HUMAN WISPS 
 
 [Six One-act Plays] 
 
 ANNA WObFROM
 
 I 
 
 (LIBRARY | 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORHIA 
 SAN DIEGO J
 
 BOO K.SEU.ERSJ. STATIONERS 
 ?6 & 28TREMONT ST.& 
 30COUR T SQ..BOSTON.
 
 HUMAN WISPS 
 
 SIX ONE-ACT PLAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA WOLFROM 
 
 Author of "Albion and Rosamond 
 
 and The Living Voice," etc. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 
 1917
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917 
 SHERMAN, FRENCH 6* COMPANY
 
 TO 
 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 ANN RANKIN WOLFROM
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE 3 
 
 OLD SHOES 23 
 
 A WILL-O -WISP 43 
 
 RIPENING WHEAT 67 
 
 THE NEW RACE 85 
 
 DANNY . 109
 
 THE MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE 
 
 A ONE-ACT PLAY
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 MRS. ALJNSKY, a widow 
 
 LIPA, her daughter 
 
 Her other children 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS, an adjuster of claims 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN, a merchant
 
 Withm the four walls of a little shack on the 
 south shore of the muddy Missouri lived a Jewish 
 family, consisting of the father, mother and seven 
 children. The one room is cheaply furnished, with 
 a pretence of some modern pieces. The bed is 
 placed to tlw center back of the room, between a 
 door and window, instead of in its usual corner. 
 The dresser is at the extreme left, a library table 
 is m the center front, and a few chairs scattered 
 about complete the furnishings. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY has just received the body of her 
 husband, who has been killed in one of the large 
 packing houses. His remains have been placed 
 on a cot in a corner to the right, in front of a 
 window. The awe-stricken wife has placed some 
 chairs before the body and draped a shawl over 
 the backs of them, so that the children will not 
 see the horror of death. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [sitting on a chair with her head 
 buried in her hands]. Oh, life, ees dees vat you 
 have give me have give me ? 
 
 3
 
 4 i^uman 
 
 LIPA. [A girl of sixteen, with a, shawl thrown 
 over her head, comes in] What is it, mother? 
 What is it? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Vy has life been joking with me 
 alvays alvays I must suffer [pounds her 
 breast as if in great agony] 
 
 LIPA. Why did the policeman send me home 
 from work? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [pointing to the corner]. He 
 ees dere your poor fater. 
 
 LIPA [staring at the corner, her jaw drops, as 
 she pulls a few strands of hair loose] . What ! is 
 father dead? 
 
 MRS. AUNSKY. Did you eber see your fater 
 sleeping in the daytime? 
 
 LIPA [too frightened to go and see]. 
 What s the matter? What how oh, mother ! 
 [Throws herself on the ftoor at her mother s feet] 
 
 MRS. AUNSKY. Dey keel him the great, big 
 machines over dere. My poor Ivan [begins to 
 
 LIPA. What are we going to do; how can we 
 live? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Live! [In anger] Vy you 
 talk to live? It takes money to die in dees coun 
 try.
 
 Cfje Carriage Certificate 5 
 
 LIPA. Yes, mother, but we must live; the chil 
 dren must go on living. 
 
 MRS. AUNSKY [with thoughts far away]. 
 Live ? Live, my Gott, ven did I ever live ! 
 
 LIPA [with a soothing voice]. Always, mother, 
 you and father. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, my Lipa, alvays dat 
 ees so. I forget sometimes. I be happy in him, 
 in my cheeldren. If I make you happy as a leetle 
 child then I live. I say bad things sometimes 
 ven I get mad, but, Lipa, you vill be a mother 
 some day den you vill understand [strokes 
 Lipa s hair tenderly]. 
 
 LIPA. The boss raised my pay this morning. 
 I ll get five dollars a week now. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Dat ees so leetle to feed so 
 many on. If ve could only live without eating. 
 Ach [drops her arms down in hopeless despair], 
 life ees hard, life ees hard. 
 
 LIPA. Don t say that, mother. [Rising, she 
 goes over to look at her father] In Russia it 
 would Jbe harder still ; what could so many of us 
 do there? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. But the neighbors, dey come; 
 dey would make the box, and the priest he 
 bring a long robe, the blessed robe, and the master
 
 Oilman 
 
 give us a piece of ground. Here here ve have 
 noting. 
 
 LIPA [in the center of the room., with hope in 
 her face]. Here we have so much joy and free 
 dom. We have a chance to live our own lives, just 
 what we want them to be, without asking the land 
 lord what he wants us to be. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [the little ones come trooping in, 
 all stair steps, four boys and two girls, having 
 been sent home from, school]. Here dey come 
 all, all of dem. 
 
 OLDEST BOY. Say, ma, big policeman come to 
 school. He say go home quick. 
 
 NEXT YOUNGEST. Are they going to send us 
 back to Russia, ma? I don t want to go back 
 there. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Ach, my cheeldren, vy you 
 come here like dees? 
 
 LITTLE GIRL. What you think, ma ; I make big 
 face at that policeman what won t let me go to 
 school. 
 
 LIPA [trying to assume her mother s burden}. 
 Come with me, children. I ll tell you all about it. 
 Let s go into the shed. [Leads them through the 
 door into a shed kitchen] 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [pitifully ]. My leetle ones
 
 CJje Damage Certificate 7 
 
 my leetle ones. [Goes up cautiously to the dead 
 body] 
 
 OLDEST BOY [breaking in]. Where is he, where 
 is he, mother? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Fater? 
 
 OLDEST BOY. What have they done with him? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Here he ees, son. Your fater 
 [grabs Ms head in her hands], your fater ees no 
 more. 
 
 OLDEST BOY. Lipa say the machines grind him 
 up. Grind him [shakes his little, stiff hands with 
 frenzy ] - 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, my boy. Dere [points to 
 the body behind the chairs] 
 
 OLDEST BOY [looks in bewilderment, as if try 
 ing to make out what it all meows], I hope I live, 
 mother, to break those machines. Maybe now. 
 Maybe I can stop those big things that kill like 
 guns. [He grabs his hat and rushes out. MRS. 
 ALINSKY stands terrified as he goes through the 
 door, leaving it open] 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. No, no, you cannot do dat, my 
 boy. Dose big machines dey make for life, dey 
 make for death [laughs aloud for a moment, then 
 stops as if the sound of her laughter calls some 
 thought hidden away, back in the years gone by.
 
 8 l^uman 
 
 A knock at the door arouses her; she stands for a 
 moment looking] 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS [a young lawyer, a university 
 graduate of recent date, getting no response to 
 his knock, steps in]. Oh, I thought no one was 
 here. I am looking for Mrs. Alinsky. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, I be Mrs. Alinsky. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. Your husband was killed in 
 the packing house this morning? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY.. Yes, yes, dat was him. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS [kindly]. I am the adjuster 
 of claims. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Oh, and vat ees dat? 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. The packing house company 
 has sent me to make a settlement [seeing that she 
 does not understand], with money to pay his 
 funeral expenses, and 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. You pay to bury him. [After 
 a pause] I see. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. Yes, that is it. We want to 
 do the fair thing. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [brightening up]. Yes, that ees 
 good for em. I have so many leetle ones, I know 
 not vat to do and ve no save very much with so 
 many, many cheeldren.
 
 C&e Carriage Certificate 9 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. No, that is just it. Now AVG 
 give you one hundred twenty-five dollars for his 
 funeral expenses, and the same amount to cover 
 his loss. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, I lose him. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. And for that we are going 
 to pay you one hundred twenty-five dollars. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Dat is so good von you. 
 [Heaves a sigh of relief; then calls in a cheerful 
 voice] Lipa, Lipa ! 
 
 LIPA [entering from the kitchen]. Yes, 
 mother ? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [in excitement]. Vat you tink? 
 The factory, he sent a man to bury the fater and 
 vill pay for it all every bit of it. 
 
