.)._ mistress longlane [_courtesying_]. good morrow, mistress. have you a moment to spare for a stranger in the country? mistress spinning [_courtesying_]. yes, indeed, mistress, and right gladly. make your manners, peggy. [peggy _courtesies first to_ mistress longlane _and then to_ dolly, _who rises from the basket and courtesies, too._ mistress longlane. why, mistress, i am minded to ask the meaning of this strange sign that hangs upon the wall. mistress spinning. oh, you must indeed be a stranger in the land if you have never heard of the christmas monks. if you have come to make your home in our village, you'll soon learn, i'll warrant me, that this is the home of the christmas monks who keep the gardens in which all the christmas toys are grown. mistress longlane. the christmas toys! dolly. why, i thought santa claus brought them all. mistress spinning. so he does, my dear. he takes them to the children, of course, but this is the garden where he comes to load his sleigh. mistress longlane. you don't say! peggy [_shaking her finger_]. you never can see inside, but that garden is just full of toys. oh, don't you wish we could peep in! [_both children run in search of holes or cracks, stretch their arms towards the top, and stand on tiptoe, vainly, finally coming back to listen to the conversation of their mothers._] mistress spinning. yes, the christmas monks have a wonderful garden with beds for rocking-horses, beds for dolls, beds for drums, and picture-books and skates and balls. they do say so, that is; of course, i've never seen the inside. and the seeds are just the tiniest bits of dolls and drums and balls, and the rest of it. so little that you can hardly see them at all. mistress longlane. what do the monks do? mistress spinning. why, they plant the seeds, and take care of the garden, and see that the toys are all ripe and ready for good old santa claus by christmas time. peggy. and that's not all, mother. they have turkey and plum pudding _every_ day in the year! [_hugs herself._] dolly. oh, my! peggy. and it says "merry christmas" over the gate. mistress spinning. yes, and every morning they file into the chapel and sing a christmas carol, and every evening they ring a christmas chime. peggy. and they have wax candles in all the windows every night. mistress longlane. why, it's like christmas every day in the year! dolly. aren't you glad we've come to live in this village, mother? [_clasps her hands._] mistress longlane. that i am, my dear. why, it's enough to make one laugh just to hear of it. mistress spinning. that it is, mistress. you're quite right. the christmas monks are so full of the christmas spirit that it lasts them all the year round, and they just go about putting heart into them that get sad and discouraged. but i think i see some of the children coming for the examination. mistress longlane. ah! yes. that's to take place this afternoon? mistress spinning. yes, this is the last afternoon of it. the good fathers have already held two examinations and, will you believe it? [_coming closer and speaking very impressively._] they haven't found two boys who are good enough yet, though they've examined _hundreds_. [_enter_ annetta _and_ marianna, _talking together._ annetta. oh, marianna, don't you wonder whom the good fathers will choose? marianna. yes, indeed, i do, annetta. why, there aren't very many more boys to examine. annetta. no, nearly all the boys in the kingdom have tried. marianna. but they're all naughty in some way or other. annetta. oh, don't you wish it was two _girls_ the fathers wanted? marianna. oh, don't i! ssh! here comes peter with his little sister rosalia. [_enter_ peter _and_ rosalia. peter. here are some flowers i picked for you, sister. rosalia. thank you, peter. peter. see, sister, that's the sign, and the monks come right here to examine the boys. rosalia. oh, peter, i wish they'd take you to work in the christmas garden! peter. there isn't much chance of that, i'm afraid. but, come, sister, i'd better take you home. you might get hurt in the crowd. [_exit (l.)_, peter _bowing politely as he passes the women._] annetta. marianna, why wouldn't peter try? marianna. he's going to try to-day, i believe. he wouldn't before because he is so modest. annetta. but he's the very best boy in the village, and so good to his parents and his little lame sister! [_enter_ gilbert, robin, _and_ walter; _all stand, hands in pockets, before the sign, and read it in silence._ gilbert. i wish we had been examined yesterday. i hate not to know about it. robin. well, perhaps we'll have a better chance to-day. walter. yes, there aren't so many of us to choose from. gilbert. i suppose the boys that get in there can have all the tops and balls they want. robin. every day in the year. walter. why, all you'd have to do would be to pick them! mistress longlane [_looking out l._]. why, what's this coming down the road? mistress spinning. why, mercy on us, 'tis the prince. he must be coming to try the examination. children [_in hushed voices, crowding to see, peeping over each other's shoulders_]. the prince! the prince! the prince! [_enter_ courtier. courtier [_with an impatient gesture_]. ssh--ssh--ssh! out of the way there! make way for his royal highness! [_stands aside, bowing. enter_ prince, _his cloak held by two pages, followed by the_ court lady, _by whom the_ courtier _takes his place. villagers fall back, courtesying and bowing._ prince _stands with folded arms and haughty air reading sign and looking about him. pause._ prince. well, i see no monks. am i to be kept waiting here all day? courtier [_bowing low_]. your highness, the hour set has not yet---- prince [_interrupting angrily_]. i say i will not be kept waiting. what will my father the king say when he hears i have been kept standing in the highway with a rabble of common peasant children? court lady. oh, your highness, condescend to have a little patience! prince [_more angrily_]. i will _not_ have patience. patience is not a virtue for kings and princes. [_taps his foot on the ground._] court lady [_nervously looking up the road_]. oh, but think of something else--think of--think what a pleasant day it is! prince [_scowling prodigiously_]. pleasant day, indeed! courtier. here they come, your highness! court lady [_full of relief_]. oh, yes! here they come. here they come! [_enter_ fathers anselmus _and_ gregory _(r.), followed by_ sebastian _and_ felix; _at same time enter_ peter _(l.). monks walk with hands clasped before them. villagers all doff caps, bow, and courtesy. even the_ prince _is awed into respect. the fathers look about smilingly._ gregory. well, well, brother anselmus, there seems quite a goodly number awaiting us to-day. anselm [_rubbing his hands_]. yes, brother gregory. i trust we shall discover the right boys at last. let me see. [_looks about, aside._] i suppose we should examine his royal highness first? gregory. truly, my brother. let us commit no breach of etiquette. anselm. your highness! [_monks bow very slightly._ prince _and attendants advance a little._] how old are you? courtier [_haughtily_]. his royal highness has just completed his eleventh year. gregory. indeed! and is he a good boy, as boys go? court lady. "as boys go," indeed! why, his royal highness is not to be mentioned in the same day with common boys! anselm. oh! then you are not like other boys? courtier _and_ court lady [_bowing to_ prince]. a wonderful child, your worships! gregory. then he doesn't often do anything wrong? courtier. wrong? oh, _never_, your worship! court lady. he never did a wrong thing in all his sweet life. [_clasps hands and casts up her eyes._] anselm. is he diligent? what about his lessons? courtier. he doesn't _need_ to study. court lady. a most brilliant intellect! gregory. well, well, well, anselmus, i think we must try this paragon. [_they put their heads together._] geoffrey, st page. he just smashes his toys! humphrey, nd page. and he beats his dogs! courtier _and_ court lady. horrors! [_they turn and each boxes the ear of the nearest page._] geoffrey. and when he's angry he kicks and screams! humphrey. and he won't mind even the king, his father! [courtier _and_ court lady _each clap a hand over a page's mouth._ courtier [_aside to_ lady]. such disrespect! court lady [_aside to_ courtier]. such indiscretion! anselm. your royal highness is accepted. now, brother gregory, we will continue the examination. first boy! [_the_ prince _and his train fall back slightly._ gilbert _steps forward._ gregory. your name? gilbert. gilbert, the carpenter's apprentice. anselm. are you a good boy? gilbert [_doubtfully_]. i guess so, sir. gregory. do you always speak the truth, gilbert? gilbert [_stammering_]. w-w-w-well, nearly always. anselm. tut-tut-tut! that won't do at all. _always_ speak the truth, my boy. i am afraid we can't take you. next. [gilbert _steps back, hanging his head._ robin _comes forward._ gregory. name? robin [_in a small, frightened voice_]. robin, the forester's son. anselm. don't be afraid, robin. so you are the forester's son. ah-h! hum, hum-m-m! are you kind to animals, robin? robin. oh, yes, sir. my father teaches me to be good to them always. [gregory _bends over and whispers to_ anselm. anselm. robin, answer me truthfully. did you ever rob a bird's nest? [robin _hangs his head and works his toes about._ anselm. did you do this? robin [_rubbing his eyes_]. yes, father, i did. gregory. too bad, too bad. now i _am_ sorry to hear this. anselm. so am i, gregory, but you see it won't do! [robin _goes to stand by_ gilbert, _still rubbing his eyes._ gregory. next boy. [walter _steps forward._] name? walter. i am walter, the miller's boy, and i help my father in the mill. anselm. that is right, walter; we approve of that. gregory. you are diligent in the mill. how about lessons? walter. well--i go to school---- anselm. are you at the head of your class? walter. n-n-n-no, sir. anselm. second, then? walter. n-n-no, sir. gregory. well, well, where are you, then? at the foot? walter. y-y-yes, sir. anselm. tut-tut! [_shakes his head._] what a pity! are there any more boys, gregory? [walter _crooks his elbow over his eyes and stands by_ robin. gregory. one boy, brother anselmus. anselm. ah! yes. i have seen this boy before, i think. isn't this boy named peter? peter. yes, sir. mistress spinning [_coming suddenly forward and courtesying_]. and a better boy never lived, your reverence, if you'll excuse me for mentioning it. anselmus. certainly, dame, certainly. we shall be very glad to hear what you know about peter. mistress spinning. it's just this i know, sir. he's a good, hard-working, honest boy, sir, and very obedient to his parents. peggy. he takes good care of his little sister---- marianna. and he never teases little girls---- annetta. and he's at the head of his class in school---- gilbert. and the teacher likes him---- robin. so do all the boys---- walter. so does everybody in town! gregory. well, well, brother anselmus, it does seem as if we had found a good boy at last, doesn't it? anselm. yes, brother gregory, this is surely the right boy for us. and now that peter and the prince are accepted, let us return to our convent and resume our exercises there. come, boys. [_children all clap loudly. monks form a procession_, peter _falls in behind, and the_ prince _gives his hand haughtily to be kissed by his attendants, then struts after. exeunt, the monks chanting._ curtain act ii time: _one week before christmas._ scene: _inside the garden. at back, the wall. against it (r.), the doll bed. left, small trees with toys. down center and across front, garden paths._ prince _and_ peter _in monks' robes and sandals._ prince _sitting idly on a wheelbarrow._ peter _working with rake in the doll bed. tools, watering can, etc., scattered about._ prince [_crossly_]. well, i don't see how you can _stand_ this place, peter. i've had more than enough--i'm just sick of it, i am. peter [_still working_], i'm sorry, your highness. prince. yes, that's what you always say. i wish you would stop that everlasting work and come here and tell me why you're sorry? why in the world do you keep on working and working? i believe you like it. come here, i tell you! [peter _comes forward and leans on rake to talk with him._ peter. well, your highness? prince. that's right, peter. now you just tell me what you like about it so awfully much. peter. why, your highness, you know i'm a poor boy and i've always had to work. this is such pretty work--it's just like play. and i never really had enough to eat until i came here to live. i tell you it's horrid to be hungry! then the good fathers are so kind, and i love the christmas carols and the chimes--why, i think it's a beautiful place, your highness. don't you like to watch the toys grow? prince. oh, they grow so slow. i expected to have a bushelful of new toys every month, and not one have i had yet. and these stingy old monks say that i can only have my usual christmas share, anyway, and i mayn't pick them myself, either. i never saw such a stupid place to stay, in all my life. i want to have my velvet tunic on and go home to the palace and ride on my white pony with the silver tail, and hear them all tell me how charming i am. [_his words become nearly a wail, and he rubs his fists in his eyes._] peter [_patting him sympathetically on the shoulder_]. never mind, your highness. it's pretty nearly christmas now, and in a few days the toys will be ready to pick. come along, and i'll help you to water those tin soldiers over there--you didn't get that done, did you? prince [_jumps up angrily and stamps his foot_]. no, and i won't do it, either. as for you, peter, you're _tame_. if you had a grain of spirit you'd hate it just as much as i do. there! [_runs off angrily (l.)._ peter _looks after him, shakes his head, gathers tools together neatly, takes up watering-can, and exit (r.). enter_ prince.] prince [_looking after_ peter]. there he goes now to water those horrid soldiers. i'd like to melt them all down to lumps of lead--i would! and peter--he's enough to drive me crazy. i won't stay here a bit longer, so i won't. i'll get that ladder out of the tool house and get over the wall and go home. [_starts off._] but i'll take some christmas presents with me, i know! [_exit (l.). enter (r.)_ sebastian, felix, anselm, _and_ gregory.] anselm. well, brethren, we have every cause to rejoice in the fine flourishing condition of our garden. peter has kept the beds wonderfully clear of weeds. gregory. yes, and i think i may say that our garden has never been so fine as this year. it was a happy day for us when we found peter. felix. indeed it was. how neatly he keeps the garden paths raked. anselm. and what a good disposition the child has! felix. always ready and willing---- sebastian [_who has stood at one side with folded arms and dejected countenance_]. peter. peter. peter. but what of the prince? anselm. alas, yes. you are right, brother sebastian. what of the prince? gregory. oh, i'm not utterly hopeless of the prince, my brethren. sebastian. brother gregory is always over-hopeful. felix. it is my solemn opinion, brethren, that the prince is the very worst boy in the kingdom. anselm. oh, no, brother felix! sebastian. i say he is! think of the first day, when we gave him noah's ark seed to sow, and he went into a passion because it wasn't gold-watch seed! [_the monks nod regretfully._] we set him a penance to kneel on dried pease in the chapel all afternoon. and hasn't it been so every other day in the year since? anselm [_soothingly_]. yes, brother sebastian, i fear it has. [_cheerfully._] but, then, you know, this has come hardest on you--hasn't it, my brethren? for, you see, the prince exhausted our list of penances so soon and you have had to remain in solitary confinement in your cell in order that you might invent new penances for him. hasn't it been too hard for poor brother sebastian, brethren? gregory. yes, yes, poor fellow, he looks quite thin and worn. felix. and to think how we were deceived in that boy! how his people praised him! sebastian [_gloomily_]. i fear his royal relatives are sadly deceived in him. gregory. but let us think of pleasanter subjects, for i have hopes that the softening influences of the christmas season will do great things for our misguided young friend. let us give our minds to the contemplation of the doll bed. how lovely the little creatures are! felix. and how they will delight the hearts of the little girls. anselm. why, why, why, what is this? here is a vacant place! gregory. oh, yes, brother, that doll didn't come up. i noticed the place long ago. felix. and so did i, but i neglected to speak of it. gregory [_to_ anselm, _who continues to shake his head over the missing doll_]. come, come, brother, let us be glad that such cases are rare. now, my brethren, we will go on with our inspection. [_they move towards exit, then, looking back, discover_ sebastian _still in gloomy revery._ felix _goes back, puts an arm across his shoulder, and guides him gently after the others._] gregory. poor fellow! poor fellow! [_exeunt slowly (r.). enter (l.)_ rosalia.] rosalia [_looking about with delight_]. oh, the lovely dollies. [_examines them._] and there comes peter! [_enter_ peter _(r.)._ rosalia _goes to meet him._] peter! peter! peter [_amazed_]. oh, you darling! how in the world did you get in here? rosalia. i just crept in behind one of the monks. i saw him going along the street, and i ran after him, and when he opened the big gates i just crept in. here i am, peter! peter [_worried_]. well, i don't see what i am going to do with you, now you _are_ here. i can't let you out again, and i don't know whatever the monks would say! rosalia. oh, i know! i'll stay out here in the garden. i'll sleep in one of those beautiful dolly-cradles over there, and you can bring me something to eat. peter. but the monks come out very often to look over the garden, and they'll be sure to find you. rosalia. no, i'll hide. oh, peter, see that place where there isn't any dolly? peter. yes, that doll didn't come up. rosalia. i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll just stand here in her place and nobody can tell the difference. [_steps into place among dolls._] peter. well, i suppose you can do that. [_looks at her and shakes his head anxiously._] of course, i'm glad as glad can be to see you, but i'm afraid the monks wouldn't like it. now i must go and put away my tools. be very quiet, sister. [_exit_ peter _(l.), coming back to see if_ rosalia _is safe. waves his hand to her. exit. a pause in which_ rosalia _looks about her, feels the curls of the doll next her, etc., etc. enter_ prince _(l.), carrying small ladder twined with green, and a huge basket of toys. goes to wall, places ladder, tries its firmness, and begins to climb, finding much difficulty with basket._ rosalia _watches furtively with much interest and excitement._] prince [_at top of wall_]. now, if i can just get down on the other side. [_works cautiously but ineffectually to get the basket over. looks over wall joyfully._] oh, i see some of my father's people riding by! i'll get them to help. [_waves hand frantically._] my lord! my lord! hither! [_voices beyond wall: "the prince!" "the prince!" "his royal highness!" "make haste, your highness! have a care!" at which the_ prince _contrives to fall over the wall, dropping the basket inside._] prince [_without_]. oh, i'm not hurt! let us get away! hasten, my lords, hasten! [_voices die away in the distance._] rosalia [_horrified_]. what a naughty boy! [_enter_ peter _(l.)._] oh, peter, the prince has run away. peter [_hurriedly examining ladder, etc._]. run away? [_mounts ladder and looks over wall._] he surely has! there he goes on the horse with that gentleman! [_watching, thoughtfully._] i was afraid he would try that! but this ladder [_getting down_] has always been kept locked up. oh, too bad,--most of the toys are broken. [_gathers them up and takes ladder._] keep very still, sister. i must put these away and tell the abbot and the other fathers what has happened. [_exit (l.). enter_ anselmus _(r.), walking up and down the path, hands behind him in deep thought. takes turn near_ rosalia, _notices her, starts, bends down to look closer, puts on spectacles, and gazes with astonishment._] anselm. why, what is this! hoc credam! i thought that wax doll didn't come up. can my eyes deceive me? non verum est! there is a doll here--and what a doll! on crutches and in poor homely gear! [_puts out a hand to touch her._] rosalia [_starting_]. oh! [anselm _starts so violently that his wreath falls off in the path._] anselm [_gasps, trying to recover himself_]. it is a miracle! the little girl is alive! parva puella viva est. i must summon the abbot and the brethren at once. we will pick her and pay her the honors she is entitled to. [_picks up wreath, settles it distractedly upon his head, and hurries to path (r.), where he motions to someone without._] anselm [_with excitement_]. hilarion! brother hilarion! hither! [_enter_ hilarion _in hot haste._ hilarion [_panting_]. did you call, brother anselmus? anselm. summon the holy father abbot at once--say to him that it is a matter of importance. [_exit_ hilarion, _running._ anselmus _returns to look at_ rosalia _again, muttering._] a matter of importance--a matter of importance. [_enter_ abbot _and all monks._ abbot. at the wax doll bed, did you say, hilarion? ah, yes, there is my son anselmus. anselm [_coming forward_]. most holy abbot, behold a miracle. vide miraculum! thou wilt remember that there was one wax doll planted which did not come up. behold! in its place i have found this doll on crutches, which is--alive. monks. alive! strange! wonderful! abbot. alive, did you say, anselmus! let me see her. [abbot _bends over to see_ rosalia. _monks crowd around to see._] abbot [_rising_]. verum est! it is verily a miracle. hilarion. rather a lame miracle. abbot [_reprovingly_]. my son, i fear the work in which you have been engaged, to wit, taking charge of the funny picture-books and the monkeys and jumping jacks, has rather thrown your mind off its level of sobriety, and caused in you a tendency to make frivolous remarks, unbecoming a monk. ambrose. i am the leech of the convent. let me look at the miracle, most holy abbot. [_all make way for_ ambrose. abbot. gladly, my son ambrose. ambrose [_examining_ rosalia's _ankle_]. i think i can cure this with my herbs and simples, if your reverence wills that i should try. abbot [_doubtfully_]. but i don't know. i never heard of curing a miracle. ambrose. if it is not lawful, my humble power will not suffice to cure it. abbot. true. we will take her, then, and thou shalt exercise thy healing art upon her. [_takes_ rosalia _up in his arms, and leads the way, a monk picking up the crutches._] we will go on with our christmas devotions, for which we should now feel all the more zeal. [_exit monks (r.), singing. enter_ peter, _darting to place where_ rosalia _stood, then to look after the monks, hands clasped in anxiety._ curtain act iii time: _christmas morning._ scene: _the convent chapel, decorated with christmas greens, candles, etc. a picture of the madonna and child wreathed in green. on a daïs (back center), in the_ abbot's _chair, dressed in white with a wreath on her head, is seated little_ rosalia. _she sings a simple little christmas hymn. enter_ peter, _with an air of secrecy, sitting down at_ rosalia's _feet._ peter. oh, sister, i feel so miserable! rosalia. why, peter? i think it is just beautiful! peter. oh, yes, of course it is beautiful, and that's the very worst part of it. i mean, you know, that just because it is so beautiful, and the good fathers are so very dreadfully kind, that i feel worse than ever. oh, dear! i'm not saying what i mean a bit, sister, but, you see, i hate not to tell the fathers the truth about you, and on christmas day, too. you know they think that you are a live doll, and a miracle, and you're no such thing. you're just peter's little sister, aren't you, pet? and they have been so kind, and father ambrose has made your poor little ankle so nice and well---- so it makes me feel horrid to think we're deceiving them. why, it's 'most as bad as telling a story. rosalia [_patting_ peter's _shoulder_]. poor peter, i'm so sorry! peter. what shall we do about it, sister? rosalia. why, peter, i'll tell them. they're all so kind, i don't think they will be cross. peter. well, sister, i don't believe they will, either. and it's christmas day, so i want to be sure to do what is right. and this is right--i am sure of that. now i must run away; they'll be coming soon. [_exit_ peter. _sound of monks singing in the distance grows louder and louder. enter monks_, abbot _leading, each bearing a tray full of toys for_ rosalia. _half the monks march to the right, half to the left of her chair. monks hold out their presents to her._] rosalia. please, i'm not a miracle. i'm only peter's little sister! felix, ambrose, _and_ sebastian. peter! anselm, hilarion, _and_ gregory. peter's little sister! abbot. peter? the peter who works in our garden? [_enter_ peter, _standing unnoticed by door._ rosalia. yes, peter's little sister. [_monks turn, each looking in the eyes of the one nearest._ gregory. surely, here's an opportunity for a whole convent full of monks to look foolish. anselm. filing up in procession---- ambrose. with our hands full of gifts---- sebastian. to offer them to a miracle---- felix. and then to find out that this miracle---- hilarion. this famous miracle is nothing but peter's little sister! [hilarion _doubles up with laughter, but controls himself as the_ abbot _lifts his hand for order._] abbot. my