 LIPA [looking at the young lawyer m surprise]. 
 Oh, sir, that is very kind ; we need it so very much. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. The house always makes a 
 settlement [with importance], and of course we 
 do it in time so you will not be embarrassed as to 
 meeting the funeral expenses. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [with tenderness]. Oh, God, He 
 be goot after all; dees morning I almost cursed 
 Him in my heart. He take [pointing to the bed] 
 my poor Ivan away. [Commences to cry]
 
 10 
 
 LIPA [consoling her mother]. Now, now, 
 mother, you must not do that before this man. 
 He won t help you if you do not stop. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [wiping her eyes]. Yes, yes, 
 Lipa? I be goot. I stop. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. Now, Mrs. Alinsky, will you 
 let me have your marriage certificate? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Vat is that? 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. A piece of paper with your 
 names 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Oh, you want a piece of paper. 
 [Turning to Lipa] Lipa, get the man a piece of 
 paper. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. No, not that. The paper 
 you got when you were married, with your names, 
 the date of your birth and marriage. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [bewildered]. Names, birth, 
 marriage? 
 
 LIPA. That is called a marriage certificate, 
 mother. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [with no concern], Ve no get 
 married. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. You must have something to 
 show that you are his lawful wife. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. I m hees wife all right, but I 
 no get married. You see back in Russia it takes
 
 Cfje Carriage Certificate 11 
 
 so much money to take to the priest that ve no 
 have it, and ve have no house to live in so ve just 
 work on together just the same. Ve work on 
 big land for a rich, rich man and when Lipa, she 
 come, ve say she is the vat you call it? [looking 
 hopelessly for the word] 
 
 LIPA [coming to her aid]. The marriage cer 
 tificate. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [continuing]. Yes, dat ees it. 
 Dat marriage certificate [a short sound on the a], 
 and den ven ve have all dees leetle cheeldren ve 
 have lots of marriage papers. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. Yes, Mrs. Alinsky, I do not 
 doubt your word, but the house does not pay com 
 pensation only to those duly married. Otherwise, 
 in this country there would arise so much trouble. 
 We recognize only one marriage and that by cer 
 tificate. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [infuriated]. Vat you say, you 
 say me no married? 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. That is so according to 
 the laws of the church and state. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. But to Gott, be I not married? 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. I have no opinion to express 
 on that, madam. I can only carry out my in 
 structions.
 
 Ouman 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Lipa, vat ees dat, dem instruc 
 tions ? 
 
 LIPA. He can do but what the big men at the 
 packing house tell him to do. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Veil, dey tell you to come here, 
 pay me money to bury my husband, ees dat not so? 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. Yes, if you are his wife ; but 
 you are not his wife. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [with emotion]. Not hees wife? 
 My Gott, vat you mean? Ven I bear him all dees 
 cheeldren, vash for em, cook for em, pick up 
 coal to keep em warm you say I am not hees 
 wife. Some vomen, vat have no cheeldren, are dey 
 wives just because dey have marriage cer [forget 
 ting the word] paper? 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS. According to the laws of the 
 church and state, madam. That is all I can say. 
 I am sorry that I cannot do anything at all for 
 you. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [throwing her arms about LIPA]. 
 Ach, my child, you see now vat it ees to live. Dere 
 [pointmg to the couch of death], dey keel him, 
 he can no help me, but I must go on and live and 
 help you to live just the same and nobody 
 cares. 
 
 LIPA [looking rather embarrassed for a mo-
 
 C&e Carriage Certificate is 
 
 ment, first at MR. HUTCHENS, then at her 
 mother]. Yes, mother, we care for you; we want 
 you and we will help you [hugs her mother more 
 closely] 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS [coldly]. We have hundreds 
 of just such cases as this to handle every day. 
 We live in a world of chance. 
 
 LIPA [holding her mother, who is still sobbmg], 
 That is a poor excuse; chance will not give back 
 to us what your machines have taken from us, or 
 change the circumstances of age and conditions in 
 which my parents were brought up. 
 
 MR. HUTCHENS [avoiding an answer]. Good 
 day, ladies. I am sorry I cannot help you. 
 [Goes out of the door] 
 
 LIPA. He is gone now, mother. We must help 
 ourselves. [Goes over and shuts the door] 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [standing dejectedly in the mid 
 dle of the room. After a pause]. Help our 
 selves, mit vat? 
 
 LIPA. We must find a way, mother. [Hope 
 fully] In this wonderful America there are big 
 things to do, and I am going to do them I must 
 do them. [A knock is heard at the door] 
 
 MRS. AX.INSKY. Ach, maybe my boy ; dey bring 
 him home, too.
 
 14 l^uman 
 
 LIPA [peeping through a piece of lace curtain 
 hanging over the glass in the door} . It s the dol- 
 lar-a-week man, the furniture man. 
 
 MRS. ALJNSKY [as if hit another great blow]. 
 I canno see him. It vill keel me to tell him I 
 have no money. I must save it for food. 
 
 LIPA. It won t hurt to tell him the truth. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [hopelessly]. Yes, the truth; 
 but the truth vill not bury your fater. [Loud 
 knocking is heard again] 
 
 LIPA. But he has always been kind to us, 
 mother? Do you remember how much he threw 
 off that time father was sick and couldn t work? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, yes, I tell him. [Goes to 
 the door and opens it] 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. [A Jew, tall and slender, 
 bearing all tJie traces of the education and refine 
 ment of his race, enters. His features are regu 
 lar, showing great warmth of feeling for his fel 
 low man, yet one that would not be mistaken for 
 a son of his race] Good morning, Mrs. Alin- 
 sky. I thought that you were not in at first, but 
 then 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, yes, Mr. Waldstein, I be 
 in, but I have great trouble dees morning, and I 
 could no come to the door.
 
 C&e Carriage Certificate 15 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. More trouble, what is it 
 now? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. My husband, he get keeled dees 
 morning, and we, me and Lipa, don t know vat to 
 do. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN [with feeling] . You poor peo 
 ple do have more real sorrow. This is very sad 
 indeed. 
 
 LIPA. Father was killed at the packing house 
 by the machinery, and of course one cannot pre 
 vent accidents. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. But they should have their 
 machinery guarded so as to prevent accidents. 
 So much useless legislation going on that never 
 results in anything but disagreement. 
 
 LIPA. But father oiled the machinery he 
 couldn t always go in guarded places. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. Yes, but they will settle for 
 it. You will receive a benefit ; they will make 
 things right. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, they send a man dees 
 morning. He come and he go away again. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. Without making a settle 
 ment ? 
 
 LIPA. Mother forgot to get a certificate when 
 she was married.
 
 16 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. You see he wanted a marriage 
 certificate, and I no have one. You know, Mr. 
 Waldstein, in Russia ve be so poor ve just work 
 for the big landlord like hees own cheeldren, Ivan 
 and me. Our parents, some die and some runned 
 away to America, ve never hear, so Ivan and me 
 just live there until ve get big. Ve have no 
 money to take to the priest, and when Lipa, she 
 come, the big landman he be glad and give us a 
 leetle shack and ve love one another so much. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. And the adjuster refused to 
 give you your compensation just because you 
 couldn t produce a marriage certificate? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. He be sorry he say, but the 
 church and state. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. Oh, yes, the church and 
 state ! That is just the reason my father was 
 expelled from the professorship in a university of 
 Germany and exiled it was for the church and 
 state, too. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Lipa, ven you get big don t 
 you go near the church and state business. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN [a smile passing over his face, 
 iKiih a mingled look of mirth and sadness]. Ah, 
 but, Lipa, neither is wrong in itself. Like the
 
 Cfte Damage Certificate 17 
 
 rest of us, the leaders haven t reached the height 
 of perfect understanding as yet, and cannot until 
 the understanding of the masses is cleared. 
 
 MRS. ALJNSKY. Dat ees so. The man he no 
 understand, but, Mr. Waldstein, life vas never 
 been very goot to us poor people. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. Now I am going to help you ; 
 your debt on your furniture is cancelled. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Ah, Mr. Waldstein, you be 
 goot, be goot! 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. We are a great family, and 
 must help one another. 
 