children, harken to me. haven't i always maintained that there are two ways of looking at anything? if an object is not what we wish it to be in one light, let us see if there is not some other light under which it will surely meet our views. this dear little girl is a little girl and not a doll, that is true. she did not come up in the place of the wax doll, and she is not a miracle in that light. but look at her in another light, and surely she is a miracle--do you not see? look at her, the darling little girl, isn't the very meaning and sweetness of all christmas in her loving, trusting, innocent little face? monks. yes, yes, she is a miracle, a miracle, indeed! [_monks come forward and lay the toys at her feet._ peter _fairly hugs himself with joy._ abbot. and, peter? where is peter? peter [_coming forward_]. here i am, sir. abbot. peter, we feel so happy this beautiful christmas day, that we must find some expression for our joy--we must surely find a way to share such happiness with others. run, my son, open the convent gates, and bid all the village people who wait there for our usual gifts to enter and take part in our pleasure. [_exit_ peter _in haste._] think, my children, what a gift we have here for the poor parents of peter and little rosalia--this dear little girl will be restored to them, not lame, as she was when she wandered here, but well and strong and happy like other little ones. think of it, my children. [_enter_ peter, _leading his father and mother, who hasten to_ rosalia, _kneeling one on each side of her great chair. the rest of the villagers of act i press in, and stand grouped at each side of the stage._ abbot. welcome, welcome, my good people! a merry christmas to you all! villagers. merry christmas! merry christmas! [_amid the tumult enter the two_ pages. _they advance to the_ abbot, _and bowing, present a letter with large seals._ abbot. how, now! what's this? [_breaking seal and reading letter, the monks showing deep interest._] my children, we have here a message from his majesty, the king. he tells us that his son, the prince, reached his palace in safety, and that he has come to feel great regret for all the trouble and anxiety he caused the christmas monks. he hopes that the prince's repentance, though late, will help to season our christmas and make it a happy one. and his majesty adds that he finds great improvement in his son. well! well! this does indeed add yet another happiness to our day. [_to the people._] and i know you all, little and big, are just as happy as we are, for at last the gates are open to the convent of the christmas monks. [_all sing a christmas carol._ curtain notes on costume and presentation (mrs. freeman's story of the same name, from which this little play was taken, has delightful illustrations which would be of help in making the monks' costumes. it appeared first in _wide awake_, volume , and was later published in a collection of mrs. freeman's short stories, entitled "the pot of gold.") the abbot (taken by an adult), and the brethren of the convent (boys, sixteen to eighteen) wear long hooded robes made of white canton flannel. greek patterns in green are stenciled at hem of skirt and around the wide sleeves. a rope of ground pine, or other christmas wreathing, is worn for a girdle, ends hanging, and the tonsures are made by wearing close-fitting skull-caps of flesh-colored silk or sateen, with a wreath of green at the edge. when peter and the prince come to the garden their dress is the same, but their greek borders should be smaller and they wear no tonsures. they are boys of ten. hoods of all are worn hanging, except that of brother sebastian, who in the nd act goes gloomily hooded. all wear sandals and white stockings. as the story suggests neither country nor period, there may be a good deal of latitude in the matter of costumes for the rest of the cast, but the court party in the first act should be as resplendent as possible. the prince. plumed hat, short trousers, slippers with bows, coat with broad lace collar and cuffs. very long cloak, borne behind him by the pages. dressed alike in a style somewhat resembling the prince. courtier. the same, with the addition of a short cape, and a sword. court lady. dress made with a train and a high beaded collar. the boy and girl playing these parts are also peter's father and mother in the last act. mistress longlane and mistress spinning, and the little village girls wear large poke bonnets, old-fashioned shawls or white kerchiefs, and mitts. peter. neat, but old and faded blouse and knickerbockers. cap. little rosalia. quaint smocked dress, of soft blue, a persian border at hem, square neck, and short sleeves. (or, white, with blue borders.) small cap, trimmed in the same way. she is lame and walks with crutches. peter's father and mother. poorly and roughly dressed. gilbert, the carpenter's apprentice. blue denim apron. carries t-square. robin, the forester's son. sleeveless green coat, over a white shirt with full sleeves; full trousers; broad felt hat, turned up on one side with a quill. walter, the miller's son. white apron. dusty felt hat. (if preferred, instead of using the above suggestions for costumes, the randolph caldecott pictures, or kate greenaway illustrations of "mother goose," may be adopted as a scheme for dressing all but the monks.) the entrance and exit of the monks is always heralded by their singing. their song may be one of the well-known christmas carols containing a few latin words, but a latin chant is most effective, such as can be found in the little sunday-school hymnals of the roman catholic church. suggestions for rosalia's song and the carol at the end of the play will be found on p. . setting for the garden wall, a frame must be made sufficiently strong to bear the weight of the prince, and may need special bracing at the central point where he climbs over. he uses a small ladder, preferably a red-painted one, like those in children's ladder-wagon sets. the framework of the wall may be covered with paper, but unbleached muslin is much more substantial and lasting. on this is painted the wall, representing either brick or stone, with a stone coping, all quaintly stained and moss-grown. it is five or six feet in height. the beds where the toys grow are outlined in green. dolls as large as possible should be used in the back row, in order to prevent the contrast with little rosalia from being too great. smaller dolls may be used in the front rows. the number depends on the size of the stage and the possibilities for borrowing. they may be made to stand with wooden braces, but it will be found convenient if milliners' stands for displaying hats can be obtained, as they are light and can be easily set in place. for the other bed, two or three small bare bushes, on the branches of which can be fastened such toys as whips, tin trumpets, etc. small wheelbarrow, watering-pot, and other garden tools scattered about. for the last scene, the walls should be plain and dark in color. the abbot's chair is large and ecclesiastical, and rosalia looks, in it, like the doll for which the monks mistook her. two great candles, in tall candlesticks, on the daïs beside her, are effective. no other furniture. the spell of christmas a christmas play, in two scenes characters sir gilbert underhill. lady katherine underhill. rufus } rafe } cicely } their children. allison } phyllis, their orphan niece. gillian } diccon } servants. stephen } andrew } roundhead soldiers. wat } sir philip } lady geraldine } ancestors of the house of underhill. waits, who sing without. time: in the reign of charles the first. scene: the old manor-house of the underhills. [illustration: allison "of a truth, i did hear their voices"] the spell of christmas scene i _a chamber or corridor in the manor house. door [l.]. hangings on wall._ gillian _seated [r.], with the three children about her, all working at wreaths and garlands, and singing an old carol. curtain rises on second verse. while they sing_, diccon _enters. takes up sword or other piece of armor from table [l.] and begins to polish it._ cicely [_with a deep sigh_]. good gillian, methinks that though we sang our carols o'er and o'er we could not make it seem like christmas-tide. brother rufus is gone away, and we may not even say we miss him. i would i knew---- [_chin on hand._] gillian. you would you knew what, little mistress mine? cicely. i would i knew what is wrong with us. christmas was ever such a merry season in this dear house. rafe [_wisely_]. 'tis because my father goeth about wearing such a stern face. allison. and mother looketh _so_ sad. cicely [_confidentially_]. and i think cousin phyllis cries in her chamber sometimes. diccon [_mutters_]. meseemeth we should all know right well what aileth this place. [_enter_ sir gilbert. _stands in doorway._] when he that was the very life and soul is missing from the hearth---- gillian. hist, diccon [_warning gesture_]. diccon. ----and more than that, under a cloud---- gillian. be silent, i say, diccon. diccon [_paying no heed_]. 'tis young master rufus this house needs so sorely, i'm thinking. sir gilbert [_striding forward angrily_]. silence, i say. have i not given command that my son's name shall not pass the lips of any of my people? i will be obeyed in mine own house. diccon, hence! thou canst spend thy days in the stables caring for my horses, an thou'lt not learn to bridle thy tongue. mayhap the dumb beasts will teach thee a lesson. diccon [_bowing humbly_]. i crave pardon, sir gilbert. i but thought---- sir g. enough. [_turns to table. exit_ diccon, _with an awkward bow._] gillian, let this be a warning to you as well. i have laid my commands--i will be obeyed. [_exit._] rafe. 'tis very hard to be just children, when anything's wrong, i think. we may not know what our elders do know, and yet we must be just as uncomfortable. gillian. tst-tst, my lambs! let us think of other things. shall we measure our garlands? [_stretches out her green._] rafe [_measuring his against it, while_ cicely _and_ allison _stretch theirs together_]. indeed, 'tis soon done, good gillian. we've used up all our greens. gillian [_rising_]. i will see if roger and noll have brought more for us. [_exit._] rafe [_considering his garland_]. would my garland measure around the great pasty dame joan hath made for to-morrow's feast, think you, cicely? cicely [_laughing_]. the venison pasty, rafe? mayhap when dame joan hath turned her back, we can try and see. allison. i fear mine will but reach around a very little pudding! [_enter_ phyllis.] oh, cousin phyllis, cousin phyllis, come see our garlands! phyllis [_coming forward_]. did my little allison wreathe all this long piece? [allison _nods proudly._] that's brave work, indeed. cicely [_arms around_ phyllis]. dear cousin phyllis, won't you stay and help us--and tell us why everyone is so sad? phyllis [_frightened_]. nay, dear, i must not, and you must not be sad--'tis christmas eve. rafe. yes, we know. but _why_ doth my father look so stern---- phyllis. nay, nay--i may not speak of it. my aunt will be sore displeased. [_enter_ lady katherine. lady katherine [_in doorway_]. phyllis, why art idling here with the children? to thy tasks, girl! [_exit._ phyllis [_turning hastily to follow_]. you see, sweethearts, i must not tarry. but i wish good speed to your garlands. farewell. [_exit._] cicely. thou dost see, rafe. father will not let us speak of brother rufus, and mother is so cross to poor cousin phyllis. allison [_shocked_]. nay, cicely; mother isn't cross. it's naughty to say that. rafe. i think i know what it is all about. [_very confidentially. girls draw their chairs close._] i think brother rufus ran away to the wars to fight for the king---- cicely. but, rafe, that can't be what displeaseth father, for father is a soldier, too, and he himself will fight for our lord the king, if so be the king needeth him. allison [_nodding her head with conviction_]. father is the most gallantest soldier in all the country. rafe. but i do think that is why father is so angry with brother rufus. cicely. and why is mother so--so unkind to poor cousin phyllis? rafe [_very solemnly_]. because--because rufus did say that when he was come of age and was a man he would _marry_ cousin phyllis! cicely. oh! but _i_ think that's very, _very_ nice! why doesn't mother like it, rafe? they'd never go away to any other house at all--and then, beside,--allison and i could be their bride-maidens! [_enter_ gillian _with an armful of greens._ gillian [_sitting down among them_]. here's work for us all, my pets. we must e'en make our fingers fly an we would finish our task. cicely [_full of importance_]. oh, good gillian, rafe doth say---- rafe [_trying to repress her_]. it's no use to ask gillian, cicely. didst not hear my father tell her she mustn't talk of it? gillian. that's best, master rafe. let gillian tell you a tale whilst we work. allison. a fairy-tale, gillian? [_whispers full of awe._] are the _fairies_ about to-night, dear gillian? rafe. not on christmas eve, allison. they aren't, are they, gillian? midsummer eve is the fairies' night. cicely. and fairies have no power on christmas eve, and witches can't charm you, nor cast their spells upon you---- rafe. because 'tis such a holy, holy night. gillian. oh, but there be wonderful things that do befall on christmas eve, master rafe. my old grandam used to say that when the midnight bells ring, the cattle in the stables do kneel down to hail the holy day! cicely. oh, gillian, _do_ they? rafe. hast ever seen them, gillian? or hath thy grandam? allison. all the cows, and the sheep, and the little, little lambs? gillian. nay, sweetheart, i never saw them, but i was wont to think, each christmas eve, that i would surely creep out to the stables and keep watch. rafe. and did you? gillian. oh, master rafe, in truth 'twas a pretty plan,--but i was not a very brave little wench,--and it was so cold and dark and fearsome: when the time was come, i was always fain to put it off until the next year! rafe [_scornfully_]. sooth! i would never do that! gillian. nay, that i'll warrant, master rafe! but let me tell thee what else my grandam hath told me. 'twas about the portraits in the long gallery in this very house. [_enter_ diccon, _with armful of wood for fire, which he piles upon the hearth._ cicely. the portraits---- oh, yes, gillian. [_draws close to_ gillian.] rafe. i know. our great-great-grandfather and our great-great-grandmother. cicely. bethink thee, rafe--what are their names? i do forget. rafe. they are sir philip and lady geraldine underhill. and they lived right here in this very house. diccon [_turning from hearth_]. yes, master rafe, they lived in this house. he was a passing gallant gentleman, and fought for the king, and she was as beautiful as he was brave, and as brave as she was beautiful. and they say that in a great war his enemies came to search this house for him, but he and my lady hid themselves in a secret chamber that's long since forgot. but 'tis somewhere in the house,---- [_looks about as if expecting to find door at once_] if a body just but knew how to find the door---- gillian [_in contempt_]. nay, nay, diccon. i'll warrant me the master knoweth where that door is. diccon. mayhap sir gilbert doth know. but none else may find it. many's the time the lads ha' looked for it--many's the time. [_exit._] [rafe _goes about for a moment, lifting hangings, etc., as if in search for door, but returns to_ gillian's _side to hear her answer to_ cicely. cicely. but, gillian, what was it thy grandam told about the portraits? gillian. oh, verily, my sweet. thinking about the secret door i had well-nigh forgot. my grandam said that if all the house was still and sleeping, just on the stroke of twelve every christmas eve, sir philip and my lady geraldine do move and breathe, step forth from their picture frames, clasp hands, and move together in an ancient dance! rafe. _do_ they? cicely _and_ allison. oh-h-h! [_drawing near to_ gillian _with a little delighted shiver._] lady k. [_without_]. gillian, gillian! come hither, wench; i need thee. gillian [_rising_]. anon, my lady! [_to children._] think of it, bairns--that fine brave gentleman and that beautiful lady, stepping across the floors in the moonlight---- [_exit, hand lifted as if holding a partner's, taking stately dancing steps._] cicely. oh, rafe, think'st that gillian speaketh true? rafe. yes, i do believe her. christmas is such a marvelous fair time, cicely, that i do think _any_thing wonderful might happen. allison. i would i could _see_ sir philip and lady geraldine at their dancing. cicely. oh, so do i! rafe, dost think---- [_hesitates, afraid to speak her thought._] rafe [_boldly_]. i think--that if my lord and my lady do dance--we shall see them this very christmas eve. cicely. oh, rafe, what dost mean us to do? rafe. when the great doors are closed at eleven o'clock--i always hear diccon making them fast--i'll sit up in my bed, so that i can't by mischance fall asleep. then i will wake thee and allison, and we will steal into the long gallery and hide ourselves. cicely. but if sir philip and lady geraldine see us, mayhap they'll be displeased and not come forth. rafe. but if we go soon enough they can't see us, because they don't come alive until twelve o'clock. until the clock strikes, they're only pictures, cicely. cicely. verily, i did forget. rafe. i mean to make sure the nursery door which giveth on the back passage is left unlocked and open, or mayhap i might fail to hear. come, sister, bring your wreaths. [_goes toward door._] cicely [_gathering up wreaths_]. oh, rafe, 'tis a wonderful fine plan! allison. thou'lt let me come too, rafe? rafe. we'll all go. s-sh-sh, now, not a whisper to anyone. [_exeunt children in great excitement. short pause. enter_ rufus, _secretly (l.), stopping to look about and listen. crosses furtively to door (r.) and looks out. enter_ phyllis _(l.), and as_ rufus _turns back into room, she sees him, and with a low cry hurries to meet him._] phyllis. oh, rufus, rufus--not _you_! rufus. yes, 'tis i, fair cousin. i prithee speak softly. i would not have it known as yet that i am here. phyllis. but whence came you, rufus? we thought you miles away, with the king's troops---- rufus. my company made a secret march, across this valley, and i thought to spend christmas in mine own dear home. my captain gave me leave to come here to-night, and join him to-morrow eve. but after i set out on my solitary march, a company of roundhead rebels sprang up from a copse by the way and gave chase to our men. phyllis. how knew you this? rufus. i had come but a half-hour's walk, up the long hill, and saw it all quite plainly. phyllis [_much troubled_]. but, rufus, then you are cut off from the king's men, for there be very many rebels and few loyal hearts about us, in these parts. rufus. i know, phyllis. and, furthermore, though i would not alarm thee, i must tell thee that i was seen by that treacherous farmer gosling on the road hither, and i fear he may set others like himself upon my track. phyllis. oh, rufus, you frighten me so--they will surely come and take you. rufus. aye, they will try, dear cousin. but i've safe harbor in my father's house, and when darkness comes i can put forth once more and rejoin our men in the north. phyllis. a safe harbor, saidst thou! thou little knowest---- hark! someone comes. hide thee speedily, rufus. here, behind this curtain. there--do not show thyself until i see thee again. [_hides_ rufus _behind hanging, and exit (r.). enter_ sir gilbert _and_ lady katherine _(l.)._ sir gilbert _sits moodily in chair by fire._ lady katherine _stands before him._] sir g. [_as they enter_]. i tell thee, i will hear no more of it. lady k. but, my lord, this day have i heard a rumor that a band of king's men were near us--here in this nest of rebel enemies! if there were fighting--if my boy rufus were in danger, and i might not succor him, 'twould go nigh to kill me. and so, my lord, i'm come once more to crave pardon for him. sir g. i tell thee, it will not be granted thee. when the boy disobeyed me and ran away i disowned him. i vowed he should never enter these doors again. lady k. my lord, the lad was so eager to serve his king. sir g. [_springs up and paces the floor_]. did i forbid him to serve his king? nay, when the time was come, he should have gone with me, with horse and arms, in state befitting a gentleman's son. and so i told him. i told him he was full young yet--the lad is scarce turned seventeen. eagerness to serve his king, forsooth! 'twas mere idleness. he chose to run away from his tasks and his studies. beshrew me! whether he find the camp life of a common soldier a bed of roses or no, i care not. he must e'en lie in it. i'll neither grant him pardon, nor receive him in my house. to consort with common soldiers and camp ruffians--he hath disgraced my name. lady k. oh, my poor lad. sir g. thou and phyllis need not grieve so foolishly---- lady k. [_stiffens angrily_]. phyllis! she is the one reason why i am reconciled to his being away. sir g. [_more gently_]. come, good wife, be not so hard upon poor phyllis. she's a good maid and a fair. what if the lad have turned her head a bit? i would fain have thee remember the lass is an orphan and we her only kinsfolk. lady k. [_moving away_]. i care not to talk of phyllis. [_turns back._] will nothing move you, my lord? sir g. [_hardening_]. i've told you my mind--let's hear no more of this. [_exeunt (l.)._ rufus _comes from hiding-place and stands sadly by fire. enter_ phyllis.] rufus [_turning toward her_]. why, phyllis, i little guessed my father could be so hard and stern. i knew i had displeased him, but _this_ passeth belief. phyllis. he is very unforgiving. when you called this house a safe harbor, you little knew. rufus [_turning as if to go_]. so be it, then. if my father cannot forgive me,--i'll e'en forth to the tender mercies of mine enemies. phyllis [_alarmed_]. oh, no, no, rufus! at least do not venture forth until the dark hath come! no one must see you here. come into the blue guest chamber. 'tis not a secure hiding-place should the house be searched, but 'twill serve for the time, and by midnight you may steal away safely. do come, rufus! [_he lets her half lead, half push him out as she talks. exeunt (r.). pause---- children's laughter heard. enter (l.)_ cicely _with a bunch of raisins._ rafe _in pursuit. they run all about the stage._ cicely _jumps upon a chair and holds the raisins over_ rafe's _head. he tries to jump for them._] cicely [_breaking off raisins and dropping them one at a time into_ rafe's _mouth_]. oh, rafe, such rare sport! you'll have no need to waken _me_. i'll never sleep this night, i know. allison [_without, calling_]. rafe, rafe! where art thou? oh, cicely! rafe [_pulling_ cicely _down and securing raisins_]. quick, sister, let's hide us! [rafe _runs behind hangings (r.)_, cicely _behind table (l.). enter_ allison _(l.). stands still and looks about._] allison [_softly_]. of a truth, i did hear their voices.... i know.... 'tis sport. 'tis a game of hide and hunt. i must set me to find 'em. [_goes peering about. as she peeps over chair (r.)_, cicely _runs out and covers_ allison's _eyes from behind with her hands._ rafe _comes from other side and feeds_ allison _with raisins._ rafe _and_ cicely _begin to sing christmas carol, and_ allison _throws off cicely's hands and joins in song._] curtain scene ii _a gallery in the manor house. r. front, fireplace[ ] with glowing red fire. beside it, at right angles, settle. r. back, door. back center, the portraits of_ sir philip _and_ lady geraldine, _in tall old frames reaching down nearly to floor, so that only a short step is necessary when the figures come out. l. back, window, with snow-covered trees in distance, and moonlight. l. front, door. hangings, a few quaint chairs, etc. center of stage clear. curtain shows empty stage._ diccon _and_ gillian _cross from l. to r., talking_--gillian _enters first, as if in haste_, diccon _trying to stop her. stage lights very dim._ gillian _carries a candle, which she shades with her hand._ [footnote : see note on fireplace, p. .] diccon [_calling softly_]. gillian, gillian! hang the wench! wilt not wait, good gillian? i've somewhat of great import to tell thee. gillian [_impatiently_]. were i to believe thee, master diccon, _all_ thine affairs are of great matter. mayhap thou thinkest _my_ business is ever of small consequence? diccon. nay, then, gillian--but this news is thine and mine and my lord's and my lady's too! [gillian _turns, a little curious, and waits for him._ gillian [_scornfully_]. a strange matter, methinks, that can be thine and mine and theirs, too! diccon. but list a moment, and you shall hear. giles, the horse-boy, hath been in the village this day, and heard that which bodes ill to us. giles heard them talking in the tavern---- gillian. heard whom talking, diccon? i can make naught of thy twisting tales! diccon. why, the roundhead knaves, be sure. and the pith and kernel of giles' tale--an thou'lt not hear the how and the when--is this! that they mean to come hither this night and search our house. gillian [_gives a little scream and claps her hand over her mouth_]. oh, diccon, diccon,--what can they want here? we be peaceful folk. in sooth 'tis known we are all good king's men, but no harm have we done to any! oh, diccon! diccon. sst! silly wench! they'll not harm thee. but hark to what else giles heard. they be coming to search for master rufus! gillian. master rufus! but he hath not been here these many weeks. diccon. sst! speak more cautiously, gillian. the knaves did say they have certain knowledge that master rufus is here in hiding. gillian [_looking fearfully and suspiciously about_]. oh, diccon, dost believe it? diccon. in good sooth, how can i tell? but i am in great fear. gillian. thou afeard, diccon? oh, what dost think the roundhead villains will do to us? diccon [_angrily_]. a pest upon thee, wench! they'll do naught to _us_! 