 LJPA. I will help too, Mr. Waldstein. I earn 
 five dollars a week now. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Maybe I can get work, too. 
 You vill help me to get work so I can feed my 
 leetle ones, Mr. Waldstein? 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. No, Mrs. Alinsky, I will not 
 help you to find work. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. No? Vy? 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. You will do better if you 
 stay at home and take care of these children. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. I take care of dem all right 
 [with a nod of her head] 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. Keep them off the streets,
 
 is i^uman 
 
 and teach them that poverty in youth is the great 
 est training of human mettle. These hard knocks 
 won t hurt them as long as their moral side is 
 cultivated toward the ideal a good ideal. 
 When they get old enough, the organized society 
 of Jews will find them a place to work, so do not 
 worry about the future, Mrs. Alinsky. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. But I must find something for 
 dem to eat everyday. 
 
 OLDEST BOY [running in, breathless]. Mother 
 mother I get a job in the packing house. I 
 drive the sheep. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Vat, you, my leetle boy ? You 
 can no work ; the big mans no let you. 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN [drawing a check book out of 
 his pocket, begin* to write, then pauses to look at 
 tlie fro?/] . Young America, all right ! 
 
 OLDEST BOY. I tell you I will work. I 
 must 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN. If you come to the office of 
 our society, Mrs. Alinsky, once a week we will 
 give you an allowance to maintain you until the 
 older ones are able to support sufficiently the rest 
 of the family. Until then, my little man 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [wholly transformed and for 
 getting her sorrow, she holds the boy by his head
 
 C&e Carriage Certificate 19 
 
 close to her to silence him]. Vat dey call Him, 
 dat one vat saves the mans? 
 
 LIPA. You mean Christ? 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Yes, dat ees Him. Dat goot 
 man die out of the hearts of the gentiles long ago, 
 but with the Jew 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN [interrupting her]. We find 
 good men in every creed, my dear woman. 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. No, no dat ees not so. Dat 
 Christ, He jump right back into the heart of a 
 Jew. 
 
 OLDEST BOY [pulling away]. I am going to 
 work. I am going to go to work 
 I tell you [he rushes out] 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY. Lipa, can you no stop that 
 boy? [LIPA follows him to the door, wondering} 
 
 MR. WALDSTEIN [handing her a check to cover 
 the funeral expenses of her husband] . Good-bye, 
 Mrs. Alinsky. [To Lipa} Good-bye, Lipa. 
 You must help your mother [extending his 
 hand] ; life is more serious than death, and there 
 are six more little ones that you are, in a way, 
 responsible for. [He goes out] 
 
 LIPA. Good-bye, Mr. Waldstein. [Closes the 
 door after him] 
 
 MRS. ALINSKY [looking at LIPA, then at the
 
 20 l^uman 
 
 check, she pauses for a moment and tries to read] . 
 " M R S. Mrs. A A linsky." Lipa, 
 what ees dees? Ees dees my marriage cer tif, 
 certif, certificate? 
 
 CURTAIN
 
 OLD SHOES 
 
 A ONE-ACT PLAY
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 SLENDER SHOES 
 HIGH HEELS 
 CHUBBY TOE 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS 
 MISFITS 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS
 
 The scene is laid in an old-time restaurant in 
 the north end of the town, which, from its location, 
 bears proof itself that the customers are not of 
 the elite. When the proprietor was a boy lie 
 having inherited the restaurant from his father 
 the north end of the town boasted of the smart 
 set, who were accustomed to promenade along the 
 edge of the great clay banks that overlooked the 
 great Missouri River. Here were built fine, old 
 southern homes, majestic in appearance as well as 
 in situation, from which both beauty and genius 
 have gone forth to make Washington take notice 
 and marvel at the products of the West. But 
 that was a long time ago (only forty years) ; the 
 smart set has m<oved out south, and Italians, 
 swarms of them, now live in the old colonial homes, 
 and the son of the once famous restaurant keeper 
 has changed the menu from chestnut stuffed 
 turkey to " pork chops and." 
 
 The wearers of these old shoes are the son$ and 
 daughters of the once smart set, but, owing to lack 
 of will or gray matter that goes to make up intel 
 ligence, or the want of push to make success, or 
 
 23
 
 2Uisp0 
 
 tJie over abundance of taste for the things that 
 make life sing with pep once in a icliile, they did 
 not move with their brothers and sisters out south 
 or east, or west, as the selected district of your 
 town may be called. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS [stretching himself as if half 
 asleep, he readies for a bucket and mop from a 
 small inner closet~\. Gee! this is hard luck, this 
 here business of getting broke and down on your 
 uppers. I guess that farm would look pretty 
 good to me now, but [holding his thumbs under 
 his arms] I wouldn t let dad know it for the 
 world. [Goes over behind the long counter to a 
 faucet and fills bucket] 
 
 MISFITS [a little slender, trick of a girl enters. 
 She is just a chip of the great human wave in over 
 crowded cities that has, at an early age, to find a 
 place for herself or starve. She is all sunshine 
 as she opens the door, for, never having known 
 aught but poverty, this place as dishwasher seems 
 as a god-send to her]. Good morning, Sleepy 
 Slippers. Old sleepy head, now ain t you? It s 
 me that s been up since the first streak of daylight. 
 Didn t I have all them kids to get breakfast for, 
 and ma herself to pack off to work?
 
 DID ^)j)oe0 25 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. It is just good to see you, 
 little one. 
 
 MISFITS. Don t you be callin me little one. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. You know you don t belong 
 in an old joint like this, where only the crumbs 
 of life come. Why don t you get a job in a nice 
 place? [Seeing the sad look on MISFITS* face] 
 Say, I didn t mean it ; I m glad you are here 
 you stay here, won t you, little Misfits ? 
 
 MISFITS. I should say I would stay. Gettin 
 my three meals a day, ain t I? And say, washin* 
 dishes is lots of fun [hanging up her little faded 
 hat and jacket, three sizes too large for her] and 
 then, Sleepy Slippers, it s fun being here you. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. I don t see where you gets 
 that dope. I don t see any fun washing floors, 
 washing tables and washing dish rags oh, gee, 
 them pigs of pa s would look mighty good to 
 me! . 
 
 MISFITS. Say, Sleepy Slippers, was you 
 brought up on a farm where the flowers bloom and 
 the birds sing and 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. No, none of them things 
 down yonder; just big fields of corn and wheat 
 that always need a plowing, and whoops of cows 
 to milk every night and morning. If wishes came
 
 26 I^uman 
 
 true, all the cows in the world would have gone 
 dry long ago. 
 
 MISFITS. But don t you say that [slipping 
 over to him, and pulling lier Hi-fit ting blouse into 
 better shape] ; what would the little folks do, and 
 the sick uns, and them what can t eat meat? 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS [grabbing her by the shoul 
 ders]. Little girl, you know you got a heart in 
 your waste paper basket that would do honor to 
 a philanthropy man who preaches against the 
 lights and music of the streets. 
 
 MISFITS [laughing]. It hain t the lights and 
 the music that makes a girl go bad ; it s the things 
 she hain t got at home what the lights and the 
 music help her to forget. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. Beat it, Misfits, here comes 
 a customer. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES [wearing a long, narrow shoe 
 that does not always fit, but tlie character of this 
 lost individual is soon carved into the leather, out 
 lining his soul. As he enters, slamming the door, 
 he sees that he is blocked by the morning wash-up. 
 He rubs his hands and calls to SLEEPY SLIPPERS, 
 who is now trying to blow fire into the gas by 
 cursing it]. Give me a cup of coffee, Sleepy. 
 Make it hot ; dope it up a bit with ginger.
 
 27 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. Go along; you bloats done 
 took all the ginger what s to be had in town. 
 Been buying it upon a margin, too. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Put pepper in it, then. 
 [Seeing MISFITS, who enters through a rear door, 
 carrying a stack of plates] Hello, little Misfits ! 
 What are you doing here? 
 
 MISFITS [wearing a lace shoe of one color and 
 length, and a button shoe of another]. Well, I m 
 not here a-sponging off of Sleepy Slippers for my 
 breakfast. I se workin for my board, I is. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Since when? 
 
 MISFITS. I m earnin a respectable livin , I is. 
 [Sets her plates down on a long shelf behind the 
 counter] I ain t got no lawyer brother to fill my 
 stomach with gin phizes I got to work. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. For yours? 
 
 MISFITS. No, for what pa gets. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. [Though he has been out all 
 night he is trim and neat, but, seeing a thread on 
 his coat, he brushes it off, and deftly crosses over 
 the wet ftoor to a table by the wall] Loan me a 
 dime, will you, kid? 
 
 MISFITS. What s the joke? Is brother out 
 of town? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Guess so. Something s
 
 28 
 
 wrong. I went out there last night to bum my 
 supper, and his wife threw the dish water in my 
 face. 
 
 MISFITS. She s a Kelly all right. What did 
 you do? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Me, humph! I just walked 
 around the corner to another mansion, old Red 
 Top Boots , and goes up like a gentleman and calls 
 for him. But he wasn t there either. 
 
 MISFITS. Wasn t there [sympathetically]? 
 And then what? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Well, you know, Red Top 
 
 Boots and I were boys together, and his wife, Miss 
 
 Toe Slipper, was a little neighbor girl. I loved 
 
 the little neighbor girl, but Red Top never knew it 
 
 he married her. 
 
 MISFITS. Wasn t that too bad? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. A lucky thing for her. 
 Well, when she heard my voice, she came right out 
 and invited me in, but I was in no condition to 
 make an impression, so I hesitated. My hesita 
 tion brought a piece of gold quickly to the light. 
 
 MISFITS. Gee, what a find ! 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Well, you don t know how 
 I wanted to bring it down to the boys, and give 
 them a good old time.
 
 DID >&oe0 29 
 
 MISFITS [disappointed]. And you didn t? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. No, it would have been dif 
 ferent if it had been Red Top Boots, because he 
 understands, but from her no; I just thanked 
 her all the same. 
 
 MISFITS. You old piker. Catch me refusin 
 gold them old rich dames is thro win to the birds. 
 Now you are a-beggin me for a drop go along 
 [stumps out angrily] 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS [gazing m through the 
 glass m the door to ascertain the humor of the 
 keepers and his chances for a breakfast, he sees 
 SLENDER SHOES and takes courage. Crossing 
 over to the table, he greets him like an old, old 
 friend. He is fat, short, with his head sunk into 
 his neck, and even though his face shows a re 
 maining trace of youth, his blotchy skin denotes 
 dissipation]. Well, if here isn t old Slender 
 Shoes ; glad to meet you. Spose you are just 
 going to work, eh? Now what s the name of the 
 firm that employs you Malt, Gin and Co, or 
 Coke, Dope and Son? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. I am in the embalming busi 
 ness just now. Have rediscovered the effects of 
 myrrh of the old Egyptians, and I can put a lining 
 in your stomach that will resist carbolic acid.
 
 30 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. What a fortune you 
 will make; better than an oil well in Oklahoma. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. The trouble is my victims 
 have no large sums of money. Desire is cheaper, 
 so they satisfy that. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE [slips in quietly and surveys the 
 interior; seeing the two old friends, she comes 
 waddling over to their table. Her foot is short 
 and fat, and the pressure of the body with the 
 thinness of the leather has made her foot look 
 much like a horse s hoof. As she sits down a kind 
 smile passes over the countenance of SLENDER 
 SHOES, but one of annoyance over that of DOWN 
 AT THE HEELS]. You old skunk [addressing 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS], you don t have to pay for 
 my breakfast I ve got a dollar of my own. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. You re lucky. Where 
 did you make the sneak? You can pay for my 
 sinkers, too. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE [taking out a powder puff and 
 small glass, she dashes a bit of powder on her 
 nose]. I have paid for too many of yours al 
 ready. I m through doing charity work, and I 
 am going to start a bank account with my own 
 surplus. 
 
 MISFITS [limping over to the table]. Well, if
 
 SOlti ^!joe0 si 
 
 here ain t de bunch. Whose funeral is it today? 
 I never sees you here dis hour in the mornin cept- 
 in when yous been to a wake. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Rotten business, Misfits. 
 Worse than a funeral, for then we gets some old 
 clothing to wear or sell [sizing up the cash in her 
 pocket fcooAr] Wouldn t that get your goat a 
 nickel and a penny? 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Do you mind, Misfits, 
 when we waked old man Sullivan all the eats 
 and drinks we had then? 
 
 MISFITS. And it s me that does mind, for when 
 the good Lord takes him, he takes the best friend 
 on the levee. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Go along, you old blubbers 
 crying over old man Sullivan. I d like to hit him 
 one in his tea-kettle. Didn t he call me names 
 long before I earned them? 
 
 MISFITS. He was tryin to reform you. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Say, Misfits, run into the dive 
 next door and get me a whisky sour. Tell Slip 
 Shod I ll hand him a piece tonight as I pass the 
 door. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Misfits, put my order in too, 
 and tell him I ll pay him my bill in a day or two. 
 
 MISFITS. When you see your rich brother, I
 
 32 
 
 specks. [AH turn around to greet HIGH HEELS 
 as she comes tripping in, all fluffy in her togs like 
 the last petals on a June rose] 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Well, if here ain t 
 High Heels. Been an age since I seen you. 
 Thought you had moved to the other end of town 
 with Mrs. Gout. There ain t many of us old pals 
 left. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES [gets her a, chair]. That is 
 so, old girl ; there are not many of us left. 
 
 HIGH HEELS [sitting doiv*n\. Not many of us 
 left? To whom does us refer? There are lots 
 of us left when you refer to them higher up, for 
 I see them at every turn, it seems to me, display 
 ing their wealth in some form or other. [Putting 
 her hand on the shoulder of SLENDER SHOES] 
 But for us, the ones that haven t made good - 
 yes, it is only a few of us left. Most of us are in 
 the potter s field. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Cut it out for heaven s 
 sake. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Do you think I want to eat my 
 breakfast with such reminiscences? I m here be 
 cause I m here. I like a good friend, a good 
 drink, and a good laugh. What do I care about 
 your friends in Swelldom?
 
 SLENDER SHOES. While this argument is on its 
 way, suppose little Misfits trots in next door to 
 see what she can find. 
 
 MISFITS [going on with her work, setting the 
 chairs around the tables]. I m not helpin with 
 the liquor traffic, ladies and gents. I ve been 
 promised a place at the head of the procession 
 when the women start their campaign " Vote the 
 old town dry." [She dances a step with a chair 
 as she szvings it into place] 
 
 HIGH HEELS. Good God, Misfits ! I pray that 
 I ll be dead then. The men are all crazy now, 
 but when the women get started I want to be softly 
 sleeping in a bank of clay. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. I don t see where you get 
 that dope on the men. What, as a woman, have 
 you offered to mankind? [handing her a cup of 
 coffee from the tray that SLEEPY SLIPPERS has 
 just brought in] 
 
 HIGH HEELS. What have I offered? What 
 did I ever get to give? A drunken father, that 
 beat the daylights out of my mother if she re 
 fused to give him the wash money, gave me a dis 
 taste for men when I was a kid. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. I notice that you have been try 
 ing to get even with them ever since.
 
 l^uman 
 
 HIGH HEELS [sarcastically]. Like some other 
 women I know, my vanity fooled me for a time. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS [like a man]. And a 
 long time it s been, at that. 
 
 HIGH HEELS [putting her youth to tlie front], 
 Some people never get old. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Not if they change towns often 
 enough, but twenty-five years on one beat is a 
 dead give-away. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES [slipping his hand over and 
 patting the hand of HIGH HEELS]. Don t mind 
 them, girl. We were kids together, pals in pros 
 perous days, and old friends on the path of glory. 
 Chubby Toe has the road before her yet it is 
 not such a happy one. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. Her heart is a heart of stone, 
 and she ll get all that there is in the game. But 
 when a woman s heart has been burned and seared 
 and dried as mine, what is there left for a woman 
 to do but the only thing that will make her for- 
 get? 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Are you referring to 
 your boy-and-girl affair with Slender Shoes ? 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Now don t rub it in. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. Yes, if we had been married when 
 our love was at its height.
 