'tis for my young master i am troubled. if they take him, 'tis doubtless to a rebel prison he'll go, and then--it's rough fare for such a young lad,--and gentle born and bred to boot. gillian [_curiously_]. but can he be here, think you, diccon? diccon [_anxiously_]. he may be. and i do fear to ask my lord or my lady of the matter. [_going towards door._] i would i knew my duty, gillian. [_exeunt (r.). after a moment enter (l.) the three children in nightgowns, the little girls in caps, also. they do not speak, but motion to each other excitedly, and run about, choosing a fit hiding-place._ allison _takes a small stool and plants it directly in front of portraits, sits down, and folds her hands to wait. the others, consulting by signs, do not at first see her, then rush upon her in alarm and drag her away, taking stool with them, and making reproving gestures. all go to settle, place stool by fire, and allow_ allison _to sit on it._ cicely _kneels at end of settle, partly concealed by its arm._ rafe _lies full length upon it, alternately ducking below arm and peeping over it. they shake fingers at each other, touch lips to insure silence, and when_ allison _turns as if to speak._ cicely _claps a quiet hand over her mouth. business of settling into place. when there has been a moment's pause, a bell is heard in the distance striking midnight. the portraits slowly turn their heads, take a long and deep breath, and begin to move; soft music is heard (minuet, from mozart's "don giovanni"); they bend forward, step with one foot from the frames and clasp hands across the space between; then step forth entirely, and bow and courtesy low and slowly to each other. then they take hands, and to the music go through such part of the old french minuet as is practicable for two alone. when this has continued as long as is desirable, there is a sudden noise without. instantly the music ceases and the figures go back with all swiftness and resume pose in frames. children also much startled._ cicely [_in alarmed whisper_]. oh, rafe, what was that? rafe. i don't know. sh-sh-sh! [_enter_ rufus _(r.), silently and furtively. goes to window and peers out. comes back hurriedly and without seeing children. exit (r.)._ rafe _springs up and follows to door, gazing out after_ rufus. cicely [_aloud, but still cautious, though in great fright_]. oh, rafe--i saw a man! who was that? allison. so did i, sister! let's _run_! cicely. mother! mother! i'm frightened! allison. oh, gillian, come get us! [_both rush screaming out of door (l.)._ rafe _comes quickly and silently back. goes to window and stands peering out._ rafe. that was brother rufus. i wonder how he came hither.... and there is someone ... away out there in the snow ... men ... coming this way. [_leaves window and stands directly in front of portraits, with his back to them, and a little way off. stares anxiously straight before him, and speaks low and quietly._] perhaps they are soldiers ... or wicked people come to seek for him and take him away.... rufus went up the little stairs to the tower.... there's no place to hide in the tower! [_his voice gradually rising._] they'll find him as soon as they get here.... oh, _what_ shall i do--what shall i do? [_stands with hands clenched, listening and thinking, wide-eyed. the portraits move and bend toward him._] lady geraldine [_leaning forward and smiling tenderly_]. little rafe, little rafe, thou must play the man this night! sir philip [_leaning forward and speaking earnestly_]. little lad, little lad, thou art little and young! go and fetch thy father! rafe [_does not turn at all_]. my father will know what to do.... mayhap he will even open the secret door gillian telleth of.... surely, surely he cannot be angry now. [_turns and rushes wildly out (r.)_]. [_enter_ phyllis _(r.), all shaking and trembling._ phyllis [_calls softly_]. rufus! rufus! where art thou? [_to herself._] oh, where can the rash boy have gone? he was safe for the time in the blue chamber. and now---- oh, what can i do! i must warn him! [_wrings her hands and goes to window._] gillian hath told me they are coming to seek him. he must be warned! oh, where can he have gone? [_goes to door (l.), then to window once more. enter_ rafe, _dragging_ sir gilbert _by the hand._] rafe [_breathless_]. you needs must listen, father! brother rufus came in at this door and went to the window, softly, to peep out. then he ran out again and i got me up speedily and ran to the casement. [_tries to draw_ sir gilbert _to window, but he resists and stands frowning (r. center)._] and i looked out, father, and there was someone coming--men--away over toward the village. i saw them. and rufus is gone up the tower stairs---- [phyllis _starts forward to door, but turns back._] phyllis. the tower, saidst thou, rafe? rafe. yes! the tower! and thou knowest, father, there is no way of escape from the tower! father, tell us what to do! phyllis [_coming to his side with clasped hands_]. oh, good uncle, save him while there is yet time! rafe. i know _thou_ canst find a way, father! [_enter_ lady katherine, _the two little girls clinging to her skirts._ lady k. [_in amazement_]. what can be the meaning of all this coil? the children crying to me in fright some old wives' tale about the family portraits--someone in the gallery--the soldiers---- my poor wits cannot fathom it! rafe [_still clinging to his father's hand_]. oh, lady mother, rufus is hiding in the tower, and the soldiers are coming, and father must save him! lady k. [_cries out_]. rufus, saidst thou? [_shakes off the children and hurries toward_ rafe.] where is he, boy? rafe [_seizes her hand and draws her to door (l.)_]. here, mother, here, up in the tower. [_exeunt._ cicely _and_ allison _cling together._] cicely. oh, allison, sweet sister, it was brother rufus we did see in the gallery. and the roundhead soldiers are coming. allison. will they drag him away from here? phyllis. oh, uncle, dear uncle, surely thou knowest some secret place in this old house where he can lie safe until danger be past? [_enter_ rafe _and_ lady katherine _with_ rufus _(r.)._ lady katherine _hastens to window, glances out, then goes to quiet children, who are sobbing._ rafe _rushes to his father, and_ rufus _at first starts to him._ rafe. father, here he is. now what's to do? rufus. father, i would---- sir g. [_interrupting_]. not a word from you, sirrah! how dare you enter this house whence you went but to disgrace my name? you are no son of mine! [rufus _draws back and stands proudly a little aloof. the rest cry out in protest._ lady k. oh, my lord, you cannot mean the words you speak! phyllis. uncle! rafe. oh, father, poor rufus! diccon [_without_]. sir gilbert! sir gilbert! where art thou, master! gillian [_without_]. oh, mistress! oh, my lady! [_enter_ diccon _and_ gillian _in greatest excitement._ diccon _carries a pair of candles, which he places hastily on the chimney-piece. raise lights._ diccon. my lord, the soldiers are coming! [_rushes to window._] they be at our very gates! gillian. oh, mistress, the murthering knaves will burn the house above our heads! lady k. hold thy peace, silly wench! [_general hubbub. children cling crying to their mother._ diccon _and_ gillian _at window._ rafe _now running to window, now tugging at his father's hand._ phyllis _at his other side._ diccon. they come down the long hill! gillian. i see them, the knaves! phyllis. oh, uncle, prythee forgive rufus--save him quickly! sir g. [_angrily_]. he doth not desire forgiveness. phyllis. oh, uncle, he would have asked it but now. thy bitter words did check him, and thou knowest he is proud. he could not ask it then. gillian. here they be! diccon. at our very gates! lady k. [_above noise_]. my lord, thou dost know some secret place. do but disclose it to me. remember he is thine own flesh and blood. diccon. hark, ye can hear them! [_silence falls. in the distance the carol of the_ waits _is heard._] phyllis [_relieved_]. 'tis the waits at their carols. lady k. [_thankfully_]. 'tis not the soldiers, after all! diccon [_turning from window_]. would it were not, my lady! ye do hear the waits singing beneath the hall windows, 'tis true, but these at our gates be no peaceful carollers. [_turns back to window. all are silent for a moment, listening, until the refrain of "peace on earth" is reached._] sir g. [_startled_]. "peace on earth, good will to men!" now heaven forgive my angry spirit! here, rufus--quick, lad! [_touches spring at r. of portrait. panel opens, and_ sir gilbert _thrusts_ rufus _through, and it closes behind him._ sir gilbert _turns and takes command._] clear the room--this throng will never do--guilt and suspicion sit upon our very faces. wife, phyllis! take these children to bed. gillian! to the kitchen, wench, and do all in thy power to quiet the maidens there. hasten to the gate, diccon, and say that your master throws open his doors to their search. bear yourselves, all, as if nothing had befallen! now, haste! [_rapid clearing of the room._ lady katherine _and_ phyllis _hurry the children out (l.), trying to quiet them. exeunt_ diccon _and_ gillian _by the door (r.). unnoticed_, rafe _springs into box of settle, and closes lid over him. when all are gone_, sir gilbert _goes quietly about room to put all in order. looks out at window. sounds from without, of beating on doors, etc. cries, "down with the false king!" "death to traitors!" etc._ sir gilbert _goes to panel for a moment._ sir g. [_tapping_]. rufus! rufus! rufus [_within_]. yes, father! sir g. cheerly, good lad! lie thou quiet, no harm shall come to thee. [sir gilbert _goes to chimney, takes an old book from shelf, and sits on settle. noises of search gradually come nearer. enter_ diccon, _followed by soldiers._] diccon [_torn between his fear and hatred of the soldiers and his wish to propitiate them_]. here is my lord, your masterships! he bade me give you free welcome [_bows politely, but as they pass him he snarls aside_], and a pest upon all of ye! sir g. what would you of me, my men? why, diccon, these be all old neighbors--not soldiers. [_the men are disconcerted, and advance awkwardly, pulling at their forelocks._ stephen. yes--sir gilbert--no, sir gilbert--we be verily soldiers--soldiers of the parliament. sir g. you have taken up arms against your king? i had thought to see old neighbors and friends and loyal men. [_rises, laying down book._] stephen. we do be loyal men---- andrew. loyal to the parliament. wat. and soldiers of cromwell. sir g. what, then, would you of me? ye do know i am a subject of king charles. stephen. my lord, we have orders to search this house. sir g. so be it, then. obey your orders. what do ye look to find here? andrew. 'tis a false traitor cavalier. wat. he lurketh here and we mean to have him, too. stephen. we would do our work peaceably, my lord. but our general must have the country cleared of all malignants. sir g. you have my free consent. my house is open to you from turret's peak to the bins in the cellar. diccon. there be more of 'em, my lord--a round dozen. and they waited not thy permission. they be already both on tower and in bins. sir g. disturb them not, good diccon. [_turns back to settle, takes up book and pretends to read, but keeps a careful eye on soldiers._] stephen. do your work with thoroughness, men. andrew. that will we, captain! wat. there be many lurking--places in these old rats' nests. andrew. we'll ferret him out! wat. aye, aye--the false villain. [_they go carefully about room, lifting hangings, tapping walls and floor, trying to see behind picture-frames, coming very near secret door._ stephen. have ye tested the walls? wat. aye, and the floors. andrew. there be no secrets here. stephen. then we'll look further. give ye good even, sir gilbert. andrew. mayhap we'll meet again---- wat. aye,--on the field of battle! [_exeunt soldiers, with angry gestures._ sir gilbert _rises and bows slightly, signing to_ diccon _to follow._ sir gilbert _waits an instant, follows to door, then goes to window and watches._ rafe _jumps out of box, and stands beside settle. enter_ lady katherine, _followed by_ phyllis _and_ gillian, _stealing in to peep out at window. enter_ cicely _and_ allison, _catching at_ gillian's _skirts._ allison [_piteously_]. gillian! gillian! cicely. oh, gillian, don't leave us alone! gillian [_turns back_]. never! my lambs. have never a fear of that. [_sits in chair (l.), gathers_ allison _into her lap, drawing_ cicely _beside her._ gillian _still looks anxiously towards window._] phyllis. there they go, those wicked men! lady k. now heaven be praised! [rafe _runs to stand at panel. enter_ diccon.] diccon. my lord and my lady---- [_all turn._ sir gilbert _crosses stage to meet_ diccon.] the knaves be all gone, sir. i shut the gate upon them with my own two hands. [_everyone takes a breath of relief._ rafe _touches spring and_ rufus _steps out and strides to his father._] rufus. father, let your son's first word be to crave pardon for all his willfulness! sir g. [_clasping his hand warmly and putting an arm across his shoulder_]. nay, lad, 'tis freely given. methinks i should first ask thine for all my hardness of heart. [phyllis _goes to_ lady katherine, _who turns and kisses her affectionately. they stand side by side._ phyllis. our little rafe has played the man and saved rufus for us all. lady k. he is a brave little lad! but tell me, children, what doth it mean that you were out of your beds at such a strange hour? rafe. we got up to see our ancestors dance. all. ancestors dance! sir g. what meaneth the child? rafe. why, sir, gillian's grandam hath said to her, that when the midnight tolled on christmas eve, my lord and my lady here did step forth, clasp hands, and dance. allison. and so we came to see. cicely. and soothly, it was so. they came forth and danced, here in the shine of the fire. a brave sight, father! sir g. now, saints defend us! what is a man to make of this? lady k. never heed them--'twas just a sleep-heavy fancy. a beautiful christmas-tide dream. rafe. nay, lady mother, it was no dream. it was the spell of christmas brought it all to pass. sir g. now doth the lad speak truth, good friends! verily it _is_ the spell of christmas which hath saved us all from sin and much sorrow this night. the spell of "peace upon earth, good will to men." hark, the waits are singing still--as angels sing, and ever shall sing the world around, on christmas eve. [_all stand listening for a moment to distant singing, then join in carol._ curtain notes on costume, music, and setting adult parts in this play taken by boys and girls of fifteen or sixteen. in contrast to these, the smaller the children playing rafe, cicely, and allison, the better--rafe not over eight, cicely and allison six and five years. costumes follow the van dyke pictures of charles i and those of his children. very helpful illustrations may also be found in "merrylips," by beulah marie dix. (the macmillan company.) sir gilbert and rufus wear sleeveless jerkins made of tan-colored canton flannel to represent leather. rufus wears boots and a broad-brimmed hat with plumes, and long cloak of the same color as his suit. these suits should be of rich colors in contrast to the sober colors of the puritan soldiers, who also wear leather-colored jerkins and boots. cavaliers wear broad lace collars and cuffs, while the puritan soldiers wear square linen collars and cuffs, and under-sleeves with stripes running around them of black and orange, the colors of the parliament. orange baldric over right shoulder. if possible, metal helmets, or firemen's helmets silvered to represent the steel caps of the time; otherwise, broad-brimmed felt hats with band or scarf of orange and black. they carry swords, cross-bows, or other arms. lady katherine and phyllis. full, quilted petticoats, broad, deep-pointed lace collars and cuffs. dressed in rich colors. lady katherine wears a small lace cap upon her hair. rafe. suit like the picture of prince charles. may wear a broad fringed sash, and fringed bows at his knees. lace collar and cuffs. sleeves may be slashed. cicely and allison. little short-waisted, quilted dresses, with flowered panels set in. lace at the square necks and the elbow sleeves. gillian. plainly made dress of flowered material. skirt full, but not quilted. short caps to the sleeves. white kerchief, apron, and plain white cap. diccon. plain suit, like the puritans, but less sober in color, and without the leather jerkin. square linen collar and cuffs. the portraits. costumes of an earlier century. sir philip. slashed doublet and trunks of rich color, and long stockings to match. ruff, and plumed cap or hat of same material as doublet. wears a dagger. lady geraldine. dress of rich color to harmonize with sir philip's. puffed and slashed sleeves, figured panel in front of skirt and waist, and panniers on hips. ruff, and small beaded cap. to stand in absolute stillness for so long a time is a difficult matter. therefore the portraits must be careful to take poses which they can hold without too great a strain throughout the act. music choose songs which, through their quaintness, may be in keeping with the atmosphere of the whole. for the children: "waken, christian children,"[ ] [footnote : words printed in "a puritan christmas," p. .] "the first nowell the angel did say," or some other simple old carol. for the waits: "from far away we come to you." these three carols are all to be found in "christmas carols new and old," novello & company. the last has been modernized and set to new music more suitable for children's voices by mr. w.w. gilchrist, and is to be found in a book containing many good carols for children ("the first nowell" among them), "the new hosanna."[ ] mr. gilchrist's version omits the quaint refrains of the original--"the snow in the street, and the wind on the door," and "minstrels and maids stand forth on the floor," and substitutes "sing 'glory to god' again and again," and "peace upon earth, good will to men." these last words are necessary to the sense in two places, in the text of the play. when the play was first given, the waits used the old refrains, and mr. gilchrist's, for alternate verses, thus gaining in quaintness of effect and at the same time avoiding monotony. for the midnight dance, use the minuet from mozart's "don giovanni."[ ] [footnote : see p. .] [footnote : see note, p. , in regard to the english, following "a puritan christmas."] setting if the first scene, which requires little furniture,--the table, a chair for gillian, and low stools for the children,--can be set in front of the second, much time will be saved in the changing. one scene will serve for both acts, if the frames of the portraits can be covered with hangings during the first act. mission furniture may be used, but if it is possible to obtain a carved chair and table, and appropriate objects to hang upon the wall,--one or two pieces of armor, a pair of antlers, etc.,--the effect can be much enhanced. the secret door in the second act must be planned in accordance with the possibilities of one's stage. if scenery is used, one section may be opened wide enough for rufus to pass through. otherwise, arrange hangings so that he may appear to go through a door behind them. the babushka a russian legend, in one scene characters the babushka. the baron. prince dimitri } princess dagmar } his children. kolinka } marie } matrena } children of a peasant family. sascha } nicolas } pavlo } old semyon } ivan, his grandson } the village fiddlers. michael, sergius, leo, boris, peter } sophia, nadia, feodosia, masha, } village children. malashka, katinka, praskovia } the babushka time: _christmas eve._ scene: _interior of a russian "isba," or hut. back r., door; l., window; through them a dreary winter landscape is visible. in the corner, by the window, a ledge with ikons and decorations. right, russian oven, with ladder to top. bench runs under window and along wall. for other furniture, a few stools and a table, or large chest used as a table [l.], with a cloth, a loaf of bread, and a knife upon it. down stage [r.], a cradle. on the floor, bear skins, or other furs. at rise of curtain_, marie, _seated by the table, braids a basket_; matrena _rocks cradle_; kolinka _sits by window, knitting_; sascha _lies on top of the oven_; nicolas _and_ pavlo _play on the floor. children are singing the "carol of the birds."_ [music: carol of the birds] bas. quercy. whence comes this rush of wings afar? following straight the noël star? birds from the woods in wondrous flight, bethlehem seek this holy night. . "tell us, ye birds, why come ye here, into this stable, poor and drear?" "hast'ning we seek the new-born king, and all our sweetest music bring." . first came the cock, ere break of day, strutting along in plumage gay, straight to the humble manger flew, chanting aloud _coquerico_. . then, near the babe a goldfinch drew, chirping with mirth _tir-li-chiu-chiu_; _chiu_ said the sparrow in reply, _pal-pa-bat_ was the quail's quick cry. . blackbirds then raised their sweetest notes; warbled the linnets' tuneful throats! pigeons all cooed _rou-cou-rou-cou_, larks sang with joy _ti-ro-li-rou_. . angels, and shepherds, birds of the sky, come where the son of god doth lie; christ on the earth with man doth dwell, join in the shout, noël, noël! kolinka. how lonely it is with father away! marie. yes, and isn't it strange to think that all the houses in the village are just as quiet as ours?--on christmas eve, too. sascha. i don't believe it ever happened before that the whole village had to turn out and hunt wolves on christmas eve. marie. and if they hadn't had to do that i suppose mother wouldn't have had to spend the day taking care of petrovitch's sick wife, either. kolinka. if the men were at home somebody would be coming in, or at least passing by. marie. oh, i do hope they will kill all those dreadful wolves so we shan't have to be afraid any more. matrena. i'm so afraid father will be hurt! sascha [_with scorn_]. _hurt_, matrena! of course he won't be hurt. hasn't he always hunted wolves, every winter? but that's the way with you and kolinka. i tell you _i'm_ not afraid. i only wish i were older and bigger--then i could have gone, too. it's very slow to have to stay at home and take care of you girls. [_yawns and stretches._] marie [_turning indignantly_]. indeed, sascha, it wouldn't be slow at all if you would do something beside lie up there on the stove and sleep. here's the bowl you began to carve a month ago, not finished yet. just come down now, and do it. sascha. oh, no! i like this better. and you know you would rather have me stay up here and tell you the news. [_teasingly._] kolinka. news, indeed! what news can _you_ have to tell, i should like to know? sascha [_triumphantly_]. just this. that the great castle up on the hill has been thrown open once more. marie [_surprised_]. _has_ it? why? kolinka. i don't believe it. sascha. it's true, though. our father the czar has pardoned the baron, and he has come back from siberia. kolinka. are you _sure_, sascha? where is the baroness? sascha. the men said so at the well this morning, so it must be true. matrena. did the baron bring the little prince and princess with him? sascha. _of course_ my lady and the children weren't in siberia with the baron. they've been in some foreign country--i forget where--all these years. and now the baron has sent for them, and they have all come back to the castle to keep christmas together. matrena. oh, how glad i am! sascha. what are you glad for? it won't make any difference to _us_. matrena. but i'm glad, anyway! kolinka. of course she is, and so we all are, sascha--glad for the baron and the lady, and the children, too. nicolas. did you say they were coming here, sascha? pavlo. are we going to see them? sascha. no, of course not. they've come to the castle, and it will be the wonder of wonders if _we_ see them. kolinka [_kindly_]. perhaps they will drive through the village in their beautiful sleigh, nicolas, and then you and pavlo will have a chance to see them. sascha. they did say, at the village well, that now the baron is home, there will be more strangers in the village again. marie. all the better for the village, and that's a very good reason for you to come down and work, sascha. we can sell what we make to these same strangers, and earn a few kopeks for poor father. sascha. that's so, marie. [_comes down ladder and begins to examine work._] i believe i'll make some more forks and spoons. [_consults_ marie _in pantomime._] nicolas. let's play wolf hunt, pavlo! i'll be a wolf---- [_covers himself with a skin._] pavlo. and i'll be a hunter with a club! [_jumps up and arms himself._ nicolas _growls realistically._ pavlo _prepares to strike._] kolinka [_suddenly, in a startled voice_]. what's that outside! nicolas. bears! pavlo. no, it's a wolf! [_they throw down skin and club and fly to the top of the stove._] pavlo _and_ nicolas [_terror-stricken_]. wolf! wolf! [marie _and_ kolinka _go to window._ sascha _tries to see out, then goes to unbolt door._ matrena [_running to foot of ladder and shaking her finger at_ nicolas _and_ pavlo]. you bad boys! you've waked the baby! kolinka. be quiet, boys! it's not a wolf at all. matrena. nor a bear, either. [_rocks cradle, and pats and hushes baby._] marie. it's some poor body lost in the snow, perhaps. [sascha _gets door open and runs out._ sascha [_without_]. have you lost your way? come with me. here is our door. it's a bitter cold night. [matrena _leaves cradle and stands by_ marie. _enter_ sascha _with_ prince _and_ princess. nicolas _and_ pavlo _watch with interest._ kolinka [_going forward hospitably_]. come in; you are very welcome. [_sees the strange guests._] oh---- marie [_aside_]. oh, matrena, who can it be? matrena [_aside_]. marie, just see how beautifully they are dressed! [_children stand back abashed._ sascha _remains by door._ prince [_who leads_ princess _by the hand_]. we thank you for taking us in. i am the prince dimitri from the castle, and this is my sister, the princess dagmar. princess. and we have lost our way. kolinka [_timidly_]. we--we didn't know who it was. i'm so glad we heard you. marie [_gently taking_ princess' _hand_]. oh, matrena, how cold her hand is! come near our stove, my lady, and warm yourself. [marie _and_ matrena _rub the_ princess' _hands while the boys on the stove peer down curiously. the_ prince _puts his hands against stove._ sascha _and_ kolinka _stand staring at the strangers._ sascha. how did you get lost? prince. we wanted to see our beautiful forest---- princess. you see, we have only been here for a few days. prince. so we started out for a little walk. we didn't mean to go far at all, but before we knew it we had lost sight of the castle. princess. and though we tried and tried to find it again, we kept getting deeper into the forest. sascha. but how did you come to the village? it isn't very far from the castle, but it is hard to find unless you know the road, or just the right path in the forest. kolinka. yes, how did you come here? princess. an old woman found us wandering about trying to find the path, and she brought us here. such a strange old woman, all wrinkled and bent. prince. _she_ seemed to know just how to come here, though i couldn't tell what was guiding her. princess. and she was so good and kind to us--but she never spoke once, all the way. marie [_clapping her hands_]. it must have been the babushka! sascha. of course it was! kolinka _and_ matrena. how wonderful! nicolas _and_ pavlo. babushka! babushka! prince [_puzzled_]. the babushka? princess. who is she? sascha. what! you, russian children, and don't know that! kolinka [_aside_]. hush, sascha, don't be rude. you forget they have been away ever since they were babies, almost. [_to_ prince.] we can tell you all about the babushka, prince. sit down, and marie will tell you the story. marie knows it best. [kolinka, sascha, _and_ marie _draw benches forward and all sit down_, marie _in the center, the rest not too close to her._ prince _and_ princess _on bench to r._, matrena _on end of_ marie's _bench._ sascha _stands near_ matrena. kolinka _behind the group, knitting._ nicolas _and_ pavlo _watch gravely._] nicolas. there aren't any bears or wolves coming, pavlo? pavlo. no. and marie's going to tell a story. nicolas. let's get down. [_they scramble down the ladder, and seat themselves at_ marie's _feet._] marie. was the old woman in the forest all dressed in gray? princess. yes, all in a long gray cloak, with a queer white cap on her head. marie. yes. then i'm certain it was the babushka. she is sure to be wandering about on christmas eve. prince. is she? princess. why? marie. that's what the story is about. once upon a time, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, there was a lonely little house out in the fields where four great roads met. sascha. and by the house there was a big guidepost that pointed four ways at once, to show people which road to take. [_stretches out both arms and swings his body slowly to show how the post points._] marie. babushka lived all alone in the little cottage. in the summer the place didn't seem so lonely, for the banks at the roadside were covered with bright flowers, and the days were long and full of sunshine. but in the winter everything was white as far as babushka could see, and the wind howled, and the wolves howled, and the birds were all gone. and babushka was poor, and old, and lonely. one winter day, when she was hurrying to get her work all done and her house tidied before the dark came down, because she was too poor to buy candles for herself, she heard a strange sound outside like silver bells ringing above the whistling wind. she looked out of her little window and saw a great train of people coming down the broadest of the roads toward the crossroad. she never had seen anything so strange before, for the leaders were not traveling in sleighs or on horseback, but on three great splendid white camels. the silver bells were hung about the camels' necks, and their saddles were decorated with silver ornaments. and on the camels rode three kings. babushka knew they were kings because they were so richly dressed and because each one wore a golden crown on his head. and after them followed a long train of servants and guards. the kings did not know which road to take, and one of the servants was sent to knock on babushka's door and ask the way. at first the old woman was so frightened that she wouldn't open the door, nor answer at all, and the kings themselves had to get down from their camels and come to speak with her. the servants frightened babushka, but the kings were so kind to her that she soon told them all she knew about the four great roads. it wasn't very much, for she had never traveled further than the nearest village, but she told the kings that there they could find shelter for themselves and their camels and their servants. then the first king said: "we have journeyed a very long way, babushka. we have been guided on the road by a glorious, shining star, and we know that by and by the star will lead us to a little new-born baby." the poor old babushka wondered very much, and said: "who is the little child, my lord, that you should take such a long, hard journey to find him?" and the first king said: "he is a great king--the king of all the earth. when we find him we will lay our crowns at his feet, with these gifts we have brought--gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. we are called gaspar, melchior, and balthazar." babushka listened and looked. she saw the gold crowns, and she saw that each one of the kings bore in his hand a gift--one held a richly embroidered bag which looked heavy, and it was, for it was filled with gold. another carried a beautiful crystal jar full of something clear and golden. babushka knew this must be myrrh, and suddenly she knew, too, that the fragrance of spices filling the poor little house must come from the incense in the stone vase she saw in the hands of the third king. she listened and looked, and then she said: "kings have no need of gifts, my lord. why do you carry these gifts to the little child?" and the first king said: "because this king of all the earth is the king of love, or he would not have come down into the world as a little child. and because we love him more than everything else, we are bringing him the very best that we have." and the second king said: "come, babushka, go with us on our journey to find the christ-child. he has come into the world to love and help just such poor old creatures as you." and the third king said: "there is room in his heart for you, and we will gladly help you on the journey to him." and all the kings begged her to go with them. but babushka was afraid and unwilling. she saw how cold and dreary it was outside, and she knew that she was warm and dry in her little hut, even if she was so poor. she didn't know anything better than just to have enough to eat, and a fire to keep her warm. she looked up into the dark, threatening sky, and couldn't see any marvelous star through the thick clouds. and, besides, she wanted to finish sweeping up her house. she must surely do that first of all. but the kings could not wait, so they mounted their camels again, and soon babushka heard the music of the silver bells growing fainter and fainter in the distance. all the next day, and the day after, and the day after that, and every day all the year, and through all the years, babushka thought of her strange visitors. and still more she thought of the little child. and the more she thought, the more she grew to love him, until at last she began to wish she had gone with the three kings. she grew more and more unhappy about it, until one day she made up her mind that she would set out alone to try to find the child. she forgot how many, many years had gone by since the visit of the kings, and she didn't know that the child had gone back to his throne in heaven again. she locked her little cottage and set out, going from village to village and from house to house, everywhere seeking for the christ-child. when she found a little child who was kind and loving and true, she said to herself: "this little one looks as the child i am seeking must have looked," and it made her very happy. but still she didn't find the child the kings had found. and, princess, though it all happened such hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the babushka is still hurrying over the world in winter time, looking in every nursery and every cottage for the little christ-child. she comes in softly with just a rustle of her skirts, and bends over the beds where little children lie asleep. she always puts some small gift on the pillow, and steals silently out again. it is only the children that are good and quiet who ever see her, and she makes friends with them and gives them christmas presents. but she loves the babies best of all, i know, because she still hopes to find among them the baby who was laid in a manger on the first christmas. matrena [_after an instant's pause, pointing to window_]. someone is at the window! princess. i see her--it's the old woman who led us out of the forest! sascha. it's the babushka! kolinka. perhaps she will come in. let's be very quiet. matrena. let's sing--the babushka loves our carols. [_children sing softly the carol of the birds. enter_ babushka, _very quietly. lays her hand on_ pavlo's, _then on_ nicolas' _head, and gazes earnestly at them._ [_kneels by cradle, bending over the baby, and kisses it. rises, stands watching the children a moment, then glides silently out. children see her pass window, then the song ceases._ princess [_suddenly springing up_]. oh, dimitri, why didn't we beg the babushka to take us home to the castle? our father and mother will be so terribly frightened when we don't come back! prince [_hurrying to door_]. perhaps it isn't too late. sascha [_catching his arm, and standing before the door_]. no, no! you couldn't catch her. kolinka. and you mustn't go out in the cold again. princess [_in great distress_]. but we must let our father know we are safe! kolinka. we will send a messenger as soon as we can, but there is no one in the village to-night---- sascha. the wolves have been so bad that all the men have gone out to hunt them. kolinka. perhaps someone will be back soon, and then we can send. it isn't safe for the boys to go alone into the forest so late. sascha [_to_ prince]. father made me promise not to go away until he came home. i'm not a bit afraid, though. kolinka. sascha, run and ask old semyon what he thinks. [_exit_ sascha.] sascha will bring semyon back with him. nicolas. perhaps ivan will come, too. matrena. ivan and semyon play their violins and sing--ivan is semyon's grandson, you know. pavlo. and we sing, too. nicolas. we'll sing for you when they come. prince. will you? that's nice. marie. we sing all the songs we know on winter nights. and while we sing we work. see, princess, this is our winter work. [prince _and_ princess _go to table and look over wooden articles and baskets, with_ marie _and_ matrena. kolinka _stands by window._ nicolas [_to_ pavlo]. i'm glad i wasn't big enough to go wolf-hunting, aren't you, pavlo, because now we've seen the prince and the princess. pavlo. and sascha said they wouldn't come here--but they did. let's go up on the stove again, nicolas. [_they climb upon the stove._] kolinka. there they come. [_opens door. enter_ sascha, semyon, _and_ ivan.] did you tell semyon, sascha? sascha. yes, and he says we must wait. semyon. good-evening to you all. children. good-evening. semyon [_bowing_]. it's a poor, cold welcome home we give to our prince and princess, but we are glad to see them among us again. prince. i'm sure they've all been kind, little father. semyon [_bowing again, to prince_]. i'm sorry, my lord, that there is no way to send a message to the baron, but our boys are too young, and i am too feeble. the men will be at home soon, i hope, and meanwhile you must be patient. marie. oh, semyon, let us have some carols [_to_ princess], and then the time will go quickly. semyon. ivan and i are always glad to make music on christmas eve. ivan. or any other eve, either, grandfather. [semyon _sits in center of stage_, ivan _standing beside him. they play their violins and sing the ballad of king wenceslas, all the children joining in the chorus._ nicolas. sister, sister, i hear somebody shouting, outside! sascha [_rushing to door_]. the men come back from the wolf hunt! ivan. let's see what they've killed. [_exeunt_ ivan _and_ sascha.] kolinka. no, it's not our father--they're all men that look like soldiers. marie. it's the people from the castle come to look for you! [_door flies open. enter_ ivan _and_ sascha _with_ baron. prince _and_ princess _rush to him._ prince _and_ princess. father! father! baron. my children! are you both safe? princess. oh, yes, father. these children have been so good to us. baron. have they, my dear? then they have been good to me, too, and i thank them with all my heart. kolinka. oh, we haven't done anything, sir! prince. tell us how you found out where we were, father? baron. in rather a queer way, my son. we didn't miss you just at once, but as soon as we knew you were gone everyone was in a great fright, you may be sure. i started out with sergius and smoloff, and half a dozen others to search for you in the forest. we hadn't gone a hundred yards from the castle when we met the strangest little old woman i ever saw, all dressed in gray, and wrinkled and bent---- princess [_clapping her hands_]. the babushka, father, the babushka! marie, sascha, _and_ kolinka. the babushka took the message! prince. it was she who brought us here! semyon. have you never heard of the babushka, baron? baron. yes, yes! i know the old story of the babushka, but i never saw her before. ivan. she always comes to our village at christmas time. we don't all see her every year, but somebody always sees her. prince. what did she do, father? baron. she did not speak at all. she looked at us for a moment with the softest eyes imaginable, and then she stooped down and pointed to your footprints in the snow. then she pointed toward the village, smiled, and beckoned to us to follow her. it seemed as if she must have guessed our trouble, and she seemed so sure and so full of cheer, that we couldn't help believing we should find you, and followed her at once. i must reward her liberally for the great service she has done me and mine this night. marie. the babushka wants no reward, baron. you know what it is she has been searching for all these years? grandmother says it was love the babushka wanted, and she has surely found it, for every little child in russia loves her dearly, dearly, and watches for her at christmas time. ivan. and when she comes, the children sing their carols for her. but the one she loves best is the "golden carol"--that's the song of the three kings, you know, sir. semyon [_in doorway_]. the babushka is coming now, with her followers, my lord. here they are! [_enter a troop of village children, the_ babushka _in their midst, smiling on them, and now and then patting some little one on the head. she stands in the center of the stage and distributes gifts to the children from a quaint basket, answering their cries and questions by nods and smiles, each child exclaiming "thank you!" "how nice!" etc., as he receives his gift._] children. oh, babushka! dear, good babushka! sophia. have you got something for everybody? malashka. are you quite sure? sergius. me, too, babushka! masha. i've tried to be good, all the whole year! children. we all have, _truly_, babushka. sergius. i've had good lessons--you can ask the school-teacher. katinka. my mother says i've been a good girl--aren't you glad? peter. please, babushka--i--i'm afraid i haven't been a very good boy. but i'm sorry, and i'll try to do better next year. i'll be bigger, then. praskovia. we'll all be very, very good next year--won't we, children? children. indeed we will, babushka. boris. perhaps it will be easier next year. feodosia. oh, please, babushka, i have a baby brother at home. could you give me something for him? leo. my big brother has gone wolf-hunting with the men, but he'll be sorry enough he missed you, babushka. michael. so has mine, and he'll be sorry, too. nadia. dear babushka, i've kept the present so carefully that you gave me last year. malashka. oh, _did_ you? mine got broken and i cried. children. oh, babushka, we love you, we love you! why can't you stay with us always? live here with us--in our village. sascha. babushka! you must have something for the prince and princess, haven't you? [_as the_ babushka _gives them something, the_ baron _turns to the children._ baron. children, the babushka has given the best present of all to me. [_children stare in surprise._ marie. oh, i know! i know what it was! baron. yes, some of you can guess. the prince and the princess were my christmas present, for the babushka gave them back to me. [_children laugh and clap._ semyon [_tapping his violin for quiet_]. come, children, we must sing for the babushka! children. yes--we always do. [_applaud again._ semyon _and_ ivan _play, while children sing "the golden carol."_] [music: the golden carol of melchior, balthazar, and gaspar.] we saw a light shine out afar, on christmas in the morning, and straight we knew christ's star it was, bright beaming in the morning. then did we fall on bended knee, on christmas in the morning, and praised the lord, who'd let us see, his glory at its dawning. . oh, ever thought be of his name, on christmas in the morning, who bore for us both grief and shame, afflictions sharpest scorning. and may we die (when death shall come) on christmas in the morning, and see in heaven, our glorious home, that star of christmas morning. curtain notes on setting, music, and costume russian oven. made from a wooden packing-case, five or six feet in height, covered with cambric, and painted to represent stone, brick, or tiles. these stoves are decorated with rich panels in bold conventional designs of flower or animal forms, or combinations of geometrical figures. they are often so large that in the bitter weather whole families may sleep on their tops, or on a platform above. ikons. pictures of the christ, the madonna, and the saints, much ornamented with gilt, and placed on a ledge in "the beautiful corner," with candles in silver candlesticks, sweet-smelling grasses, and flowers, real or of paper. sometimes a carved wooden pigeon is also placed before the ikons--the emblem of the holy spirit. the wall in this corner is hung with long towels, either covered with embroidery, or embroidered at the ends. everyone who enters the room makes an obeisance, and crosses himself, before the ikons. they are specially decorated for christmas. make the towels with stencils, as described in the notes on girls' costumes. the same characteristic designs are placed on ledges, cupboards, and shelves, on the chest, or coffer, and ceiling beam, on carved wooden boxes, dishes, and jugs, which are often displayed on a sideboard. the knife and loaf placed on the coffer constitute a symbol of hospitality. the decoration of the stage need be limited only by time and resources. music search for information in regard to carol-singing in russia having been unsuccessful, old carols have been chosen which lend an atmosphere of quaintness. the "carol of the birds" is old french, the others english, "the golden carol" of the magi being especially appropriate to the story. the sources for "good king wenceslas" are given on p. . the singing of this carol (also the "golden carol") is accompanied by the village fiddlers on their violins. semyon sings the part of the king, ivan that of the page, all the children the narrative parts. others, with better knowledge of the subject, may be able to obtain music more strictly suitable. the author would be glad to gain any accurate information in regard to the use of christmas carols in russia. costumes boys wear russian blouses, and dark trousers, their legs bound, from feet to knees, with yellowish rags; shoes suggesting moccasins. blouses may be made of canton flannel, white, or dull colors, or of unbleached muslin, reaching halfway to knees. neck finished in a band; opening from collar down left side is not more than six or eight inches, giving just room enough to put the head through. trim this collar and opening, also sleeves, with fur; or put on a conventional border with stencil and paints, narrow at neck opening, broad on sleeves. tie in at waist with a short sash, ends hanging, of bright color to match borders. outdoor winter costume of boys is a very thick, very full-skirted coat of dark color, immense boots, cap of fur, or fur-bordered, and bright scarf about neck, ends tucked into breast of coat. the village children, however, may be supposed to rush in from their houses, after the babushka, without coats, but dressed as above, which is both simpler and more picturesque. girls' costumes vary a little more. . sleeveless dress, to ankles; white guimpe, long full sleeves. dress of bright colors, with band of plain color edging bottom of skirt, neck, both of dress and guimpe, and bordering white sleeves. apron, white, with stenciled designs in various colors. . skirt to ankles, of soft faded blue or red, worn high on the short white waist, which has full sleeves, gathered in a band at the elbow. trimmed with stenciled bands in bright colors, at hem of skirt, on neck and sleeves, and also at the edge of an immense handkerchief worn on the head and knotted under the chin. this is large enough to spread out over shoulders, and is straight across the back. . plain narrow skirt of soft color, with a long-sleeved apron (cream white), low-necked in front, and cut like an eton jacket in the back. this skirt has a band of plain color at the hem, but the apron is trimmed with many rows of stenciled patterns at the bottom, a narrow pattern at neck and hand, and a broader one around the back at the waist. white chemisette in front, also with band of trimming. girls wear knots of ribbon hanging from the ends of their braids, many strings of bright beads on the neck, and large gold hoops, or enameled earrings in their ears. they may wear low shoes with bows or buckles, or the soft, thick moccasin-like shoes worn by the boys. some few may be bareheaded. others wear the large handkerchiefs described above, and still others the picturesque "kokochnik," a velvet, bead-trimmed crescent, worn forward on the head as in the picture of "marie." these are easily cut from cardboard, covered with velvet, and trimmed in different patterns with small beads. the stenciled patterns above-mentioned take the place of russian embroideries. they are repeated conventional designs, greek patterns, and fantastic forms of flowers, birds, and animals. stenciling is suggested as being the easiest and quickest way of getting the desired effect. the babushka. long robe, and hooded cloak of light gray canton flannel. the hood is worn over the head. she carries a quaint basket filled with cheap little toys. an adult is needed for this part, or an older girl of sufficient insight and appreciation to carry out the simple pantomime and fill it with the love and deep yearning of the babushka, who is really a spirit, and not a human being at all. the baron. long military coat, below knees; cream-colored, trimmed on breast with a pattern in gold braid, a band of same around the edge and up the slits at the sides. double collar, standing up behind head and lying flat across back, scarlet with a gilt pattern. scarlet sash with sword or dagger. red boots with blue heels. spurs. sleeves open from shoulder to fur-trimmed cuff, and worn hanging. under-sleeve, and lining of coat-sleeve of a rich color. hat with flat-topped crown about eight inches high, scarlet, with gold pattern; standing brim, dark brown, three inches high, cleft in front to show more of red and gold. gilt cockade in front. prince. russian blouse with military trimmings, scarlet and white. khaki trousers, boots, fur cap. princess. white cape and hood, trimmed with fur and silver. dress underneath not unlike the little peasants', but more richly trimmed. old semyon. long brown robe, halfway below knees, skirt rather full. legs bound in tan-colored rags. moccasins. coat has broad collar with long reveres, and plain high vest inside, of same material as coat. hat made of the same, low, with rolling brim, giving a turban-like effect. long white hair and beard. marie, the eldest of the children, is perhaps fourteen; kolinka, twelve; matrena, nine; sascha, ivan, and the prince, eleven or twelve; pavlo and nicolas, five or six; the princess, nine. the village children should be rather small. satisfactory pictures of russian homes and costumes are very difficult to find, but there is a series of fairy-tales in russian, beautifully illustrated in color, which will be found most helpful to those wishing to make costumes for this play. these books are to be had at the russian importing company, boylston street, boston, and may also be seen in some of the larger public libraries. a canvas christmas in two acts characters peter pepper, ringmaster, and owner of pepper's perennial circus. harry hopkins } limber jack } otherwise marco brothers, acrobats. barney o'brien } } signor frencelli } jerry pickle } otherwise } signor cocodilla } clowns. ben jackson, otherwise mr. barlow, minstrel and hand. dutch, peanut-man and general factotum. mike mcginnis, otherwise professor wormwood, animal-trainer. tim, one of the hands. schneider, the dog. jocko, the monkey. farmer simpson. benjamin franklin simpson--"bub"--(eight years old.) } daniel webster simpson--"sonny"--(five years old.) } his boys. a canvas christmas written for a club of boys from twelve to seventeen. act i time: _ten o'clock on christmas eve._ scene: _the mess-tent of pepper's perennial circus, very bare and shabby, with circus litter about; signs, "no smoking," "next performance, p.m.," posters, etc., on the tent walls; a rough mess-table of boards and trestles, with boxes, stools, two broken chairs, etc., for seats. pile of old blankets in one corner. lantern hangs in center of tent, and another [l.] at entrance to circus tent. [r.], another exit, leading out of doors. music [if possible] from circus tent, playing last strains of "home, sweet home." burst of applause from circus tent, the flaps part, and the troupe enters_ [_excepting_ pepper, mike, _and the animals_], _weary and discontented, and drop down anywhere to rest._ hopkins _throws himself on pile of blankets [r.]_, jack _takes a box nearby_, barney _sits on table, and_ jerry _goes to entrance [r.], fanning himself with his hat._ ben _takes box [l.], and_ dutch _enters last, slipping the straps of his peanut-tray from his shoulders and setting it on the end of the table._ harry [_sullenly_]. this 'ere's the worst night we've 'ad yet. jack. you bet yer life! barney. faix! i've no futs left an me at all, at all! tim [_rubs his arms_]. i'm lame all over. it's me for the liniment bottle! jerry. i'm as tired as any of you guys, but i'm a good deal madder than i'm tired. jack. i should say. harry. 'ow could we be h'anything but tired and h'angry, i'd like to h'arsk, with such a boss as old pepper? ben. gen'lemen--mr. pepper he su'tinly war pretty bad, dis evenin'--in fac' i may say he war de limit. jerry. and no excuse for it, either. barney. was it excuse, ye said? dutch. mishter pepper he don't vaits for no excuse. you'd t'ink ve vas all der lazy loafers--und der ain'd a lazy bone in der whole boonch. [_enter_ mike, _with dog, and leading monkey._ mike. the sound of yez all is quite familiar. be ye knockin' the boss again? ben. we-all got mighty good reason, mr. mcginnis. harry. 'e's not getting a think but wot 'e's earned for 'isself. jack. work a fellow to skin and bone! barney. wid nary bit o' regard to his iligant muscle, limber jack? jack. it's true--no joshin', barney! barney. niver a bit of it, darlin'! jerry. it's all work and no rest---- mike. and niver a dacint worrud, even for the dumb bastes---- [_pats dog and monkey. dog goes about from one to another expecting pats and caresses, which are absent-mindedly given. monkey, unobserved, steals peanuts from tray._] tim. nothing but blame, morning, noon, and night! dutch. und ven der vork is ofer, ve don't gets noddings enough to eats--ain'd? ben. gentlemen, i'm 'bliged to admit dat i'm hungry all de day long! harry. h'and h'all night, you might say, and no h'exaggeratin'. tim. we're all of us half starved. jerry [_warningly_]. here's the boss, fellows! [_enter_ peter, _striding into tent and giving an angry glance around._ peter [_suspiciously_]. what are you all doing here? you, tim, get a hustle on and put out those lights in the big tent. [_exit_ tim, _slowly and sullenly._] mike mcginnis, go put your beasts in their cages--look at that monkey wasting the peanuts! dutch, you aren't worth your salt--can't you take care of your stuff? [mike, _with an injured air, leads out monkey and whistles dog after him._ dutch, _much aggrieved, takes up tray, and moves it to another place._] jerry pickle, if you and o'brien can't ring in something new for your turn, you'll soon be given the hook, and ben's jokes are all stale enough to crumble. as for you, hopkins, i consider your riding to-night a flunk, and you and jack are no acrobats at all--you're just a couple of dubs. the show's always had the name of a first-class show, and it's going to keep up to it, if i've got to throw you all out and get a new lot. so you want to look out--see? [_exit angrily._] harry [_jumping up_]. there's a-goin' to be h'end of this--as sure as my name's 'arry 'opkins! jerry. well, i'm with you, for one. we never go into winter quarters for a rest---- harry. no, for the h'old skinflint goes and brings 'is bloomin' show south---- jerry. so's he can keep open all year round, and double his profits. dutch. und vat does ve get oud of ut? yust noddings. jerry. i should say not! we're half paid and half fed, and worked double, and i for one have took all i'll stand. jack. i'm with you there. tim. so'm i, jerry. barney. bedad, it's in the same box we all are. mike. true for you, barney. we'd all better be quittin'. ben. gen'lemen! dis yere 'lustrous company a' unanimous. we all 'low dat mr. pepper have got to reform. we-all mus' draw up a partition an' prohibit mr. pepper for conduc' unbecomin' to a ringmaster. gen'lemen, let us take action. harry. h'action be blowed! if it's 'ighly satisfactory to h'agitate petitions, or throw up your jobs--w'y, _i_ calls that just nothin' doin'. no h'a- h'acrobat is a-goin' to stand bein' told 'e's flunked in his best h'act. _i_ don't till i've pied 'im h'up. [_a murmur of assent, and all draw closer about him (r. front), speaking with lowered voices._ barney. that's something like talk, that is! mike. i'm wid yez, harry, me b'y. jerry. i'd like to burn his old show over his head. tim. just doctor his wagon-axles a little, and when they break down, we'll take to the woods! jack. _much_ he'll get a new lot. ben. no, gen'lemen--i got dat proposition beat---- [_words become inaudible; they draw closer yet. the canvas (back center) parts. enter_ bub _and_ sonny, _very cautiously and timidly, peering about. they come forward a little, and pause, looking at group._ bub. this is sure enough the circus, sonny. look at those men. [_the troupe fall apart guiltily, and look with amazement at the children._ bub [_grips_ sonny's _hand and comes forward slowly_]. please, mister, is the circus all over? ben. laws, honey, you didn' 'spec' to fin' no circus dis time o' night? barney. sure, an' ut's time we was all tucked into our little beds, an' the same to _you_, bedad. harry. maybe you'll do us the honor to tell us your names? bub [_impressively_]. my name is benjamin franklin simpson. sonny. an' mine is daniel webster simpson. mike [_pretends to faint_]. oh, would some of yez have the goodness to fan me! [jack _obliges him._] jerry. give us a shorter one! they don't call you that every time you get your orders, i'm sure. [_enter_ pepper, _watching unnoticed from background._ bub. no; i'm just bub, and he's sonny. tim. that's more like it. jack. breathe easy, mike. harry. well, mr. benjamin franklin bub, will you h'inform us where you 'ails from? bub. we live over the mountain, by pinesburg, an' we wanted to see the circus, so we just ran off and came. jerry. pinesburg--that's ten miles off. how'd you say you come? bub. just walked. sonny [_rubbing his fists in his eyes_]. an' the circus is all over, an' i'm so tired! [_men murmur sympathetically, and the group breaks and re-forms around the boys. men gather about, some squatting near the boys, others standing behind._] barney. futted it ivery shtep! mike. tired, is it?--yez must be dead! harry. poor kids! dutch. und ve all leafin' der kinder shtandin'. here--der box seats ain'd all sold yet. [_brings box and seats them kindly._] ben [_kneeling before them_]. why--dey shoes is all bust out---- jerry. the poor kids ought to be in bed. tim. did you have any supper? jack. when did you say you started? bub. right after dinner, an' we thought we could get here for the show to-night, but, you see, sonny couldn't walk very fast---- sonny [_sets up a howl, gives_ bub _a punch that nearly knocks him off the box, and rubs his eyes harder than ever_]. i did, too, now, bub! i walked an' i walked an' i walked, so i did! an' i want my supper, i do, an' i want to go to bed! jerry. hustle off, dutch, and get the poor kid some grub---- [_exit_ dutch _in haste._ barney. sure an' one of them can bunk with me. jack. i'll take the other in my bunk. mike. if it's blankets they're wantin' they're welcome to mine. ben. dey's lots ob blankets, gen'lemen! i'll fix 'em a place tergedder as sof' as a fedder-bed! [pepper _comes forward._ harry [_under his breath_]. 'ere's the h'old h'ogre wot'll scare 'em to death. pepper [_with unexpected amiability_]. that's right, ben, make 'em up a good bed in the sleeping-tent with the extra blankets. what do you fellows suppose their marm's thinking, about now? [_exit_ ben.] you kids, did you say you _ran away_? bub [_a little frightened_]. ye-es, sir--we couldn't help it. you see--our folks is _strict_. they never went to circuses, and they don't let their boys go. pepper. well, has your folks got a telephone?--most farmers've got 'em these days. bub _and_ sonny. yes, sir---- pepper [_giving_ tim _money_]. here, tim, you run out and telephone to---- simpson, is it? bub. yes, sir,--jonathan simpson. pepper. and tell him his kids are safe, and we'll take care of 'em all right. [tim _starts out._] and, tim---- [_follows him and speaks aside._] fix it up with him to let 'em stay to the afternoon show. [pepper _lingers with_ tim _at tent door. troupe overcome with surprise._ barney. will yez all hark to that! harry. i didn't think 'as 'ow 'e 'ad h'it h'in 'im! others. no! [_enter_ dutch _with thick sandwiches, which the boys munch eagerly._ pepper _comes forward and watches._ dutch. so! das ist besser. ben. how'd dat chile's sho't legs ebber do ten mile, anyhow? jerry. pretty sandy, that! pepper. what did you boys run away for on christmas eve--weren't you afraid of missing your presents and the christmas tree? bub [_between bites_]. presents? we don't get none! sonny. i never saw a christmas tree. [_he grows very sleepy and leans his head against_ bub, _who keeps moving and letting it slip off while talking with the men._] dutch [_horrified_]. you don't effer hafe no christmas? bub. no. i told you our folks is _strict_. my dad didn't let us go to the christmas tree they had at the sunday-school, neither. pepper. i didn't suppose that kind of strictness was left in the country. bub [_with conviction_]. my dad's that kind of strict. ben. dat po' chile's mos' ersleep now. come on, honey. ben'll take you to bed. [_lifts_ sonny _in his arms._] pepper. that's right, ben. run on with him, bub--ben'll take care of you. [_exit_ ben, _with children. enter_ tim.] well, tim, did you get simpson? tim. yes, sir, and he says he'll come and fetch the kids in the morning--he won't on no account let them stay to see the show. [_general groan of indignation._ barney. the like of him ain't fit to live! harry [_disgusted_]. wot sort of chap do you call that! jerry. can't we do nothin' about it? pepper. sure you did your best, tim?--you didn't make him mad, maybe? tim. _me?_ no, sir! but he was madder about the kids than he was scared about them, i reckon. mike. an' does he think he desarves to get thim back, i'd like to know? let's kape thim ourselves! jack. we need a couple of kids in the show. that bub's a sharp one! pepper. no, fellows--that won't do. perhaps the mother's a different kind. [_enter_ ben, _speaks to_ mike. _the rest listen._ ben. dey's jus' wore out, dose chillen--done fall ersleep 'fo' i got de blanket over dem. jerry. i tell you what, fellows. that old flub of a farmer won't get in very early--let's give 'em a show all to themselves. what say? jack. bully scheme! mike. that's classy, that is! harry [_aside to_ jerry]. s'pose the boss'll let us do a stunt like that? not on yer life! pepper. very good idea, barney. you'll have all morning for it, sure. [_troupe surprised and delighted. general hum of pleasure._ pepper [_clearing his throat and hesitating a little_]. oh--a--a--i was going to say--these kids seem to have rather a slow time of it. what do you fellows say we do it up brown--go the whole figure and--well, a little christmas won't hurt us, either. let's give them a christmas tree. i'll set up the fixin's for it! [_an instant's pause of utter amazement, then a hubbub of enthusiasm and approval, interrupted by_ ben. ben [_coming forward, raps on the mess-table and raises his voice_]. gen'lemen! i'd like to offer de resolution dat we all gib t'ree cheers fo' mr. pepper! [_cheers given with a will._ curtain act ii time: _christmas morning._ scene: _same as act i. during first part of scene, the troupe, all but_ pepper _and_ tim, _are very busy arranging tent for their special performance._ barney _and_ dutch _move mess-table to [r.], cover it with red cloth, and set two boxes upon it as seats for the guests of honor._ ben _and_ jerry _bring in a gymnasium mattress and a small low platform, which they arrange [center], covering it with a bright-colored cloth._ harry, jack, _and_ mike _set soap-boxes with boards for seats at back of stage._ barney. did yez iver see annything loike the change in the boss? ben. i jes' lay awake half de night studyin' 'bout it. jerry. i tell you, he's just treatin' those two kids white, he is. jack. first time ever, for _him_. mike. i'm just shtruck doomb, i am. says i to meself, says i, "there's magic in ut." dutch. nein,--it's dot little christmas tree vot doos ut. harry. well, h'anyway, 'e's h'evidently 'ad a change of 'eart. 'ow's the kids this morning? ben. fine as silk! i war expectin' to fin' 'em all tuckered out, but not a bit of it, sir! dey's sharp as persimmons. don' seem lak dey could a-walked all dat way widout no lift. barney. did yez tell them about the show, thin? dutch. ve did, und dey're so oxzited dot it seem like dey'd shump out o' deir shkins. jerry. have they heard of the tree? ben. no. mr. pepper, he say, don' let on--keep dat fer er s'prise. dutch. und since deir folks iss such heathens--dey ain'd t'inkin' 'bout noddings like dot. jack. hustle up--you talk too much. the kids' folks'll be here after them if you don't get a move on. mike [_gazing with pride at the result of their labors_]. it's a foine soight, sure. harry [_leading the way to the tent door_]. come along, fellows--it looks to me as 'ow we're ready. 'oo'll be the 'erald an' tell 'em we're comin'? [_exeunt all but_ dutch. dutch [_goes to footlights and speaks to the piano_]. if der bant vill blees be so kint und blay a chune fer der grant marsh! [_exit. after a moment enter_ dutch _and_ ben _with the children_, sonny _hanging to_ ben's _hand and dancing with excitement. they are lifted into place._] ben. now, den, honey, you-all's gwine to see der circus, sho' 'nuff. dutch. so! is you gomf'table? [_exeunt_ ben _and_ dutch. bub. oh, sonny, we're goin' to have a circus all to ourselves. sonny. it's better than just comin' in like other folks, isn't it, bub? bub. oh, lots! i guess it's a sure enough christmas, too, sonny. [_he rocks to and fro with delight. the piano plays a gay, quick march, and the circus enters, in procession, headed by_ pepper _himself and ending with the dog. they march several times around the stage, then take seats on the boards._ dutch _suddenly catches up his tray, and goes about shouting his wares, with a great air of being very busy._] dutch. beanuts! beanuts! here's your fresh-roasted beanuts! bop-corn! bop-corn und beanuts! jack. how do you sell 'em, dutch? dutch [_incensed_]. you tink i vould _sell_ dem on _christmas_? vot you take me for, hein? haf some--it's a bresunt. [_passes them about, and then takes up his stand (r. front) just behind the boys._ pepper _steps forward and stands beside the platform. makes a fine sweeping bow to the boys._] pepper [_with his best professional manner_], mr. benjamin franklin simpson and mr. daniel webster simpson, we have the great honor to make you welcome to the most world-renowned, the most marvelous single-ring circus upon the face of this terrestrial globe--pepper's perennial circus, so named because it never folds its tents from season's end to season's end. i, gentlemen, am peter piper pepper, the fortunate proprietor of this colossal assemblage of artists. the members of my company have desired the honor of being presented to you personally before they exhibit to you their unparalleled skill. it gratifies me exceedingly to comply with this wish. [_steps to side of platform and motions to troupe. as he calls them by name they step forward and bow, with flourishes._] gentlemen, allow me to present to you the distinguished, the glorious signor frencelli, and signor cocodilla, who have charmed the crowned heads of europe. [_the clowns come forward and bow._] dutch [_sotto voce to the boys_]. deir names is barney o'brien und jerry pickle, but dot vouldn't do for der bosters. [_clowns sit down._] pepper. gentlemen, you see before you the world-renowned marco brothers, known from the frozen north to the sunny south, for their skill and ability in acrobatic feats. one of them also is a famous bareback rider and performer of feats of equestrian valor. he has a further talent of which you will be given an example a little later. [hopkins _and_ limber jack _make their bows._ dutch. dot's harry hopkins, und de big feller is limber jack. dey yust bass for brudders. pepper. now, gentlemen, our show has the distinction of possessing the great mr. barlow, the only native african minstrel upon any stage. mr. barlow is a prince in his own country, and indeed we esteem him a prince in whatever sphere he may adorn. dutch. dot's ben chackson, und he ain't crossed no vater vider dan der riffer. [_makes a face._] but ve makes it up to der peoples vat pays for der seats. pepper. and now, gentlemen, last, but not least we have the noted, the justly celebrated professor wormwood, whose successful methods of training the dog and the monkey until they are rendered all but human, have been copied the world over. professor wormwood, with his dog, schneider, and his south american monkey, jocko. [mike _steps upon the stage with the dog and monkey, makes his bow, and admonishes them to do the same._ dutch. dot's mike mcginnis. bub. have the dog and the monkey got some other names, too? dutch. no,--dey don' need dem. pepper. gentlemen, our little entertainment is now about to begin. professor wormwood will give an exhibition of his clever animals. [_as each is called upon to do some little "stunt," he bows elaborately, and does whatever he has to do with a great deal of professional air, then returns to his place, as before. the little boys, after_ dutch's _suggestion, applaud vigorously, and the rest of the troupe look on at each other's "acts" with condescending approval. these are given in the following order._ . professor wormwood and his animals. . frencelli and cocodilla in juggling feats. . mr. barlow, the minstrel, in a darkey story. . limber jack in acrobatic exercises. . marco brothers, indian clubs. . harry hopkins (a) gives an exhibition of bareback riding. (b) as mademoiselle zarah, dances. . song. mademoiselle zarah and troupe. [mike _puts the animals through a number of tricks._ dutch [_to the boys_]. abplaud! abplaud! bub [_puzzled_]. what? dutch [_clapping hands_]. abplaud! dey mus' have abplowse! [_while the animals are performing, the canvas parts (r. front). enter_ farmer simpson, _unnoticed by anyone save_ dutch, _who watches him at first uncomprehendingly, then with suspicion. the farmer looks about in horror, craning his neck to see all that is going on. shakes his fist at the ringmaster, sees the children, and makes as if to grab them._ dutch _interposes his body with determination._ dutch [_sotto voce, but decidedly_]. vot you t'ink you do--hein? farmer. you gi'me those children! dutch. you vaits. you don' gotta take 'em yet. farmer. they're mine and i've come to git 'em. dutch. you is deir vater, hein? all right; you vaits. shoost sit down und look at der show. [_shoves him down forcibly on a convenient box or keg, then carefully stands between him and the boys. children shout and applaud the animals. farmer watches at intervals, and during each turn he rises as if to protest, and is emphatically set down by_ dutch. _his resistance is more and more feeble each time, and his interest in the performers visibly increases, until at the end he actually stands looking open-mouthed over_ dutch's _shoulder, even betrayed into applause. when he catches himself clapping, however, he stops short and clasps his hands behind his back._ professor wormwood _finally bows himself off._] peter. i have the honor to announce signor frencelli and signor cocodilla in their great act. [_clowns come forward and bow, do juggling tricks, etc. same business for the rest._ sonny. oh, bub, i think our dad would like this, don't you? bub. i reckon he would, if he'd just ever come and see it. [_clowns bow themselves off._ peter. gentlemen, the famous mr. barlow will now entertain you. [_minstrel tells a darkey story._ bub. don't you wish he'd come and live at the farm, sonny? sonny. yes, i do. s'pose he would? [_minstrel bows and sits down. all applaud._ peter. now, gentlemen, one of the marco brothers will show his marvelous strength and agility. [limber jack _turns flip-flaps, etc. presently_ harry _steps forward and they swing indian clubs, gayly decorated, to music. then_ limber jack _takes his seat, and_ hopkins _takes the stage alone._ harry. yer honors, i 'eartily regret that i cannot this morning give a h'exhibition of my famous bareback riding h'exploits, h'owing to the fact of our 'orses being h'otherwise h'occupied---- [_confidentially_] a-h'eating their h'oats, ye know. but, h'anyway, i can make the h'attempt to show you 'ow it is done, with a h'imaginary 'orse. 'ere, mr. h'o'brien, will you kindly h'assist me? [barney _brings a chair without a back, and_ harry, _after pretending to quiet a mettlesome steed, mounts, and goes through all the motions of dashing about the ring bareback. he wears an intensely serious look, fixing his eyes as it were upon the horse's ears, cheering him on, leaping off and on, standing lightly on one toe, etc. the ringmaster watches and cracks his whip, the music plays a light and quick air, the whole troupe rise and watch breathlessly, bending in time to the music as if in time to a galloping horse._ jerry _comes forward with a wand, and_ harry _leaps over it. then_ barney _brings a hoop, wound in gay colors, or covered with tissue paper, and_ harry _springs through it. this is his culminating feat, and now the horse apparently slows down and stops_, harry _leaping off and making a low bow toward the seats of honor._ bub [_applauding wildly_]. why, i could almost see the horse! [harry _retires to back of stage, and makes a quick change in full view of the audience, to a ballet skirt and a yellow wig. the clowns assist him to dress, hooking him up behind, and holding a mirror for the proper adjustment of the wig, etc._ peter. gentlemen, having shown you his prowess as a bareback rider, signor marco will now be introduced to you in a new light. our traveling arrangements being somewhat--ahem!--circumscribed, we have never been able to carry any of the fair sex with us upon our tours. believe me, gentlemen, such is the surpassing genius of signor marco that we have never felt the need of ladies, as i am sure you will agree. [harry _now comes forward with mincing steps and a coy smile._] gentlemen, allow me to present to you the celebrated artist, the far-famed and charming mademoiselle zarah! [_the troupe all bow with great enthusiasm to the transformed_ harry, _who courtesies and smiles with all professional airs and graces. the music strikes up, and_ zarah _dances. when the dance is ended_, zarah _bows again, and goes through the motions of catching bouquets from the troupe or audience._] peter. mademoiselle zarah, assisted by the whole troupe, will now favor us with a song. [_popular song, adapted to the occasion by the use of christmas words. the boys applaud long and loudly; the troupe, after making a general farewell bow, break ranks and gather around them._ jerry _and_ barney _remove platform._ sonny. i'd like to go to a circus every day. bub. don't i wish i could! well, it's a fine christmas present, anyway. peter. did you like it? bub _and_ sonny. oh, _did_ we! bub. it was just right! peter. can you think of anything that would be an improvement--for a christmas celebration, you know? bub [_embarrassed_]. well, mr. pepper--you see--we've always heard the other children telling about christmas--and christmas trees--and we did wish we could see one. this is next best, you know--but we did wish we could see a tree. pepper [_nods to clowns_]. well,--i'm not herman--nor yet old santa claus, but i guess i can do _this_ trick. [_waves his whip, and the two clowns suddenly throw back the canvas (back center) and disclose a small tree, lighted and raised high, framed by the sides of the tent._] bub [_claps his hands_]. oh, is _that_ what a christmas tree looks like! sonny. oh, bub, let's go and see it. [_they slip down from their places and slowly approach the tree. farmer makes as if to seize them._] dutch [_catching his arm_]. no, sir,--you vaits shtill longer a leetle bit! sonny. oh, bub, look at all the pretty shiny things. bub. and candy, sonny, and toys, and the star on top! [_the men fairly swell with pride._] barney. sure it's the best i iver did see, for a small one. jerry. makes me feel like a kid myself--we always had 'em every year. mike. it joost warms the very cockles of me heart. harry. i'd 'ave you look at their faces--they're 'appy, all right. it 'as the circus beat h'all 'ollow for them. jack. between the two, they'll not forget _this_ christmas! ben [_leaning over the children_]. look at all dem c'ris'mas gif's, honey! dey's every las' one fer you. bub [_disappointed_]. not anything for anybody else? sonny. not nothing for ben? i likes ben! bub. and dutch, and everybody? [_the men are confused at this turn of affairs._] only for us? why, we thought christmas trees were for everybody. and they've all been so good to us! peter [_throwing himself into the breach_]. no, that's a big mistake, boys! there _is_ something on that tree for them--something that says every man in this here show gets a whole week's wages for a christmas present, and then he can get what he wants most! [_a moment's silence, then there is a great clapping of hands, and slapping of each other's shoulders, and all press forward and shake hands gratefully with_ peter. dutch [_to farmer_]. vot i tells you? no maitter how shtrict you goes for to be [_slowly, and with emphasis_], you cain't kills christmas! yust look at der liddle tree! laist night ve all vas reddy to cut somebody's t'roat, und dis mornin'--bresto! shangch!