 35 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. I was in no position to marry. 
 What does a boy of eighteen 
 
 HIGH HEEI>S. You were at your zenith as a 
 clog dancer, and the world was at your feet. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. If I had got a job then of 
 driving team or something worth while? 
 
 HIGH HEELS. It was worth while when you 
 were called to dance before all the crowned heads 
 of Europe. Ah, the night you went away the 
 whole town with a brass band was there to see 
 you off. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. And you kissed me the last 
 even after my mother. 
 
 HIGH HEELS [m an appealing voice]. Ah, you 
 do remember? I have never forgotten the thrill. 
 In all these years it has been the one memory that 
 stands out above all the others. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Even if you have long ceased to 
 be thrilled. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. Shut up, Chubby Toe ; I am seri 
 ous. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. I had a thrill once, but 
 the winds took it 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. What does a man know about a 
 thrill? 
 
 HIGH HEELS. You can laugh all you want to.
 
 36 J^uman 
 
 We women who are nobody, and we women who 
 are are one and the same. We want the love in 
 a home, of little children, of a husband 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. But for the prank of a foolish 
 day? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. You pay, you pay. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Better than the harder 
 road through life. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. The next time I falls into a 
 crowd for my eats, I hope it won t be a dead one. 
 I want a real, live song to cheer me up ; I got 
 enough of them thoughts right down here. [Slaps 
 her hand over her }ieart\ 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Gee! and not a sou in 
 in the crowd to buy a drink to drown them 
 thoughts down there, either. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES [rising and leaning on the back 
 of the chair of HIGH HEELS]. I must be on my 
 way, friends. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. And where? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Think I ll go out to my 
 brother s, and make one last appeal for mother s 
 clock. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Why this sentimental 
 journey so early in the morning? 
 
 HIGH HEELS. You see what a man I could
 
 37 
 
 have made of him with all the history of years 
 behind him? 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. That wouldn t bear print 
 ing. 
 
 HIGH HEELS [continuing]. You see there is 
 left a trace of feeling his mother s clock. 
 [Begins to sob] 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. It is the only thing that s 
 left. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. Are you going to give it to me 
 as a peace offering? 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Fess up now, Slender Shoes. 
 
 SLENDEII SHOES. If you wait here long enough, 
 I ll bring you the result. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. What, a good jag? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. No, the last remnant of a 
 heart string. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. How? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. I ll have nothing else to 
 pawn. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. Don t jest [rising]. Do you 
 want the spirit of your mother to haunt you? 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Well, I ll drown the haunt 
 good and plenty if I have enough. 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Don t I come in on 
 that?
 
 l^uman 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. Hope we don t have to share 
 it with many more. 
 
 HIGH HEELS. No, Slender Shoes, if you and 
 I had only married when our love was bursting 
 the heart strings, mother s clock would have been 
 sitting on our mantel. 
 
 CHUBBY TOE [looking at the far-away stare in 
 the eyes of SLENDER SHOES]. More mush. 
 
 SLENDER SHOES. The torch bearer is off, then. 
 [Steps toward the door] 
 
 DOWN AT THE HEELS. Bring us good tidings 
 then, brother. [SLENDER SHOES nods; goes out] 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. He was a fine old brother 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 HIGH HEELS [rising]. Twenty years ago! 
 The value of the human pawn shop goes down with 
 age, but wine What are we going to talk 
 about tomorrow morning, comrades? 
 
 CHUBBY TOE. Why High Heels is always 
 late. [They go out] 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. [MISFITS has just come in 
 with another stack of plates] I suppose that is 
 to be charged to Slender Shoes, too. 
 
 MISFITS. Sure, his rich brother don t care. 
 When the boss sends the bill in, a check comes by 
 return mail, and do you know cause why?
 
 39 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. Cannot guess, for many 
 brothers ain t like that. 
 
 MISFITS [dashing out m front]. Cause when 
 Slender Shoes mother was a dyin he s her 
 baby boy she made the lawyer boy promise to 
 share his last penny with his brother. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. I hain t got no chicken 
 heart in me like that. 
 
 MISFITS. You ain t? You hain t got no little 
 brothers and sisters, then. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. Cut it out, cut it out. 
 Let s quit the job and take to the farm while the 
 quitting s good. 
 
 MISFITS. What would I do there? 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. Don t you know? Don t 
 you you d be my wife. 
 
 MISFITS. Your wife? Gee! that sounds good. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. Sure we ll go back to dad 
 to the flowers and the birds. 
 
 MISFITS. To the miles and miles of corn stalks 
 what needs a-plowin ? 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. That ain t no joke. But 
 you would be there, Misfits, and life would be dif 
 ferent then. 
 
 MISFITS [shaking her head]. Life would be 
 different then.
 
 40 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS [taking her in his arms]. 
 Say it, little one ; say you will come. 
 
 MISFITS. It is like a stab in my heart to say 
 it but I can t. Ma s got eight little ones, with 
 me as the oldest, and I couldn t let them starve. 
 I ve got to help ma. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. You are the first gal I ever 
 asked. 
 
 MISFITS. I likes the compliment. To have a 
 man like you lovin me, makes me glad right here 
 [strikes her side], but 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS. Ain t you going to say yes ? 
 
 MISFITS [silent for a moment]. It hurts, it 
 hurts. 
 
 SLEEPY SUPPERS [hearing the boss calling]. 
 Say yes, and I ll tell him to take the fiery trail. 
 You will, if you love me. 
 
 MISFITS. Yes, my boy, but when a feller has 
 got eight children to feed he hain t got no right 
 to be talkin of love. 
 
 SLEEPY SLIPPERS [hears the boss calling 
 again]. And you turns me down? [Looks at her 
 for a moment rather dejectedly, then stalks out] 
 
 MISFITS [alone, thinking]. When they are all 
 big and got homes of their own where will my 
 
 home be? 
 
 CURTAIN
 
 A WILL-O -WISP 
 
 A ONE-ACT PLAY
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 STRANGER, a father in search of his son. 
 
 PATRICK BRADY, a farmer 
 
 MRS. BRADY, his wife 
 
 MARY BRADY, their daughter 
 
 MIKE HENNESY, a farm-hand 
 
 SAM ] 
 
 ^sons 
 PATSY J
 
 Scene: The kitchen of an old farm house in 
 eastern New York, with the heavy beams of the 
 ceiling crossing and crisscrossing. To the right 
 is situated a fireplace, where a spreading fame 
 sends forth a cheerful flicker of light upon the 
 old brass and copper utensils hanging about. 
 At the back are some low Dutch windows, before 
 which stand the kitchen table and an old-fashioned 
 cupboard. To the left of the room is a dining 
 table, with several old hand-made chairs, sitting 
 against the wall. The supper is being cooked in 
 a pot, hanging on a crane in the fireplace. A 
 terrific storm is raging without. MARY BRADY, 
 who was to have been married today, is getting 
 supper for the family and her future husband. 
 All is quiet for the moment, as the curt am goes 
 up; then MARY bursts out in song, as she goes 
 about her work. 
 
 MIKE HENNESY [enters with a pail of milk~\. 
 Sure and it s raining a bit this night, darling 
 Mary. 
 
 MARY. I know it is that, Mike. Good it is 
 
 we didn t walk over to Father Malone s to get 
 
 43
 
 44 l^uman 
 
 married this morning. It s no luck to the bride 
 if it rains on her. 
 
 MIKE. Luck or no luck, rain or no rain, and 
 divil a bit I care just so you are mine. [Stoops 
 over to kiss her, as he spitts the milk on her dress] 
 
 MARY {with anger]. See now, what you be a 
 doing? My good frock at that. [Taking tlie 
 bucket, she sets it on the table and arranges the 
 pans. While MIKE is talking she pours the milk 
 into them] 
 
 MIKE. I ll be buying you a fine dress, Mary, 
 when I go to Hudson next week. What kind will 
 you have, a rose-colored one or a black like 
 mother wears ? 
 
 MARY. Faith and I have never seen your 
 mother what would I be knowing what she 
 wears ? 
 
 MIKE [with all good nature]. Ah, she wears a 
 frill about her neck, Mary. She is just like a 
 little angel, my little mother. I wish you could 
 see her as I do now. [His face softens] Won t 
 she be happy when she gets my letter telling her 
 about me marrying my master s daughter? She 
 will be proud of her lad, she will. 
 
 MARY [turns preparatory to handing him the
 
 a rnniflygaii0p 45 
 
 pail]. And it is proud your Mary will be, too, 
 Mike. You are the finest lad in the land here 
 about. 
 
 MIKE [grabbing the pail with one hand, he 
 squeezes her with, his right arm and hurries out]. 
 It does me good to hear you say that, Love. 
 
 MARY [to herself]. It does me good to be say 
 ing it myself. [Turns] He is a fine lad he is 
 that. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. [A woman, stout m figure, turn 
 ing grey about the temples, with- a florid face, and 
 seeming to have all the character and energy of 
 the family, enters] We will have supper in the 
 kitchen tonight, Mary. It is cold and damp in 
 the living room and the wood is too wet to burn 
 in the stove. 
 
 MARY. The rain has spoiled everything today. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. You are not disappointed a bit, 
 are you, that father couldn t spare the horses to 
 take you to your wedding? 
 
 MARY [stirring the contents m the pot in the 
 fireplace]. No, I am used to waiting. I spose if 
 one of us should die, the funeral would have to be 
 put off a day if it was the day dad had to take 
 the milk to the boat.
 
 46 
 
 MRS. BRADY. It would be a great loss to have 
 all that milk sour on us. [Begins to set the 
 table] 
 
 MARY. A day more or less matters little to 
 you when you are dead, I reckon. 
 
 Mns. BRADY. When a man is in business, busi 
 ness must be first. 
 
 MARY. It s poor business when you can t take 
 time to get married on. 
 
 MR. BRADY [enters before the last sentence is 
 finished]. The rain would never have stopped 
 me from getting married on my wedding day. 
 [Shakes a long finger at the mother, while his tall 
 muscular figure shows m its pose the lack of de 
 cision and love of work] Change your name 
 three times, my girl, and you will never need enter 
 the kingdom of heaven you can go to Ireland, 
 my own country. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. The grog has gone to your head, 
 Patrick. Why didn t you stay in bed when I put 
 you there? 
 
 MR. BRADY. You ave put me there too often 
 already, mother. Why should a man get put to 
 bed when he has just taken a drop too much? 
 
 MARY. Husbands must be learnt, father [with 
 a short accent on the a].
 
 47 
 
 MR. BRADY. Your mother has been learning 
 me all me life, daughter [hanging up Ms coat and 
 lantern by the fireplace]. I d like to be a lad with 
 the other lads down by the wharf. It does a man 
 good to get where he can hear a good tale once in 
 a while, just to get a whiff of the salt air once 
 more. [His eyes snapping] Then to see a good 
 fight, eh? 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Pat, will you never get away 
 from the drunks? If it wa n t for me we d be in 
 the poorhouse. It s me that keeps soul and body 
 together here. I d be well fed if you put as much 
 in my stomach as you put in the till of the tavern. 
 
 MR. BRADY. Who s better fed than you, I d 
 like to know not even the pigs. 
 
 MARY. [A great gust of wind blows the door 
 open] I would hate to be a lone traveler on the 
 road tonight. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Let s pray that there is none to 
 meet such a night in his walks. 
 
 MR. BRADY [while he is trying to shut the door, 
 it is thrust open again, as his two sons enter]. 
 I m mighty glad you are home, lads. You are 
 soaked through. Didn t you get a lift from town 
 at all? 
 
 PATSY [looking at SAM, who is as drenched as
 
 48 pitman 
 
 he]. Who would give us a lift, when there is no 
 one out this cursed night but fools? 
 
 SAM. We be the fools then. I told Patsy to 
 stay in town tonight, but he didn t know who 
 would be doing the milking, thinking sister might 
 be gone on a honeymoon. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. And when did you ever do so 
 much thinking about the milking before? 
 
 MARY. Where s the chance to get away on a 
 honeymoon here, I d like to know? Mother 
 couldn t get along without someone to help her. 
 Who is helping Mike milk eighty cows out there? 
 
 MR. BRADY. I never was fond of running a 
 milk dairy, and above all when it is raining cats 
 and dogs on the roof. 
 
 PATSY. What would you rather be running 
 than a dairy ? [hanging his coat behind the hearth 
 to dry~\ 
 
 SAM. A sausage factory or a broom works? 
 
 MR. BRADY [ignoring their remarks]. Who 
 did you see at the river? Was Mike Casey there 
 to have a game with me, as usual? 
 
 PATSY. No, he was there to get his fill of grog 
 as usual. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. It s the likes of you two that I
 
 a mnwffli 49 
 
 have had to bother me all my life. Sit down to 
 your supper and eat your fill. 
 
 MARY [carrying the steaming vegetables to the 
 table with the aid of her apron} . It s hot sure 
 I ll drop them. 
 
 MRS. BRADY [watches MARY as she carries the 
 things to the table, then ceasing to stare, ex 
 claims]. My God, Mary! 
 
 MARY [unconscious of her mother s discovery, 
 still holds her apron in her hands after finishing], 
 What have I done now? [MRS. BRADY runs out 
 of the room] Mother has gone wrong, too. 
 
 MR. BRADY. Where s Mike? 
 
 PATSY. Isn t he on a holiday? 
 
 SAM. Father didn t give him one not even 
 to get married on. 
 
 MARY [standmg quietly by the kitchen table]. 
 We couldn t walk five miles in this weather to get 
 married. We didn t want to miss the chance to 
 put on holiday dress. 
 
 PATSY. Dad never expects a hired man to put 
 on dress-up clothes. 
 
 MR. BRADY. When do I ever get a chance to 
 put on dress-up clothes? 
 
 SAM. You have had a bit of a holiday today.
 
 50 i^uman 
 
 You were three hours late getting home with the 
 milk wagon, and mother here a-swearing because 
 she would be late washing the milk bottles. Then 
 we had to go after you. 
 
 MIKE [enters hastily, leading a stranger}. 
 Here, Mr. Brady, is a lost man. He is asking to 
 sleep in the barn. 
 
 MB. BRADY. Sit you down, sir. Here by our 
 fireside you are welcome. There s plenty of room 
 in the house. Make a place for him at the table, 
 Mary. 
 
 MABY [coming with- service, smiles kindly at the 
 old man}. It s welcome you are here, sir. 
 [While MIKE is taking his place at the table} 
 There is a bad storm out tonight. 
 
 STRANGER [taking his seat at the table}. I 
 didn t think I d have such good luck tonight. 
 For an hour I have looked far and near for shel 
 ter, and I began to fear the people in these parts 
 lived up in the trees. 
 
 PATSY. If it is luck it is you are looking for, 
 you better not be abiding in this house. 
 
 MR. BRADY. And why not? If it s anything 
 like lightning, it s apt to strike us any time. 
 Have you come afar, stranger? 
 
 STBANGEB. Yes, your lordship, I came up this
 
 a wni*w*mi*v si 
 
 morning on the boat from beyond in the Catskills. 
 
 MR. BRADY. Are you looking for work, I would 
 like to ask? 
 
 STRANGER. No, I am looking for a good cow. 
 I heard up hereabouts a man could buy them 
 cheap. 
 
 SAM. Yes, father has a lot of worn-out devils 
 he d like to sell you. [MIKE is eyeing MARY all 
 the while as she sits by the fireside, knitting] 
 
 STRANGER. I have a lot of the likes of them at 
 home. 
 
 MR. BRADY. Give us some more tea, Mary. 
 Wait on Mike there ; he is starving to death. 
 
 MARY [coming over with the tea-pot, she fills 
 the cups as she circles the table]. You know he 
 will ask for it when it is not where it is to be seen, 
 can t you, Mike? 
 
 MIKE. Sure I can, Mary, but I d rather be 
 seeing you any day. 
 
 PATSY. It s a good thing someone is glad to 
 see you, hey, sis ? If our scullery-maid ever leaves 
 the family, heavens knows what will become of us. 
 
 MARY. I don t think I ll be leaving you soon, 
 brother mother needs me. 
 