--ve're de pest frien's efer. it's der kinder, und der tree, und christmas! i tells you, der ain'd noddings like christmas der whole vorld rount! [_the farmer, who has been unbending gradually, at last nods in hearty acquiescence. music strikes up, and all sing "christmas song."_ bub _and_ sonny, _unmolested, climb up to examine the little tree._ [music: christmas song[ ]] [footnote : courtesy of lothrop, lee & shepard company.] frank e. savile. . the christmas chimes are ringing out, across the valleys sounding clear, and as the echoes float about, tell of peace and christmas cheer, with joyous voices bless the day, and with sounds of merry cheer, let us all keep holiday for christmas comes but once a year. . old christmas comes with merry train, bringing joy and mirth again; the chimes ring out the glad refrain, "peace on earth, good will to men." be many christmas days in store, may no sorrow soon befall; to young and old, to rich and poor, a merry christmas to you all. curtain notes on costume, setting, and presentation costumes pepper. scarlet coat, khaki trousers, high black boots. silk hat. he wears a mustache, and carries a long whip with a scarlet bow. acrobats. (hopkins and limber jack.) long stockings, puffed trunks, and running-shirt, or undershirt, dyed to match. white bathing-shoes, or "sneakers." any colors may be used. light blue for jack, and yellow for hopkins are effective. hopkins's ballet dress is made of innumerable skirts of white tarletan, sewed to a low-necked and short-sleeved waist of same material as his trunks, bespangled with tinsel. this should be carefully put together and equipped with buttons and button-holes, to slip on over the acrobat's clothes, so that hopkins's "lightning change" can really be made in the least possible time. woman's light yellow wig (or, if the boy is fair, a dark wig), dressed in the extreme of style. clowns. pierrot costumes. white with red spots, and yellow with blue. faces whitened with the usual red marks. heads bald and white. white soft pierrot hats. they may provide themselves with "slapsticks," and other properties incidental to their tricks and jokes. minstrel. usual minstrel make-up. black-face, large collar, gaudy tie and vest. flowered or large-checked trousers and dress-coat. dutch. khaki hat and trousers, shirt-sleeves, velvet vest, stuffed to make him very rotund. should be a short, roly-poly boy. he carries by a strap over his shoulders a tray with bags of peanuts, rolls of popcorn, etc. (which will probably need to be kept under lock and key until time for its use.) animal-trainer. dress suit and silk hat. carries a riding-whip. tim. red flannel shirt, old trousers, very old felt hat, boots. may double with farmer simpson. old overcoat and straw hat. red hair and chin beard. dog _and_ monkey. it is best to rent these costumes from a costumer, though, if preferred, close-fitting suits of brown and black canton flannel, with long tails, may be made, and the heads only, rented. chain for monkey, leash for dog. bub _and_ sonny. overalls, sneakers, and big straw farm hats. setting tent. a most effective circus-tent can be made by fastening strips of unbleached muslin above the stage-arch, and sloping them down to a wire stretched five feet above floor at back of stage, then dropping straight to floor. back the entrances to the other tents with more canvas, to represent a straight-sided passage. the circus performance a great deal of liberty may be allowed here. this play having been written for a boys' club, the boys were intrusted with the duty of working up the individual "acts," which they did very successfully, with a little oversight and revision from those in charge. the tricks by the dog and monkey were seesawing, boxing with gloves, dancing, fighting a duel, etc., etc. the clowns introduced an "elephant walk," a race, juggling with balls, and other tricks. the minstrel collected the latest and snappiest stories he could find, and told them with zest. the boys' own list of acrobatic feats, which will be understood by boys doing work in a gymnasium, was as follows: . roll. back and forth. . roll and frog leap. . short dive. . long dive. . high dive. . high dive over man. . weight-lifting. . two-man dive. . double roll. . pyramid. they also included turning flip-flaps, walking on the hands, swinging clubs, etc. the pyramid, at the end, was formed by the whole troupe, on hands and knees, the lightest boys on top, and at a given signal all fell flat on the mattress. the bareback riding of hopkins and the dance of zarah are fully described in the text. music a good two-step, rapidly played, will serve for the galloping horse, and zarah can adapt herself to any modern dance-music. for this play a carol or hymn is not appropriate, but rather a jolly song embodying the idea of "christmas comes but once a year." minty-malviny's santa claus play in one act characters henri lebreton. alphonse, his mulatto servant. laura courvoisier, his sister. louise } annette } her children. philip } minty-malviny, a pickaninny. minty-malviny's santa claus adapted from the story in _wide awake_ by m.e.m. davis.[ ] [footnote : used by courtesy of colonel thomas e. davis.] time: _christmas eve and christmas morning._ scene: lebreton's _room in_ madame clementine's _handsome lodging-house in the rue bourbon, new orleans._ note.--the curtain falls for a moment, during the play, to indicate the passing of christmas eve and the coming of christmas day. _curtain rises showing a comfortable room, strewn with a bachelor's possessions. [r.] a fireplace[ ] with wood fire, brass dogs, a large armchair, and footstool on the hearth-rug. [l.], curtain indicates an alcove with a bed. near curtain, an old-fashioned low-boy with toilet articles before the mirror,--military brushes, cologne, etc., etc. lighted candles here, and also on each side of gilt mirror above mantel. shaded lamp on center table, littered with books, papers, a box of cigars, ash-tray, etc._ lebreton _seated in the easy-chair._ laura _leaning over the back._ [footnote : see note on fireplace, p. .] laura [_affectionately stroking her brother's hair_]. oh, henri, you can't guess how good it is to be at home again! leb. oh, yes, i can! what do you suppose it has meant to me to have you and louis and the children wandering over the face of the earth all these months? i've been a lost soul without you, and your home to go to. laura. traveling's all very nice and interesting, but it does pall! i grew tired to death of it--i just pined to come home again, henri. [_sits on arm of chair._] leb. and here you are at last, in time to save your poor old brother from utter desolation at christmas time. laura. oh, but i wish the house had been ready for us--it hardly feels like christmas anywhere but in the dear old place. but louis said it wouldn't do to hurry the workmen too much. leb. no--they'd only make a botch of it. but you are comfortable here, aren't you? laura. yes, indeed--you've taken such nice rooms for us, henri. it's just the sentiment of it, you know, and i oughtn't have spoken. and madame clementine does everything to make us feel at home and comfortable. leb. how about the service--are the maids attentive, laura? laura. ask such a question about darkies just before christmas? henri, you are a dear old silly! of course they are. and so many of them--i see a new one to provide with a "c'ris'mus gif'" every day, i think. to-day i noticed another--not exactly a maid, that is, but a funny little oddity of a pickaninny who seems to live just to "fotch an' carry." leb. yes, i've seen that little monkey--does she really belong here? laura. i'm not sure--i must ask madame clementine about her.... henri, if we are to make that call, i must get my things at once. leb. this is so cozy--do you think you _must_ rout me out? laura. poor dear, his conscience has come home again! [_rises._] yes, i think we really ought. i've been at home three days, you know, and the percivals are such old friends, and helen has been ill---- [_goes to door._] i'll only be a moment. leb. [_going to ring bell_]. very well, madame, i'm at your service. if you are my conscience, sis, you certainly manage to sweeten my duty. laura [_laughing_]. that's just your flattery! [_exit._ lebreton _goes to find gloves. enter_ alphonse. alph. did you ring, m'sieu henri? leb. yes. get me my coat, alphonse. madame courvoisier and i are going out for a while. [alphonse _brings coat and silk hat, which he brushes, then helps_ lebreton _into coat._] i shan't be late. [_goes to door._] but maybe you've calls to make yourself? [alphonse _puts on a conscious smirk._] well, you needn't wait for me--christmas eve, you know. [_exit, putting on gloves._] alph. thanks, m'sieu henri. [_looks about room, sees cane, which he catches up and hurries after_ lebreton.] m'sieu henri! [_exit._ minty-malviny _appears at door. looks cautiously after_ alphonse. _enters and minces about._ m.-m. [_sings_]. de rabbit and de jaybird, dey fell out! walk jes' so! de possum and de coon dey want ter know what erbout. walk jes' so! [_goes to window and looks out._] hit am plumb dark! old santa claus mus' be a-hitchin' up dem plow-mules o' hisn by dis time. my lan'! de white folks is havin' er good time, i 'low! [_goes to fire and sits on a stool._] dem dolls, an' dem doll cheers, an' dem rollin'-pins in de show-winders is mighty fine. [_sighs, and continues meditatively._] pow'ful scrumptious dey was! dass de kin' o' c'ris'mus gif' whar ole santa claus gwine ter fotch ter all de white chillen in dis yer town in de mawnin'! santa claus ain't got no 'quaintance wid niggers, dat i knows on--lessen it am niggers on de sugar-plantations;--he ain't never hearn tell o' town niggers. my lan', whyn't de lawd mek me white whilse he 'uz about it! hit mus' be jes' ez easy fer de lawd ter mek er white chile ez er black chile! [_rests her head disconsolately on her knees for a moment. suddenly, as a great idea dawns upon her, she lifts her head and claps her hands._] hi! i got it! [_springs to her feet and begins to dance a double-shuffle with all her might, shouting._] sho's you bawn, i'ze gwine ter do it! i'ze gwine ter mek m'se'f er white chile! i'ze gwine ter do it, sho'! [_in the midst of her wild dance_, alphonse _appears in doorway, and stands transfixed with horror._ alph. [_furiously_]. bête! wat you do here, in m'sieu henri lebreton's room? ah'm a-goin' to _keel_ you! [_he darts after, and they dash about the room at top speed_, minty-malviny _always just out of his reach._] m.-m. i ain' 'fraid o' no french nigger lak you! [_she leads him a dance, but finally rushes out at door._ alphonse _recovers his dignity, and goes to attend to fire._ minty-malviny _appears before door again, walking up and down with mincing steps and singing with a meaning air._] m.-m. de yallergater ax fer de jack-o'lantern's light, walk jes' so! fer to go ter see his gal thoo' de swamp in de night, walk jes' so! [alphonse _listens, rattles irons angrily, then runs to door with poker in hand._ minty-malviny _promptly takes to her heels._ alph. "walk jes' so!" an' if you don't walk jes' so, i'll show you how, _gamine_! [_goes about arranging room for the night. lays_ lebreton's _dressing-gown and slippers by the fire, puts out candles on mantel, then goes to dresser, where he pauses to admire himself._ minty-malviny _slips in, a small brown paper bag in one hand and a very ragged stocking in the other. she hides behind the easy-chair, but manages to keep a sharp eye on_ alphonse, _with scornful mouth, for his vanity._ alphonse _struts complacently before the glass, moistens his handkerchief with his master's cologne, puts out the candles, goes to table, where he helps himself to the cigars, puts out light, and exit._ minty-malviny _comes out from hiding-place, makes sure he is really gone, and relights candles._] m.-m. [_with deep scorn_]. dar! i knowed dat french nigger 'u'd steal! i gwine ter tell on him in de mawnin' de minit i get er chance. [_sits down on her heels before the fire, screwing up her mouth and chuckling with glee._] now, now, i'ze gwine ter mek myse'f inter er white chile. [_opens bag in which she carries a dab of flour, with which she proceeds to powder her face as liberally as the bag allows. then she produces the stocking and examines it with care._] co'se hit's holey, but den santa claus kin stuff er gob er candy er sumpn in de toe-hole, an' er bannanner, er o'ange, in de heel-hole, and some reesins er a'mon's in de res' o' de holes. [_she gets up to hang the stocking._] hump! dis is sump'n lak a chimbly, dis is! santa claus ain' gwine ter hu't hisse'f comin' down a stovepipe. some white folks is funny. [_she catches sight of herself in the mirror above the mantel._] my lan'! kingdom come! i is tu'ned inter er white chile, sho'! an' ole santa claus gwine ter be fooled, sho' as i is er nigger!... now i gwine ter scrooch down on de rug hyar an' watch. [_settles herself comfortably._] i gwine ter hol' my eyes open [_yawns aloud_] ontwel i see ole santa claus crope down dis yer chimbly. den i gwine ter ax him howdy, an' den i gwine ter p'int out what i bleedge ter hev fer c'ris'mus. ca'se i ain' gwine ter be er white chile fer nuffin. [_this with some energy, but she grows more and more drowsy._] i gwine ter ax fer er wax doll lak whar in der show-winder, an' er cheer, an' er cradle---- [minty-malviny _falls asleep._] [_after a moment, enter_ lebreton, _quietly. turns on light, goes to dresser, sets down hat, and drawing off gloves, tosses them into it. crosses to fire, and sees_ minty-malviny. _stirs her gently with his foot._ leb. [_not unkindly_]. here, you little imp, get up! what are you doing here? who are you, anyway? m.-m. [_springing to her feet, then falling on her knees on the rug_]. i ax you howdy, mister santa claus! i hope you's feelin' pretty peart? leb. [_to himself_]. oh, mister santa claus, am i? m.-m. [_hurriedly_]. i'ze name mint--i'ze er white chile, mister santa claus, an' i'ze name miss ann. i'ze er white chile sho's you bawn, mister santa claus! leb. [_laughing_]. oh, are you? and your name is miss ann? m.-m. [_with assurance_]. yes-sir. law, marse santa claus [_laughs hysterically and rocks herself back and forth on her knees_], i'ze mos' sho' dat i seed you clammin' down de chimbly jes' now! an' i has been settin' up all night jes' ter ax yer howdy, an' ter ax yer ter fotch me er gre't big wax doll lak whar in der show-winder, an' er cheer, an' er cradle, an' some cups an' sassers wid blue on de aidge lak whar ole mis' had on de sugar-plantation whar me an' mammy come f'um. an' dat stockin' whar i is done hung up, hit am pow'ful holey, i knows. but i ain't got no mammy ter men' it, an' ef er gob er candy wuz in de toe-hole, an' er o'ange in de heel-hole,--oh, mister santa claus, marse santa claus, i is er white chile! cross my heart, i is! [_bursts into tears, as_ lebreton _takes hold of the stocking and looks it over, trying hard to restrain his laughter._] oh, marse santa claus! [_wails._] you is knowed all de time dat i wuz lyin'! i ain't nuffin but er good-fer-nuffin li'l' black nigger whar is name minty-malviny. leb. [_almost overcome with laughter_]. now i am surprised! m.-m. an' i ain' fitten fer ter hev no c'ris'mus gif'. leb. hush! [_takes off his light coat, pushes her down on the rug, and throws the coat over her._] lie down and go to sleep. [_with mock sternness._] if you're not asleep within two minutes, i'll---- [_his threat ends in a growl._] [minty-malviny _sobs for a moment or two, but quickly falls asleep, breathing deeply and quietly._ lebreton _comes forward and stands perplexed._ leb. well, i reckon santa claus will have to call for help. laura can't have gone to bed yet.... i'll get her. [_exit, returning almost at once with_ laura.] that's good! come in a moment. laura [_anxiously_]. oh, henri, what is it? leb. [_laughing_]. a trifle! [_puts his hand on her shoulder._] my pack has given out, and i'm 'bleeged to have a big wax doll, like whar in de show-winder, and a cheer, and some dishes, lak ole miss's on de plantation; and all for a 'spectable young cullud pusson named minty-malviny! laura [_mystified_]. henri! i don't understand. leb. no, but you will in a moment. see what i found when i came in. [_leads her over to rug, lifts corner of coat, and discloses_ minty-malviny _fast asleep._] isn't this your little waif, laura? laura. yes. but what in the world has she been doing to herself? leb. sh-sh! don't waken her! [_they speak in lowered voices._] why, she was waiting for santa claus, and her past experience of the old gentleman's impartiality seems to be responsible for an experiment. anyway, she popped up and assured me that she was er white chile sho's i was bawn, and her name was miss ann. but it stuck in her throat---- laura [_laughing_]. no wonder! leb. and she presently broke down and wailed that she warn't fitten ter hev no christmas gift. now, do you suppose you can find anything for her? laura. certainly i can, poor little soul. such a lot of things have come--ever so much more than the children need. i'll look them over. [_going._] leb. wait a minute--have you any fruit in your rooms? laura. yes--a whole dish. i'll bring it. [_exit._] leb. [_rummaging about on dresser_]. er gob er candy fer de toe-hole. ah--this will do nicely. [_finds box of candy. enter_ laura _with fruit._] laura. here, henri, fill her stocking with these. i'll get some toys. [_exit._ lebreton _takes dish, and sits down to fill stocking._] leb. [_working busily_]. er gob er candy--there, that's it. an' er o'ange fer the heel-hole. good! here are the nuts an' reesins for all the other holes--and bananas for the leg! [_enter_ laura. lebreton _holds up stocking proudly for her inspection._] there! i flatter myself i'm good at the business, though you may say that that leg is hardly as fat as minty-malviny's own. [laura _laughs approval, and busies herself arranging doll in armchair, with other toys about her._ lebreton _tries to hang stocking._ leb. oh, hang it! laura. what, the stocking? leb. yes--no--yes, that's exactly what i can't do! come and help me, will you? [_they struggle with it together, making some noise._] laura. hush, santa claus, you'll wake her! [_the stocking is hung, the toys arranged, they stand surveying the display, and putting last touches._] leb. oh, laura, this is gorgeous! but you mustn't be too generous. laura. nonsense, the children will never miss them. [_they stand looking down at the coat._ laura _lifts the edge and kneels beside_ minty-malviny.] she's too funny--poor little monkey! oh, henri, when we are back in our own home, i should like to take this poor little neglected thing and give her a home and look after her a little. do you suppose i could? leb. i don't see what's to prevent. she looks perfectly friendless. [_they rise and go to door._] laura. you are a good heart, henri. leb. the good heart is yours! i'm marse santa claus--and i intend to put minty-malviny in your stocking! [_both laugh heartily, but quietly, and exchange good nights._ laura _goes._ lebreton _comes back, standing at table a moment._] leb. i believe i rather envy the old gentleman! [_puts out light and goes towards alcove, his dressing gown thrown over his arm._] [_curtains are drawn for a moment, to indicate the passing of the night. when they open, daylight has come, the fire is dim_, minty-malviny _is waking._ m.-m. [_catching sight of toys, as she sits up and stretches_]. ow! wow! wow! [_she fairly yells, beside herself with joy._] ole santa claus done come down de chimbly sho' 'nuff, lak i seed him! an' he done fotch me er wax doll, an' er set o' dishes, same ez ef i wuz er white chile! oh, lawdy, lawdy, lawdy! [_jumps up and gets down stocking, feeling it, and peering through the holes._] er gob er candy in de toe-hole, and er o'ange in de heel-hole. [_pauses suddenly, her arm thrust into the stocking._] lawd, i is glad i didn' try ter stick ter dat lie about bein' er white chile whar name miss ann! [_continues her ecstatic rummaging._] my lan'! i jes' ez lief be er nigger ez er white chile! an' er heap liefer! [_enter_ alphonse, _with an armful of firewood. stands horrified on the threshold, then rushes forward._ alph. ah-h-h-h! 'tite diablesse! va-t-en! i'm goin' to shake the life out of you, singe! [_a boot whizzes past his ear, from the direction of the alcove._ leb. [_imperiously_]. let her alone, you rascal! if you dare to touch her i'll thrash you within an inch of your life! alph. [_obsequiously_]. yaa-as, m'sieu henri. m.-m. [_maliciously, half whispering_]. walk jes' so! [_makes a face at_ alphonse. _aloud._] i'ze dat gemplum's nigger whar is dar in de bade, an' i gwine he'p mek he fiah. [alphonse _goes viciously to work to make the fire, frustrating_ minty-malviny's _attempts when possible, snatching the poker away from her, etc. she is exasperatingly pleasant and superior._] you ain' bresh de hearf. [_he does so, and gathers up the rubbish with one last grimace._] alph. [_at door_]. singe! [_exit._ m.-m. [_tossing her head and chuckling_]. dat french nigger don' dass say nuffin to me, no mo'! [_enter_ lebreton _from alcove, tying the cords of his dressing gown._ leb. good-morning, minty-malviny--merry christmas to you! m.-m. [_bobbing little courtesies to him_]. mawnin', marse henry--same to you, suh! [_looks at him with puzzled half-recognition, head on one side, like a bright little bird._] leb. [_to himself, sitting near table_]. she's nearly sharp enough to know me! [_to her._] minty-malviny, what are all those things? where did you get them? m.-m. [_diverted from her study, turns to the toys_]. 'deed, marse henry, i didn't _took_ 'em f'um nobody. ole santa claus done come down dis yer chimbly an' fotch 'em heself. leb. you don't say so! how do you know he did? m.-m. done saw him, marse henry. leb. you did? did he scare you? m.-m. laws, no! i'ze erspectin' him, co'se, an' i jes' 'membered ma manners an' ax him howdy, an' he gib me all dese gran' c'ris'mus gif's. leb. all those for _you_, minty-malviny? m.-m. [_coming closer_]. yes, marse henry, i is some s'prised myse'f. i didn't s'pose no li'l' nigger could hab no such gran' c'ris'mus--i 'lowed 'twar on'y fer de white folks. [_squats near him, on the floor, hugging her knees._] leb. [_aside_], i 'low white folks do have the lion's share, myself. [_to her._] see here, minty-malviny--where's your mammy--who owns you, anyway? m.-m. laws, marse henry, ain' got no mammy. she brung me in f'um ole mis's plantation, an' den she jes' up an' lef me. leb. who takes care of you? m.-m. [_with dignity_]. takes cyah ob myse'f--don' need nobody to min' _me_. leb. do you mean you earn your own living? m.-m. co'se i does! i runs a'rons fo' mam' dilcey--dat's you-all's cook--an' i does chores. an' mam' dilcey she treats me pretty good--dat is, mos'ly. [_rubs her ear reminiscently._] leb. where do you sleep? m.-m. oh, mos' anywheres. [_sidles nearer to him._] i lak yo' hearf-rug fust-rate, marse henry. leb. oh, you do? [_aside._] part of the c'ris'mus gif', i suppose. [_to her._] well, minty-malviny, my sister, mrs. courvoisier, is here now. in a few weeks she will be going to her own home--a fine great house, with a big garden--more like your ole mis's plantation, you know. how would you like to go and live with her, and wait on her, and help mind her baby? m.-m. dat do soun' mighty scrumptious! but--marse henry---- [_looking at him shyly from the corners of her eyes_] ef it's all er same to _you_--i'd er heap druther be yo'r li'l' nigger. [_suddenly turns and kneels at his feet._] leb. [_taken aback, turns away and walks down stage_]. well--this turn of affairs looks rather more like my sock than laura's stocking! [_turns to her again._] but what about alphonse? m.-m. [_with concentrated scorn_]. dat french nigger! why---- [_very rapidly_] he cain't eben mek a fiah! [_there is a rush from the door. enter the children, followed by_ laura. _the children throw themselves upon_ lebreton _with enthusiastic shouts._ children. christmas gift, uncle! christmas gift! philip. we caught you, we caught you! laura. merry christmas, henri! leb. i've no breath left to say merry christmas, you young bears! [_shakes them off, laughing._] unhand me, villains! i want to tell you something. there is somebody else here. minty-malviny, this is my sister, mrs. courvoisier [minty-malviny _courtesies to them all, with little bobs of her head_], and these are my nieces, miss louise and miss annette. and here is my nephew, master philip courvoisier. [_sits down, with_ philip _on his knee._] children, when you go home, minty-malviny is going with you, to look after you, and play games, and tell stories. philip. can she tell stories? oh, goody! louise [_aside_]. oh, mother, how ragged she is! annette. goody! i like stories, too! louise. are those your christmas presents? philip. was your stocking just awful full? annette. just plumb full? ours were. m.-m. yes'm, hit sho'ly wuz! louise. what nice things--did santa claus leave them for you? m.-m. yes'm. ole santa claus done brung 'em, an' i never 'lowed he'd gib 'em to no pickaninny [_with lowered voice_], so i powd'ed myse'f up an' let on lak i'ze er white chile! annette. you did! what fun! m.-m. an' den he come down dat chimbly an' seed me. philip. right down this chimney? [_slips off_ lebreton's _knee, and runs to look up chimney._ lebreton _rises and stands by_ laura.] m.-m. sho's you bawn, honey! louise. and you saw him? m.-m. 'deed i did, miss louise. [_the children gather close, and_ minty-malviny _tells her story with effective drops in her voice, followed by sudden and startling crescendos._] when he crope down dat chimbly, an' sot he eyes on me de fust time, he knowed i wa'n't no white chile. ca'ze he eyes uz big ez yo' maw's chiny plates! but he didn' keer! he jes' up an' tuk dat wax doll, an' dem dishes, an' dat cheer, an' dat table, an' dat cradle out'n de ba-ag whar he had on he back, an' gun 'em ter me jes' de same ez ef i 'uz white ez you-alls. but i mos' sho' dat he wouldn' er lef 'em, ner stuff dat stockin' full er goodies, ef i'd er kep' on tellin' him dat lie about bein' er white chile whar name miss ann! my lan' [_this with an air of great virtue and pride_], i is glad ole mis' l'arnt me to tell de troof! philip. what did santa claus look like? louise. he brings us things, but we never saw him. annette. no, he always comes when we are asleep. m.-m. wa-al, he 'uz sump'n lak yo' unc' henry, on'y not er leas' mite gooder-lookin' dan marse henry, caze marse henry he de bestes' gempm'n on dis yearth! but he 'uz sump'n lak yo' unc' henry. 'cep'n he's hade touch de top er de house! [_makes a quick and startling motion with her hand and rolls her eyes._] an' he voice big an' deep, an' growly lak a gre't big b'ar. an' de foot he kicked me wif, 'uz big ez de kitchen stove. [_resumes her ordinary voice._] ya-as, chillen, ef marse henry 'uz mo' bigger, an' mo' higher, he 'u'd look jes' eszactly lak ole mister santa claus! curtain notes on costume and presentation ordinary modern costume. lebreton should have an iron-gray beard. laura and her children daintily and attractively dressed. alphonse, mulatto servant, very dandified and vain. minty-malviny, a black pickaninny, in rags and tatters, nondescript and faded. her wool braided into little pigtails tied with odd bits of ribbon and string. lebreton, laura, and alphonse, by adults. laura's children, five to nine years. minty-malviny, ten years old. this part could be played by a boy. music. during the moment when the curtain is drawn for the passing of the night, "holy night," or some other well-known christmas hymn, is very softly played off stage. lebreton hums the same air while filling the stocking, and moving about stage before this interim. the hundred a play in one act characters mrs. darling, a young and pretty widow. mrs. bonnet, the lady's maid. catherine, the parlor maid. mrs. mcgrath, the cook. sally, the kitchen maid. tibbie, from the east side. the hundred adapted from the story by gertrude hall.[ ] [footnote : copyrighted, , by harper & bros. used by courtesy of miss hall and harper & bros.] time: _christmas eve._ scene: mrs. darling's _dressing-room. dressing-table, with elaborate and glittering toilette articles, and a large and rather showy photograph of the late_ mr. darling, _also a smaller one of_ mrs. darling's _cousin, the_ reverend dorel goodhue. _r., an alcove hidden by curtains, containing a couch on which repose the hundred dolls. stage requires two entrances, one communicating with_ mrs. darling's _bedroom, the other with the rest of the house._ [_enter_ catherine, _with two carriage wraps, which she surveys critically._ catherine [_sniffing at one of the wraps, with a sharp glance at the bedroom door_]. humph. if there's the merest smidgeon of camphire about this, i'll hear from it! it's been airing 'most a week, too. [_lays them carefully on couch or chair, then stepping softly, surveys the dressing-table and its appointments. takes up newspaper from chair, and glances over it while expressing her sentiments._] i'll just take this down with me till it's called for. what with mr. jackson the butler, and sally the kitchen-maid always going home nights, and cook slippin' off to her bloomin' family every chance she gets, it's likely to be lonesome for me this evening. i'll be bound mrs. bonnet'll be off with some friend or other, the minute mrs. darling's out of the house. not that _her_ company's over-pleasant. i'd rather stay alone any time. it's good luck for every other soul in the house when mrs. darling dines out. but _i_ never come in for the extras. [_enter_ sally _with fur-lined carriage shoes, which she places beside the wraps._ sally. mrs. darling wanted those warmed in the kitchen. i sh'd think all these fur fixin's 'd be warm enough without no stove. catherine [_sullenly_]. you going, too, i suppose? sally. why, yes. ain't i done everything? there's no need of me staying, is there? catherine. no, i don't suppose there is. i just thought you might be, that's all. sally. tell you what i'd like to do! catherine. what'd you like to do, sally? sally [_confidentially_]. that's to come back again after i've been home for just a minute. catherine [_looks up, unable to conceal her interest_]. you don't mean just to oblige, do you, sally? sally. well, i'd do it in a minute, for nothing else beside, but that ain't quite all i was thinking of, just this once. miss catherine---- [_hesitates, then continues enthusiastically_] ----have you seen 'em in there? the whole hundred of 'em laid out in the alcove here. [_draws back curtain a little, partly disclosing the couch with an array of daintily dressed dolls. they pick up one or two, and look them over admiringly._] i saw 'em last night when mrs. bonnet she sent me up for the lamps to clean, and i've been thinkin' about it ever since. law! wouldn't any child like to see a sight like that! there's a little girl in my tenement, she'd just go crazy. do you think there'd be any harm in it, if i was to bring her over and let her get one peep? she's as clean a child as ever you saw. she comes of dreadful poor folks, but just as respectable. she never seen anything like it in her life. law, what would i have done when i was a young one, if i'd seen that? i'd thought i was dead and gone to heaven. i say, miss catherine, do you think anybody'd mind? catherine [_callously_]. how'll they know? look here, sally; you go along as fast as you can, and fetch your young one. and when you've got back, perhaps i'll step out a minute, two or three doors up street, and you can answer the bell while i'm gone. now hurry into your things. i'll give you your car-fare. sally. miss catherine, you're just as good as you can be, and i'll do something to oblige you, too, sometime. [_exeunt._] [_enter_ mrs. darling _from bedroom in evening dress. takes her cousin's photo from dressing-table and holds it at arm's length._ mrs. darling. well, sir, does your charming cousin reach your standard of feminine appearance? or is she still far from that pinnacle of elegance to which she aspires? she should be perfect indeed when she is to pose before the world as the highly-favored of the distinguished mr. goodhue.... and all the time, i know perfectly well that he prefers quaker gowns, or hospital caps and aprons.... well, i'm not exactly a lily of the field, but when it comes to solomon in all his glory!... the morning papers will say so, at least. "the reverend dorel goodhue, accompanied by his cousin, mrs. darling," _and_ so forth. oh, sometimes i do grow so tired of it all! it's such a farce!... now, this won't do at all. the reverend dorel goodhue may preach to me on sunday mornings, from a properly elevated pulpit, in a proper and decorous and conventional manner, but---- just be kind enough to turn your reproachful face away, sir, and let your cousin finish her prinking. [_replaces photo face down._] bonnet, why don't you come and do my hair? [_enter_ bonnet, _slowly waving a hot curling iron._ bonnet. yes, mrs. darling. [mrs. darling _sits before mirror beautifying her finger-nails, while_ bonnet _curls a few straggling locks of hair._ mrs. d. [_diligently polishing, murmurs_]. mind what you are about. [bonnet _removes tongs and catches the lock with greater precaution._ mrs. d. [_louder, with a warning acid in her voice_]. mind what you are about! [bonnet _begins again, after a pause to make firm her nerve, catching the hair with infinite solicitude._ mrs. d. [_almost screams_]. mind what you're about! didn't i _tell_ you to be careful? you've been pulling right along at the same hair! _do_ consider that it is a human scalp, and not a _wig_--you are dealing with! bonny, you're not a bad woman, but you will wear me out. come, go on with it; it's getting late. [_she turns the photo face out once more, and after a moment, as if the sight of it made her repent, she rolls up her eyes angelically to the reflection of_ bonnet's _face in the mirror._] bonny, do you think that black moiré of mine would make over nicely for you? i am going to give it to you. no, don't thank me--it makes me look old. now, my fur shoes. [bonnet _brings the shoes and begins to struggle with them._ mrs. d. [_bracing herself against_ bonnet's _efforts_]. i suppose--i suppose i have a very bad temper! [_laughs in a sensible, natural way._] tell the truth, bonny; if every mistress had to have a certificate from her maid, you would give me a pretty bad one, wouldn't you? but i was abominably brought up. i used to slap my governesses. and i've had all sorts of illnesses; trouble, too. and i mostly don't mean anything by it. it's just nerves. poor bonny! i do treat you shamefully, don't i? bonnet [_expanding in the light of this uncommon familiarity_]. oh, ma'am, i would give you a character as would make it no difficulty in you getting a first-class situation right away; you may depend upon it, ma'am, i would. don't this shoe seem a bit tight, ma'am? mrs. d. not at all. it's a whole size larger than the old ones. if you would just be so good as to hold the shoe-horn properly. there, that is it. [_rises and stands surveying the two wraps._] which shall i wear? [bonnet _draws back for a critical view, but dares not suggest unprompted._] the blue is prettier, but the gray with ermine is more becoming. oh, bonny, decide for me quickly, like a tossed-up penny! bonnet. well, i think now i should say the blue one, ma'am. mrs. d. [_musing_]. should you? but i look less well in it. surely i would rather look pretty myself than have my dress look pretty, wouldn't i? give me the gray, and hurry. mr. goodhue will be here in a second.... bonnet, you trying creature! didn't i _tell_ you to put a hook and eye in the neck of this? didn't i _tell_ you? _where_ are your ears? _where_ are your senses? what on _earth_ do you spend your time thinking about, i should like to know, anyway? i wouldn't wear that thing as it _is_, not for--not for---- oh, i'm tired of living surrounded by fools! take it away--take it away! bring the other one.... now, button my gloves. [_looks at herself in the glass, passively letting_ bonnet _take one of her arms to button the glove. murmurs._] ouch! go softly; you pinch! [bonnet _changes her method, and pulls very gently. louder._] ouch! you pinch me! [bonnet _stops short, looks helplessly at the glove, casts up her eyes as if appealing to heaven, then tries again._] mrs. d. [_screams_]. ouch, ouch, ouch! you pinch like anything! i'm black and blue! [_tears her arm from the quaking_ bonnet, _fidgets with the button, and pulls it off._] bonnet, how many times must i tell you to sew the buttons fast on my gloves before you give them to me to put on?... no, they were not! [_pulls off the glove and throws it far across the room. a knock at the door._] man's voice [_respectfully_]. mr. goodhue is below, ma'am. mrs. d. [_humbly, like a child reminded of its promise to behave_]. get another pair, and let me go. [_tucks a final rose, or bunch of violets into the bosom of her dress, turns to leave the room, then pauses to draw back the curtains and look at the dolls. speaks gushingly._] aren't they lovely, the hundred of them? did you ever see such a sight? one prettier than the other! i almost wish i were one of the little girls, myself! bonnet. them that gets them will be made happy, surely, ma'am. i suppose it's for some christmas tree? mrs. d. they are for my cousin dorel's orphans. pick up, bonny. open the windows. mind you tell jackson to look at the furnace. i shall not be very late--not later than twelve. [_exit._] [bonnet _moves briskly about, straightening the room, with no affectation of soft-stepping. she digresses from her labors to get a black skirt from the bedroom, which she examines critically, then replaces. a knock._ man's voice [_only a shade less respectful than before_]. miss pittock is waiting below, ma'am. bonnet. very well, i'll be down directly. [_exit, and re-enter at once with a rather old-fashioned cloak and bonnet, which she dons before the glass._] i hope i haven't kept miss pittock waiting. [_looks contemptuously at her wrap._] _she_ looks quite more than the lady in her mistress's last year's cape. they say the shops is a sight to behold this year--i haven't a minute to get a look at them myself--and it do seem as if people made more to-do about christmas than they used. i wonder what kind of shops miss pittock'll fancy most. i'd rather see the show-windows in the grand bazaar first. they do have the most amazing show there. anyway, we've got plenty of time. her lady won't be home before twelve, and no more will mine. [_turns down gas, and exit._] [_enter_ catherine, _in a coat, with jet spangles and a hat with nodding plumes. turns up gas, and looks about her while drawing on a pair of tight gloves. enter_ sally _and_ tibbie _in outdoor wraps, shawls, and "comforters."_ sally. oh, miss catherine, i didn't know where you was. i thought maybe you was gone. tibbie [_hanging back_]. you didn't tell me! you didn't tell me! catherine. now you'll be sure she don't touch anything, sally. [_looks_ tibbie _over._] sally. naw! she won't hurt anything. i've told her i'd skin her if she did. catherine. are her hands clean? you'd better give them a wash, anyhow. [tibbie _drops her eyes, a little mortified._ sally. all right. i'll wash 'em. catherine. did she scrape her boots thoroughly on the mat before she came up? sally. i looked after all that, miss catherine. just you go along with an easy mind. catherine. well, i'm off. i won't be long gone. why don't you give her a piece of that cake? it's cut. but don't let her make any crumbs. here, give me your things. i'll take 'em down to the kitchen. good-by, little girl. i guess you never was in a house like this before. good-by, sal. is my hat on straight? [_exit with coats._] sally. she's particular, ain't she? tibbie. i'd just as soon wash them again, but they're clean. i thought you said she was gone off to a party, and going to be gone till real late. sally [_plumps down to contort herself in comfort_]. law! she thought it was mis' darling herself! law! law! [tibbie _laughs, too, but less heartily._] now what'll we do first? do you want the treat right off? tibbie. oh, lemme guess, first, sal, and tell me when i'm hot! is it made of sugar? sally. no, it ain't. tibbie. but you said it was a treat, didn't you, sally? sally. i did that. but ain't there treats and treats? there's goin' to the circus, for instance. that hasn't any sugar. tibbie. is it a circus, sally? is it a circus? sally. no, it ain't a circus, but it's every bit as nice. tibbie. is it freaks, sally? oh, tell me if it's freaks! it isn't? are you sure i'll like it very much? it's nothing to eat, and it's nothing i can have to keep, and it's not a circus. what color is it? you'll answer straight, won't you? sally. oh, it's every color in the world, and striped, and polka-dotted, and crinkled, and smooth. there's a hundred of it. tibbie [_rapturously_]. oh! sally [_takes her hand_]. come along now, i'm going to wash your hands in mrs. darling's basin. ain't it handsome? [_pokes the scented soap under the nose of_ tibbie, _who sniffs delightedly._] flowers on the chiny, too. [_washes_ tibbie's _hands while they talk._] did you get anything for christmas yet, tibbie? [tibbie _moves her head slowly up and down, absorbed in the process of washing._] what did you get? tibbie. a doll's flatiron an' a muslin bag of candy. i put the iron on to heat and it melted. i gave what was left to jimmy. sally. who gave them to you? tibbie. off the sunday-school tree. but there weren't no lights on it because it was daytime. sally, i know something that has a hundred---- sally. what's that? let's see if you've got it now? tibbie [_shamefacedly_]. a dollar--is a hundred cents. sally. well, and would i be bringing you so far just to show you a dollar? this is worth as much as a dollar, every individual one of them. tibbie, it's just the grandest sight you ever seen--pink and blue and yellow and striped---- tibbie [_after looking her fixedly in the face, now almost shouts_]. it's marbles! sally. aw, but you're downright stupid, tibbie! i don't mind telling you i'm disappointed. you're just a common, everyday sort of a young one, with no idear of grandness in your idears, at all! and you don't seem to keep a hold on more than one notion at a time. first it's a dollar. is that pink and blue? and next it's marbles. is marbles worth a dollar apiece? now tell me what's the grandest, prettiest thing ever you saw---- tibbie. ... angels. sally. d'you ever see any? tibbie. in the church-window, painted. sally. well, this is as handsome as a hundred angels, less than a foot tall, all in new clothes, with little hats on. tibbie. sally, i think i know, now. only it couldn't be that. there couldn't likely be a hundred of them altogether, for it isn't a store you brought me to! you didn't tell me we were going to a store. sally. no more it is. we're going to stay right here in mrs. darling's house, and no place but here. tibbie [_faintly, looking all about_]. but where is there a hundred of anything? sally. oh, this ain't it, yet! this is only like the outside entry. now, miss tibbs, what kind of scent will you have on your hands? tibbie. oh, sal! sally [_at dresser_]. shall it be violet, or roossian empress, or--what's this other?--lilass blank? or the anatomizer played over them like the garden hose? [_they unstop the bottles in turn, and draw up great, noisy, luxurious breaths._] tibbie. this, sally, this one with a double name, like a person. [sally _pours a drop in each hand, and_ tibbie _dances as she rubs them together._] why are the little scissors crooked? [_busily picks up things one after the other_]. what for is the fluting-irons? what for is the butter in the little chiny jar? what's the flour for in the silver box? oh, what's this? oh, sal, what's that? sally. it's to make you pale. it ain't fashionable to be red. [_picks up powder-puff, and gives_ tibbie, _who draws back startled and coughing, a dusty dab on each cheek, then applies it to her own. the two stand gazing in silent interest at themselves in the mirror, gradually breaking into smiles._ sally _suddenly hitches first one shoulder, then the other, and brushes her face clean_, tibbie _faithfully aping her movements. then they look at themselves again._] tibbie. but i ain't pale, anyhow. sally. law! that you ain't! tibbie. who's the gentleman, sal, in the pretty frame? sally. that's mrs.'s husband. he ain't been living some time. tibbie. oh, he ain't living. sally. now, tibbs, i'm going to get you that cake before i show you the hundred. you wait here. but don't you hurt anything, or i'll skin you sure, like i told miss catherine. and whatever you do, don't you look behind that curtain till i come back. tibbie. is the hundred there? sally. yes, it's there. [_exit._] [tibbie _looks at the curtain for a moment, then turns to examine other wonders. strokes the soft cushions, etc., with the palm of her hand, which she frequently stops to smell. gazes at the photo of the_ reverend dorel. tibbie. he looks like a real kind, good man. i'm going to ask sally if she knows him. [_sits down on the floor and strokes the fur rug. enter_ sally _with cake-box._ tibbie _chooses gravely, then speaks with her mouth full._] i never tasted any cake like this before. m-m-m-m! say, sally, this big thing's 'most as good as a dog. it's so soft i'd like to sleep on it. sally [_with feigned coldness_]. oh, all right! i don't think we'll bother any more about seeing the hundred. tibbie. i had forgotten, honest, sally. sally. eat your cake, and come along, then. tibbie [_jumping up_]. can't i take it, in my hand? sally. no, for when you see 'em, you'll drop it quick all over the floor. tibbie [_hurrying it down_]. all right. i will. sally. wait a minute. you turn your back, and i'll go and open the curtains. when i sing out, you turn around. [tibbie _stands facing audience, hands clasped tightly in impatience._ sally. ready! [tibbie _gives one bound, then stops short quite overcome._ sally [_expectantly_]. well, ma'am? [tibbie _stands gazing, unable to speak._] well, i never! don't you like 'em? what on earth did you expect, child? well, i never! well, if it don't beat all! why, when i was a young one---- why, tibbie, girl--don't you think they're _lovely_? tibbie [_whispers_]. yes. [_nodding her head slowly, then letting it hang._] sally [_understanding_]. aw, come out o' that! come, let's look at 'em one by one, taking all our time. come to sally, darling, and don't feel bad. we'll have lots of fun. [_takes_ tibbie's _hand and draws her nearer the dolls, then sits on the floor and pulls_ tibbie _down into her lap._] tibbie. i had almost guessed it, you know, when you said like angels with hats on. but i couldn't think there would be a hundred unless it was a store. what has the lady so many for? sally. bless your heart! they ain't for herself! they're for orphans in a school that a minister cousin of hers is superintendent of. she's been over a month making these clothes. every wednesday she would give a tea-party, and a lot of ladies come stitching and snipping and buzzing over the dolls' clothes the blessed afternoon. and i washed the tea things after them all! tibbie. they are for the orphans. are there a hundred orphans? sally. oh, i guess likely. tibbie. suppose, sally--suppose there were only ninety-nine, and some girl got two! sally. well, we two have got a hundred for to-night, tibbie, so let's play, and glad enough we've got our mothers. look, this is the way you must hold them to be sure and not crumple anything. [sally _slips her hand under a doll's petticoats, and they peep at the dainty underclothes._ sally _spurs on_ tibbie's _enthusiasm by the tones of her voice, making the wonder more, to fill the child's soul to intoxication._ tibbie _easily responds, fairly rocking herself to and fro with delight._] sally. my soul and body! did you ever see the like! [_sighs._] and not a pin among 'em. all pearl buttons, and silk tying-strings, and silver hooks and eyes; and, mercy on my soul! a little bit of a pocket in every dress, with its little bit of a lace pocket-handkerchief inside. d'you see that, tibbie? tibbie [_breathlessly_]. oh, sally! oh, _sal_ly! sally. come on, tibbie; let's choose the one we would choose to get if we was to get one given us. now i would like that one in red velvet. it's just so dressy, ain't it, with the gold braid sewed down in a pattern round the bottom. which would you take? tibbie. i should like the one all in white. she must be a bride; see, she has a wreath and veil and necklace. i should like her the very best. but right after that, if i could have two, i should like this other in the shade hat with the forget-me-nots wreath, and forget-me-nots dotted all over her dress. and, see! the sky-blue ribbon. if i could just have three, then i would take this one, too, with the black lace shawl over her head, fastened with roses, instead of a hat. she has such a lovely face! and after her i would choose this one in green--or this one in pink; no, this one here, sally; just look--this one in green and pink. and you--if you could have more than one, which would you choose, after the red one? sally. well, i guess i should choose this one in white. tibbie. oh, no, sally, don't you remember? that is the bride, the one i said the very first. you can have all the others, sally dear, except the bride. but let's see, perhaps there are two brides. yes!--no!