 MR. BRADY. You ll be leaving her awhile with 
 us yet, won t you, Mike?
 
 52 $)uman 
 
 MIKE. And we haven t talked about the doings 
 of the morrow as yet, have we, Mary girl? 
 
 STRANGER. It does no good anyway. Some 
 times it is better not to decide yourself older 
 heads know better. 
 
 SAM. Sure they do, even if they are boneheads. 
 
 MR. BRADY [moving away from, the table], 
 Take a seat by the fire, stranger. Fill your pipe 
 and make yourself to home while me and the boys 
 goes out to finish up. [SAM and PATSY go out] 
 
 MIKE [going over to MARY]. I won t be long, 
 Mary. You ll be looking for me, won t you, gal? 
 [She gives him a sly glance, as she starts to clear 
 off the table] 
 
 MR. BRADY [who has been lighting his lantern}. 
 This is a fine shower for the grass and growing 
 things. The earth was good and thirsty. [To 
 MIKE] Come, let s be off, boy. 
 
 MIKE. The ground will be too soaked to be 
 a-plowing in the morning. I can help you with 
 your washing, Mary [closing the door behind him] 
 
 MARY [clearing the dining table, she carries the 
 things over to the kitchen table. Then she looks 
 m a bewildering manner at the stranger, not know 
 ing what to say]. You have walked a long way 
 today, man, have you not?
 
 a miii <3F>mi$ 53 
 
 STRANGER. Yes, miss, it is a long way to come. 
 
 MARY. You said you came part way on the 
 river. 
 
 STRANGER. Yes, but a river is no place to find 
 a cow, unless a dead one. 
 
 MARY. And you don t want a dead one, I m 
 sure. 
 
 STRANGER. You do not know where a body 
 could find a cow hereabout, cheap like? 
 
 MARY. No, sir, because my father would have 
 bought it up if it was for sale cheap. 
 
 STRANGER. They are precious animals these 
 days. Worth more than our wives, and I am sure 
 they have better care. 
 
 MARY [thinking he is referring to her]. It s 
 not such hard work to do, anyway. [Her youth 
 and health beam forth from the twist of her shoul 
 ders ] 
 
 STRANGER* And you are married, are you, 
 Miss ? 
 
 MARY. I was to be today, sir, but it was too 
 far to walk in the storm. 
 
 STRANGER [turning around in astonishment], 
 And so this was to be your wedding day ? 
 
 MARY. Yes, your honor. 
 
 STRANGER. Do me no honor, I m just poor
 
 54 
 
 folk. But why delay your singing and the wed 
 ding supper? 
 
 MARY [casting her eyes to the ground]. 
 Father is too busy in the dairy to spare the horses, 
 and mother is too busy in the kitchen to spare me. 
 
 STRANGER. I see. You are bound just like the 
 slaves. In this land of milk and honey, man is no 
 better than a dog. In Ireland you are worth 
 enough to stop a day for, anyway. 
 
 MARY. Yes, I know, but the cows have to be 
 milked ; the milk has to be shipped to New York, 
 or else the babies would be without their bottles. 
 I d rather work than have a baby starve. 
 
 STRANGER. So would I. It is nice of you to 
 think of it in that way. I m sorry, Miss, I said 
 anything. Forgive me. [Shakes his hand in a 
 forgiving manner] 
 
 MARY. Yes, stranger, you are quite forgiven. 
 
 STRANGER. I can smell the honeysuckle now. 
 It makes the home a place worth going back to, 
 and I feel sorry for the man that has no flower in 
 his yard, as I do for the babies that have no milk. 
 
 MARY. So you have honeysuckles a-growing in 
 your garden. But there are men who have flowers 
 growing in their hearts they need no yard to 
 grow them in.
 
 55 
 
 MRS. BRADY [enters abruptly and stares first at 
 the STRANGER, then at MARY]. It s a fine pair 
 you are. [To the STRANGER] What are you 
 doing here? 
 
 STRANGER [MARY turns to hide her embarrass 
 ment in her dishes]. The gintleman told me to 
 abide here until he came back. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. You are a fine couple to stand at 
 the head of a corpse. You come here a-making 
 love to my gal, the likes of you. 
 
 MARY. Mother, this is a stranger. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. I know you, Miss, now. You are 
 not a drop of my own body. Carry your shame 
 with you. Get you gone out of me house before I 
 brand you. 
 
 MARY [covering her face with her hands]. 
 Mother ! 
 
 STRANGER. I ll go, madam; do not blame the 
 girl. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Blame you then, I suppose. You 
 are the father of her child. 
 
 STRANGER. Child! What child? Has she a 
 child? 
 
 MRS. BRADY. She soon will have. No wonder 
 she wants to get married to poor Mike to cover up 
 her disgrace.
 
 56 
 
 MARY. Mother, mother, forgive me. [Stretch 
 ing out her arms to Jier mother] 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Go to the priest ; pray with him, 
 but the likes of you can never stay in my house. 
 
 STRANGER. If you are her mother, can you 
 not help her to hide her shame? 
 
 MRS. BRADY. What! Me! No, I m not a 
 low-bred woman. I ll not house a strumpet, if she 
 is my own daughter. 
 
 MARY [regaining Jterself, draws her shoulders 
 up defiantly] . I m not a strumpet take that 
 back. I ve worked here like a dog ever since I 
 was a little child. I have had no chance to go to 
 school ; I never could go out on Sundays like other 
 girls ; I have known nothing but the kitchen for 
 years; I never get to town but once in twelve 
 months. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. What more do I get? 
 
 MARY. But I am not calling you names. I 
 have done wrong, but I am sorry. [/Sobs] Will 
 you not forgive me? 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Sorry you were when you tried 
 to marry a nice boy, and here comes this old scoun 
 drel back just in time to tell Mike what you are. 
 
 STRANGER. My God, woman ; let the girl be ! 
 I know her not. Before my God I swear it.
 
 57 
 
 [MRS. BRADY gives him a look of contempt and 
 goes out] 
 
 MARY. Forgive my mother, Stranger. I did 
 wrong to promise to marry Mike, but my lad said 
 he would come back for me, and when he never 
 came and Mike said we would be married, I just 
 thought God made it that way to bless me and 
 to bless my babe. 
 
 STRANGER {m a weeping voice]. And he came 
 not. 
 
 MARY [weeping and leaning against the table]. 
 No. 
 
 STRANGER. And what think you to be a-doing 
 now, my lass? 
 
 MARY. That I know not. You be after say 
 ing that you are from beyond by the Catskills. 
 Perhaps if I went there I could find the father. 
 
 STRANGER. What good would that be a-doing? 
 It s a bad man he is or he never would have left 
 you. 
 
 MARY. He doesn t know. He was only a 
 stranger, passing by. 
 
 STRANGER [turning around to eye her]. Sure 
 and I am in a fair way to get the blame myself 
 then. 
 
 MARY. But he said he came from your coun-
 
 58 l)uman 
 
 try. If I could see him and tell him how I love 
 him, perhaps it would melt his heart, if he loved 
 me not afore. 
 
 STRANGER. They are a bad lot down my way. 
 There s my son, and he is the worst of them all. 
 His mother would not sleep at nights till I went 
 out to look him up, far and near over the hills 
 and here I am. 
 
 MARY. But you said you were looking for a 
 cow. 
 
 STRANGER. So I did. But if I told anybody I 
 was looking for that lad, I d be asked to pay his 
 debts, and it s poor I am now paying up what he 
 owes. 
 
 MARY [going over to him]. It is troubles, too, 
 you have then. It is all trouble in this world, it 
 seems. 
 
 STRANGER. No, lassie. The dew sparkles on 
 the clover, and the rain waters the rose whether we 
 have our troubles or not. Cheer up. [Wipes his 
 tear-stained glasses] 
 
 MARY [m better spirits]. Is it a fine lad you 
 have, stranger? 
 
 STRANGER. A finer bairn you never saw. He 
 is like the slender aspen that bows and croons as 
 if sugar wouldn t melt in his mouth. He s ready
 
 a mnw*wi* 59 
 
 with a story and a good answer, and all the girls 
 run after him, as if he was the lord of the castle 
 beyond. 
 