--that is just a little girl in white, without a wreath. should you like her as well? i was the first to say the bride, you know. sally. law! i wouldn't have wanted her if i'd known she was a bride! i take this one, tibbie--this one with feathers in her hat. ain't she the gay girl in red and green plaid? and this purple silk one, and this red and white stripe, and this---- tibbie. wait! that's enough; sally, that makes four for you. it's my turn now. if i could have five, i should take one of the rosebud ones--no, two of them, so's to play i had twins. say, sally, what if we could choose one apiece--first you one, and then me one, till we'd chosen them all up, and got fifty apiece! sally. what if we could! wouldn't that be just grand! tell us some more you'd take. tibbie [_pointing and speaking at first slowly and meditatively, then more and more quickly_]. i'd take this darling blue girl, and this yellow one, and this cunning little spotted one, and this, and this, and this, and this, and this---- oh, sally, if it was only real, and not just let's-pretend! now it's your turn. sally [_placing her forefinger pensively against the side of her nose_]. for my fifth one, i choose her--her with the little black velvets run all through. tibbie [_promptly_]. taken already. sally. then her over there with the short puffy sleeves. tibbie. taken! sally. she taken, too? well, then, her in the pink mother hubbard, with the little knitting-bag on her arm. tibbie. taken, sally! can't you remember anything? those belong to me; i chose them long ago. these are the not taken ones over here; here, and here, and here, and here, and here, and here, and---- sally. aw, you're a great girl! [_suddenly throws her arms around_ tibbie _and casts herself back on the floor, where they tumble and roll in a frenzy of fun._] oh, tibbie, ain't we having a time of it? tibbie [_almost shouting_]. yes!--ain't we having a time of it! sally. ain't this a night? tibbie. oh, yes,--ain't it a night! [_they tickle and poke each other until almost hysterical. at last_ tibbie _disentangles herself from the panting and laughing_ sally, _and gets up._] here, sally, now stop laughing, and let's go on. it was your turn. you'd best take that one. she looks as if she might be a little girl of yours, her cheeks are so red--red as a great big cabbage! [_laughs till she nearly cries._] sally. well, it's sure none of 'em has legs to make 'em look like children of yours! [_at this_ tibbie _flings out her thin black legs with the action of a young colt, and drops to the floor, where they frolic as before. in the midst of their gale of mirth, a bell rings. they sit up, and look at each other in silent consternation._] sally [_after a pause, in a solemn whisper_]. murder! tibbie [_in her ear_]. what is it? sally. was it the front door or the back door? tibbie. i dunno, sally. [sally _picks herself up, and casts a hurried glance on the dolls and about the room, to see if things are nearly as she found them, then turns down the light. leads_ tibbie _to bedroom door._] sally [_glancing at clock_]. it ain't late. it ain't a bit later than i supposed. it can't be her! it might be mrs. bonnet, though, getting home before catherine, who's got the key. i shouldn't want her to catch you here for the whole world. look here, tibbie. you stand in here till i find out who it is, and if it's mrs. bonnet, you'll have to stay hidden till i find a good chance to come and smuggle you down. [_pushes_ tibbie _through door, and exit by other door._ tibbie _very cautiously pokes her head out and looks around._] tibbie. what's that scratching? i know there's a mouse here somewhere. go right away, mousie. there's nobody in here. go right away! sally [_without. her voice calm, and pleasant with a kind of company pleasantness_]. tibbie! it's all right. it's just a friend dropped in for a moment. you can play a little longer. turn up the light carefully. but remember what i told you. [_enter_ tibbie _at the first sound of_ sally's _voice. turns up the light, draws back the curtain in front of the dolls, and kneels before them. takes up the bride with a reverent hand, and after long contemplating her, kisses her very seriously and tenderly. then moves the dolls about to bring those she has chosen closer together._ tibbie [_meditatively_]. i can't play they are a family, there are too many all the same age and all girls. i will play they are a hundred girls in an orphan asylum--a very rich orphan asylum--and that i am the superintendent. to-morrow i'm going to give each a beautiful doll for a christmas present. this little girl's name is rosa. that one is nellie. that one is katie. that one is sue. and mary. and jennie. and ethel, and victoria, and blossom, and violet, and pansy, and goldenlocks, and cherrylips---- oh, dear, i know i can never name them all. there surely ain't enough names to go around and i'd just have to make up names for them. kirry, mirry, dirry, birry! these don't sound like anything. i wonder what they do every day in orphan asylums. they must have school and learn lessons, i guess. i'll be the teacher, now. miss snowdrop! [tibbie _assists the dolls to move, and answers for them in a squeaking little voice._] "yes, ma'am." spell knot. "n-o-t." not at all, my dear. sit down again, my dear. miss lily; stand up, miss, and see if you can do any better this morning. miss pansy, i see you putting your foot out to trip poor miss blossom. don't you do that again, child, or i shall have to stand you in the corner. why, rosy, how red your cheeks are! don't you feel well? "no, ma'am." never mind, don't cry. i must take you to the doctor's right away. come, my dear. [_goes to dresser and looks in glass._] good-morning, doctor. "good-morning, ma'am" [_in a deep voice_]; "you've got a sick child there, i see." yes, doctor, this is a young lady from the orphan asylum, and she says she's got a bad pain in her face. "yes, yes. i see, i see. well, we'll give her something to cure those red cheeks right up. just come here, miss." [tibbie, _as the doctor, powders the doll's cheeks very gently._] very well. good-by, doctor. "good-by, ma'am. if she isn't better in fifteen minutes, let me know." now, my dear, you needn't go back to school. the orphans might catch it. i'd like to rock you in my arms, but the superintendent is too busy.... oh, dear, i don't like to be a superintendent. i think i'll have you for my little girl [_draws forward a low rocker and carefully turns down light_], and get you some nice little sisters [_gathers a dozen dolls_], and then rock you all to sleep. [_settles comfortably in the chair._] it's bedtime, and you must be rocked and loved a little. now, sh! sh! sh! sh! what's that, mamie? sing to you? very well. [_sings._] rosie, what are you crying for now? you want me to rock faster? all right, i will. [_rocks faster. rosie continues to cry, and the rocking soon becomes furious. in the excitement one doll slips unnoticed to the floor._] there, that's better. now, children, do go to sleep.... mother is sleepy herself. [_rocking becomes slower and slower, and at last stops entirely._ tibbie _falls asleep.... enter_ sally.] sally. lively, tibbie! miss catherine has got back. we must be packing off home. i declare i lost sight of the time. there's just no one like a fireman to be entertaining, i do declare. mrs. bonnet won't be long coming now. [_turns up light, sees_ tibbie _rubbing her eyes, and the dolls all disarranged. blankly._] law! do you suppose we can get them to look as they did? i hope t' heaven she didn't know which went next to which. do you remember, tibbie, where they all belonged? tibbie. yes, the bride went here. the rosebuds here. the purple and gray here. i can put them all back, every one. sally [_cheerfully, again_]. no one'll ever know in the world they've been disturbed. [_draws off to get general effect. dives for the last doll, which_ tibbie _sleepily hands up from the floor._] sally [_in a ghastly whisper_]. tibbie! look at its head! [tibbie _gazes in a puzzled way. the face is crushed._ sally _groans._] oh, tibbie! now what'll we do! tibbie [_truthfully, lifting a very pale face_]. i didn't do it! i was just as careful! she was one of my daughters. i had her in my lap, rocking her to sleep with the others; she slipped off my lap--there were too many for one lap, i guess--but i didn't step on her. sure, sally,--sure as i live, i didn't step on her! sally. oh, law! you must have rocked on her. oh, tibbie, what'll i do? here, give her to me.... no, she can't never be fixed. i wonder if i can cover her up, here. [_moves the dolls about tentatively._] but what's the good? they'll count them, and there'll be the mischief of a fuss. oh, tibbie---- [_reaching the end of her good-nature_] ----why did i ever think of bringing you here? now look at all the trouble you've brought on me, when i thought you'd be so careful! and i told you and told you till i was hoarse. and here you've ruined all! [_drops into a chair before the wreck._ tibbie, _not daring to meet_ sally's _eyes, stands motionless and speechless._] i declare i don't know _what_ to do! i wish i'd never seen 'em! i wish there'd never been any christmas! oh, it's a great job, this! tibbie, you've done for me this time! [_enter_ catherine. catherine. hurry, and get off, now, sally. sally [_blurts out_]. she's broken one of them! catherine. you don't mean it! sally. yes, she has! catherine. let me see it. oh, you wicked child! [_shakes_ tibbie _vigorously by one arm._ sally, _attempting a rescue, seizes her by the other, and the poor child is jerked about unmercifully._] she's smashed its face right in! now, whoever heard of such naughtiness? [tibbie _escapes and twists about to get her back to the two._ sally. she didn't do it out of naughtiness, at all, miss catherine. she's as good a child as ever lived! [tibbie's _shoulders give a convulsive heave._] it was an accident entirely. but that's just as bad for me--i suppose i shall have to say it was me did it. catherine. and then they'll say what was i doing while the kitchen-help was poking about in the lady's chamber. no; you don't get me into no trouble, sally bean! you'd much better say how it was--how that you asked me if you just might bring a little girl to look, and i said you might, out of pure good-nature, being christmas is rightly for children, and i've a softness for them. and while we was both in the kitchen, she slipped away from us, and come here and done it before we knew. and the child will say herself that it was so. you'll be packed off, dead sure, out of this place, if you let on you meddled with them yourself. she won't have her things meddled with---- there! i hear the door now. there comes that old cat bonnet. [_enter_ mrs. bonnet, _her cheek bones and the end of her nose brilliant with the cold. she carries a paper bag, and speaks with an impediment and a breath of peppermint._ bonnet. what's the matter? what child is that? catherine. it happened this way, mrs. bonnet. i allowed sally to fetch this child up to see mrs. darling's dolls.--just for a treat, of course--never thinking sally'd be so careless as to let one of them get broken. but that's what she done. i'd just stepped out for a moment, never for a minute supposing anything like this could happen, but you just see for yourself. that doll can't be mended no way at all. and now, mrs. bonnet, what's to be done? bonnet. oh, you wicked little brat! i just want to get hold of you and shake you! [_makes a snatch at_ tibbie, _who gets beyond her clutch, and turns scared eyes on_ sally.] tibbie [_just audibly_]. i want to go home; i want to go home. bonnet [_bitterly_]. it don't seem possible that i can run out a minute just to do an errand for mrs. darling herself--to get a spool of feather-stitching silk--but things like this has to happen. catherine, i thought you at least was a responsible person, and here you has to go and---- catherine [_promptly_]. mrs. bonnet, you just let that alone! don't you try none of that with me! i went out of an errand every bit as much as you did. i went out to make sure the ice cream would be sent in good season for christmas dinner, i did. now i don't get dragged into this mess one bit more than you do! bonnet [_looking at her with a poison-green eye_]. well, mrs. darling will be here in a minute, and then we shall see what we shall see. land, ain't that woman been cross to-day, and fussy! 'tain't as if she was like other people--a little bit sensible, and could take some little few things into consideration, and remember we're all human flesh and blood. not much! she don't consider nothing, nor nobody, nor feelings, nor circumstances! she just makes things fly! things has to go her way, every time! tibbie [_pathetically, turning a trembling face to_ sally]. i want to go home! bonnet [_uglily_]. no, you shan't go home! you shall stay right here and take the blame you deserve, after spoiling the face of that handsome doll. what do you mean by it, you little brat, you little gutter-imp! sally [_with a boldness new in her relations with_ mrs. bonnet]. you let her alone, mrs. bonnet! don't you talk to her like that! anyone can see she's as sorry as sorry can be for what she's done, and all the trouble she's got us into---- [cook _appears in door._] bonnet. and what does that help, i'd like to know? the doll is broke, ain't it? and some one of us is going to catch it, however things go. you're a lucky girl, i say, if you don't lose your place. some one of us is a-going to, i can easy foretell. catherine [_firmly, with lifted chin_]. i ain't going to lose my place! here comes cook now! i suppose she wants to get into trouble, too. [_enter_ cook, _her high-colored shawl pinned on her breast with a big brooch, her bonnet-strings nearly lost in her fat chin._ cook. what's the matter? what's it all about? whose nice little girl is this? sally. i brought her here, mrs. mcgrath. she's tibbie, a neighbor's child, and i brought her---- cook. to see them beautiful dolls. of course. and one of 'em happened to get broke? [_goes to_ tibbie, _and lifts her miserable little face._] don't you feel bad one bit, darlin'! it was all an accident, and it's no good crying over spilt milk. and if mrs. darling gets mad at you, she ain't the real lady i take her for. why, i gave my clary a new doll this very evenin' and it's ready for a new head this minute. and did i go for to rare and tear about it? not a bit of it! why, bless you, she didn't go for to do it! why, what child smashes a doll a-purpose? you're a pretty set, the whole gang of you, to pitch into a child! [_tries, with_ sally, _to comfort and silence_ tibbie, _who by this time is freely weeping. exit_ bonnet, _and re-enter at once without hat and coat._] cook [_looking hard at_ mrs. bonnet]. i've a great mind to stay here myself and stand up for her, yer pack of old maids, the lot of yer! bonnet. you will oblige me, mrs. mcgrath, by doing nothing of the sort. we've no need to have a whole scene from the drama. you've no business on this floor, anyhow, and i must insist on your keeping yourself in your own quarters. cook [_mutters_]. and i'll take my own time, yer born britisher! [_putting her arm around_ tibbie.] well, tibbie dear, you can be sure of this: however bad this seems, it'll soon be over. and if mrs. darling scolds, that'll soon be over, too. it'll all be looking different to you in the morning. however things goes, you'll soon be forgetting all about it. and to-morrow is christmas day, that our own dear lord was born on, and i'll bake you a little cake and send it to you by sally. tibbie [_sobbing_]. but sally's going to be sent away. cook. so she might be, but i feel it in my little toe that she ain't going to be. sally [_bravely_]. well, if i am, i am, and there an end. but i don't see why she can't take the price of the doll out of my wages and let me stay. bonnet. i think you'll find that it ain't most particularly the cost of the doll gets you into trouble---- there she comes this minute! [_all listen in profound silence._ mrs. d. [_below_]. good-night, cousin dorel. mr. goodhue [_below_]. good-night, cousin cynthia. sleep well. mrs. d. you, too. pleasant dreams. good-night. [_sound of door closing._] [_enter_ mrs. darling. _stands a moment at door, regarding the assemblage with a sort of absent-minded astonishment._ mrs. d. what is it? has anything happened? what is everybody doing up here? whose little girl is this sitting up so late? they used to tell me i should never grow, my dear, if i sat up late---- bonnet. this is what it is, ma'am. i took the liberty of stepping out for a few moments, it being christmas eve and my work all done, knowing you wouldn't be needing me till late. and sally here took it upon herself to bring a child--how she could presume so, i'm sure _i_ don't understand, ma'am. she might have known aforehand something would be broken. and sure enough--when i come in---- mrs. d. oh, cut it short! what you have to tell is that the child there has broken one of the dolls, isn't it? bonnet [_mutters_]. that's it, ma'am. mrs. d. and you've kept her here when she ought to have been in bed these hours, to bear the first burst of my displeasure---- [mrs. darling _says so much in a hard voice, with an appearance of cold anger; here her voice suddenly dies, and she bursts out crying like a vexed, injured child._] i declare it's too bad! [_she sobs, reckless of making a spectacle of herself, while all look on in consternation._] i declare it's too bad! it's no use! it doesn't matter _what_ i do--it's always the same! it's _always_ taken for granted that i will conduct myself like a beast. who can wonder, after that, if i do? here i find them, pale as sheets, the five of them shaking in their boots, because a forlorn little child has broken a miserable doll. and _what_ is it supposed i shall do about it? didn't i dress the hundred of them for children, and little poor children, too? and i must have known they would get broken, of course. _why_ did i dress them? _what_ did i spend months dressing them for? solely for _show_, they think,--not for any charity, any kindness, any love of children, or anything in the _world_ but to make an effect on an occasion--to make myself a merit with the parson, perhaps! [_her crying seems to become less of anger and nervousness, and more of sorrow._] oh, it is too bad! one would imagine i never said a decent thing or did a kind act to anyone. and, heaven knows it's not for lack of trying to change. but no one sees the difference! i am treated like a vixen and a terror. and the people about me hate and fear and deceive me! a proof of it to-night. oh, the _lesson_! oh, i wasn't _meant_ for this! i wasn't meant for it! when i think of last sunday's sermon and how straight to my heart it went. oh, i am a fool to cry! [_dries her eyes, and holds out her hand to_ tibbie.] come here to me, dear child. what is your name? what? a little louder! what did you say? tibbie! oh, what a nice, funny name! _you_ didn't think i was going to scold you, did you, dear? of _course_ not! it was an accident; i understand all about it. i used to break my dolls' heads frequently, i remember very well. [_puts her arm about_ tibbie _and tries to make her head easy on her shoulder._ tibbie, _however, cannot relax, and rests uncomfortably against her._] let us see, dear, now, what we can do to make us both feel happier. i dressed all those dolls for little children i am not acquainted with at all. which of them would you like the very best? which should you like for your very own? [tibbie _cannot move nor speak, but her eyes travel towards the dolls._ sally [_comes beamingly to_ tibbie's _aid_]. the bride, tibbie, the bride! mrs. d. the bride? which one is that? that one? of course! [_reaches for it, and_ sally _hands it to her._] there, my dear. [tibbie _takes the doll loosely, without breath of thanks._ mrs. d. _reviews the dolls, and_ tibbie's _hand is stretched involuntarily towards the broken one._] of course, of course, you would want that poor dolly to nurse back to health. now, dear, isn't there _one more_ you would like? [tibbie's _confusion overwhelms her._] i'll choose one for you, and you shall call her cynthia, after me. how would you like that? suppose we say this one with the forget-me-nots? she looks a little like me, doesn't she, with her hair parted in the middle? her dress is made of a piece of one of my own, and that blue is my favorite color. [_rising._] there, tibbie, now you have two whole dollies, and part of another. you must run right home to bed. a merry christmas to you, dear child. i am very happy to have made your acquaintance. tibbie [_shyly, but heartily_]. i think you are good--_good_. and, please,--i'd like--if you wouldn't mind--i'd like to kiss you! [mrs. darling _bends suddenly, and catches the child in her arms._ curtain notes on costume and presentation mrs. darling. evening dress. bonnet and catherine wear black, with white maid's apron, collar, and cuffs. outdoor costume as indicated. mrs. mcgrath. shawl and bonnet with no attempt at prevailing styles. stout, rosy, motherly, and comfortable. sally. pretty and wholesome-looking. appears at first in a limp blue kitchen-apron, later in her outdoor coat and hat, neat, but cheap-looking. tibbie. old dress, very neat and clean, but faded, and with an outgrown, hand-me-down appearance. she is a thin and half-fed little tenement-house child, to whom the luxury of mrs. darling's house is an undreamed-of fairy-land. this part was played by a little girl of nine, who delighted in learning and acting it. a bright and appreciative child can do it without undue effort, although it is, of course, the important rôle of the play. the dolls. the number of dolls need not be over fifteen or twenty, if so arranged as to suggest more tiers hidden from view at the back of the couch. they should be as nearly of one size as is practicable, though uniformity goes no further. the broken one should be broken first, and tibbie must slip it to the floor unnoticed before she sits down to rock the others. general notes fireplace. if scenery is not available, the fireplace used in this play, and in several others, can easily be built up from packing-boxes covered with cambric (dull side out), the bricks or tiles marked in black paint, or even with ink. a valuable and effective stage-property, used when "tom's plan" was first given, and in many subsequent plays, was an old-fashioned wooden mantel, obtained through a carpenter who was tearing down an old house. this may be a suggestion for other amateurs. a small screen can be covered with cambric, and painted to represent the back of the fireplace, an opening being left at one side, through which santa claus, in "tom's plan," "the christmas brownie," and "their christmas party," makes his entrance. andirons, with logs and a red electric bulb, will make a very pretty and effective fire. in "their christmas party," the poor children hide in the fireplace, and the "christmas brownie" goes in and out several times. santa claus. red or brown coat, trimmed with ermine (cotton, or, if practicable, some real fur); high boots; cap to match coat, with fur brim. he wears a string of sleigh bells over his shoulder, and carries a pack full of small toys for distribution. white hair, mustache, and long white beard. in these plays, in which santa claus has often an important part, do not on any account allow him to wear a mask. the hair, mustache, and beard, with a good rosy make-up, are sufficient disguise for him, and in those cases where there are little children in the cast whose literal belief in santa claus must not be disturbed, he is not indispensable at rehearsals. partly because he should not be recognized, an adult player is always indicated for this part, rather than an older boy, who is apt to be in more intimate touch with the children. christmas tree. if the play is to serve as introduction to a christmas tree, the tree should be placed as near the stage as possible. when the play is over, the lighted tree is unveiled, and the children who have taken part distribute the presents under the leadership of santa claus. or, if found more practicable, the tree may be placed in another room, and santa claus may invite the children of the play and the audience to go with him in search of it. an appropriate tree song may be sung by the whole audience. reference to such songs may be found on the following page. suggestions for carols songs and games for little ones. gertrude walker and harriet s. jenks. oliver ditson company, boston. contains a number of useful songs and carols, among which the following may be specially mentioned: "oh, ring, glad bells!" (p. .) "the first christmas." (p. .) good for little children. "noël, noël, the christ is born!" (p. .) excellent processional. "a wonderful tree." (p. .) tree song. songs for little children. part i. eleanor smith. milton bradley co., springfield, mass. "in another land and time." (p. .) "waken, little children." (p. .) very simple. good for small children. part ii of the same contains santa claus and jack frost songs. the new hosanna. new-church board of publication, west th street, n.y. has a good tree song: "the christmas bells in many a clime." (p. .) for little children: "can there be a sweeter story?" (p. .) there are also a number of old english carols, among them: "the first nowell." (p. .) "come, ye lofty, come, ye lowly." (p. .) "from far away we come to you." (p. .) also several of the more familiar christmas hymns to be found in most church hymnals. for old music, see the following: christmas carols, new and old. novello & company. twelve old carols, english and foreign. novello & company. folk songs, and other songs for children. oliver ditson company, boston. the first and last of these both contain "good king wenceslas," which is included in other collections as well. martin luther's christmas hymn for his own children, which is very good for small children, beginning "away in a manger," is in dainty songs for little lads and lasses. john church company, cincinnati.