 MARY. It is fine to have such a boy. The likes 
 of him his mother must be proud of. 
 
 STRANGER. She could not sleep these nights, or 
 I wouldn t be walking over the country roads look 
 ing for his body. For if he has a spell of drink 
 ing on him I m apt to find him in any ditch. 
 
 MARY. God save him ! 
 
 MRS. BRADY [just entering]. And is here you 
 are yet? No dishes washed. [Begins to pack 
 them up]. Let me at them myself, you lazy hussy. 
 
 STRANGER. She has been talking to me, your 
 ladyship. I am feeling sorry for her. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Sorry you are for her! Take 
 her off then to your own kin. Perhaps they are 
 the likes of her. 
 
 MARY. Don t talk that way to the poor man. 
 [Begins to sob] I have no knowing of him at all. 
 If you like, I ll go to the river and drown myself. 
 
 STRANGER. Save yourself, child. There you 
 will find yourself a heap sight worse off. 
 
 MARY. I am in a terrible plight. May God 
 take pity on me. 
 
 MR. BRADY [entering tvith SAM, PATSY and
 
 GO l^uman 
 
 MIKE]. Now, mother, we are ready for a bit of 
 fun tonight I ve promised Mike to drive him and 
 Mary over to the Father s tomorrow. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Better with the likes of him there 
 that came to claim her. It s to him she belongs. 
 
 STRANGER [rising and returning the gaze of the 
 men]. It is a sad plight I am in. Your lady is 
 accusing me of being an ungodly man, and before 
 God I swear I never saw your daughter before. 
 
 MR. BRADY. And why should she accuse you? 
 
 MARY [runs and throws Jierself into MIKE S 
 arms]. Save me, Mike. They will kill me by 
 their talking. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. God forgive me, Patrick, but our 
 daughter has been making a fool of us. Meeting 
 this man here until she is with child with him. 
 
 MIKE [thrusting MARY aside]. What are you 
 saying, Mrs. Brady? This man came a stranger 
 tonight, asking a bed in the barn. 
 
 MR. BRADY. And I asked him into the house 
 to sleep in the best bed gave him a place at my 
 table. [His large figure swai/ing with emotion] 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Ask Mary she will not deny it. 
 
 MIKE [shaking MARY with impatience]. No, 
 no, Mary, you will deny it ; you can deny it. 
 
 PATSY. I dare any of you to accuse my sister.
 
 a 
 
 SAM. She is the best girl in the world here 
 abouts. [Going over to her] Mary, you are not 
 afraid I will stand by you. Reel it off. 
 
 STRANGER. I will leave it to the lass, she never 
 saw me before until tonight. 
 
 MARY. What you say is true all true ; I 
 never saw this man until tonight. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Who is it then? 
 
 MIKE. Speak, Mary, speak darling. It is not 
 so. This was to be our wedding day. There is 
 no truth in the other. 
 
 MR. BRADY. Come, let s not dilly-dally longer. 
 
 MIKE [holding her gently]. It is not true, is 
 it, Mary? 
 
 MARY. Yes, Mike, it is all true. I have de 
 ceived you I have deceived them, and I was 
 going on to deceive you some more, but mother 
 she found me out and told you. I ask pity from 
 you, Mike. 
 
 MIKE [throwing her from him]. Out with you 
 you hussy. It is a fine wedding day for me. 
 [Looking at the STRANGER] Take her if it is your 
 kind she is after. A bed of straw and the cow 
 barn for you to the depths of the sea with you. 
 [Runs out] 
 
 STRANGER. Sorry I am to bring all this trou-
 
 62 
 
 ble on the family. I ll be out into the night my 
 self and find some place to sleep. 
 
 MARY. Oh, do not go without me. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. And now you want to be leaving 
 her, too. 
 
 SAM. Mary, sister, tell us before the rest of 
 them is gone. I ll ram my fist down his throat. 
 I m aching 
 
 MARY. Oh, Sam I I cannot. 
 
 STRANGER. Mary, if it is a home you want, you 
 kin have it. I have a hut and a few acres, and my 
 lad s mother will be a good mother to you. We 
 will never throw you in the ditch because you do 
 not know his name. 
 
 MR. BRADY. It s a slick way you have, man, 
 of proving yourself innocent. 
 
 PATSY. Mary, if you don t tell us his name I ll 
 murder this man, old as he is, and may God for 
 give me. 
 
 MARY. He the stranger ? So was my lad 
 a stranger, and all I know was that his name was 
 Willie O Hara that lived beyond in the Cats- 
 kills. 
 
 STRANGER. Willie O Hara. That s my own 
 lad, the skalawag. Cheat the divil of his soul 
 anyway. He has caused me all this trouble to-
 
 63 
 
 night, as if I hadn t had twenty long years of it 
 already. 
 
 MRS. BRADY [wiping the last of her pots ]. And 
 sure she is hard up to be taking up and harbor 
 ing strangers. Father, I will none of her or her 
 brats about this house. 
 
 SAM. She is our sister, dad. 
 
 MR. BRADY. Mary you may stay if you like. 
 Your dad will stick to you. 
 
 MARY. No, I have no place in this house any 
 longer. 
 
 MRS. BRADY. Let her go make her bed with the 
 likes of her. 
 
 MARY [putting a shawl about her liead, she 
 walks over and takes the STRANGER S hand]. If 
 you believe in me, take me to him. 
 
 STRANGER. Tis a pity God himself cannot 
 take you before I take you back to Willie O Hara. 
 [They go out into the night] 
 
 CURTAIN
 
 RIPENING WHEAT 
 
 A ONE-ACT PLAY
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 JOHN MENTON, 39 years old, a farmer 
 ALICE, 45 years old, his wife 
 FRANK SAWYER, 56 years old, a neighbor 
 MATTIE, 22 years old, his wife
 
 The room is low and narrow, with a long window 
 across the south wall to let in all the warmth and 
 sunlight that is to be enjoyed during the long 
 winters of western Canada. It is now June, and 
 the windows, through which the great wheat fields 
 can be seen for miles in one stretch of dark green, 
 are pushed back. The room comprises the living- 
 room and kitchen, so necessary where fuel is to be 
 considered during the cold weather. To tlie right 
 is a cook stove; to the back, below the windows is 
 a long table; in the corner stands an old English 
 sideboard, to the right of which is a door leading 
 to a pantry. To the left is a drop-leaf table, 
 standing by the side of the wall; several chairs are 
 placed at regular intervals by the wall. Two old- 
 fashioned but comfortable rocking chairs with red 
 cushions are sitting m the middle of the room. As 
 the curtain goes up there is no one on the stage, 
 but after a moment JOHN MENTON and MATTIE 
 SAWYER come in together, having been to church. 
 
 JOHN. Take off your hat and shawl, Mattie; 
 make yourself at home. I ll have a fire made fore 
 Alice and Frank get here. 
 
 67
 
 68 
 
 MATTIE. They are for stoppin always at the 
 barn to look at the calves. What can a body see 
 in a cow to admire, now just tell me? 
 
 JOHN. I don t be a caring as long as I got you. 
 
 MATTIE [with her Cockney drawl] . Ow should 
 anybody be a carin for cattle when they got people 
 to love? 
 
 JOHN. I use to think a great deal about them 
 until you came. 
 
 MATTIE. [Tall and slender as a blade of grass, 
 with youth beaming forth from every look and 
 gesture, she hangs lier shawl and hat upon a nail, 
 and then runs her fingers through her soft, yellow 
 hair] You ain t got me all the time, that s what s 
 worryin me. 
 
 JOHN [studying]. Things are one-sided in this 
 world mine has always been so. 
 
 MATTIE. Mine has been lop-sided from the very 
 beginning. 
 
 JOHN. If I had only tried to right them, but 
 I just let things drift along too long before I knew 
 just where I was at. 
 
 MATTIE. What s done can t be elped, and if 
 I ad stayed in London, you never would ave found 
 me. 
 
 JOHN [with the tan of spring plowing and sow-
 
 Eipening Wheat 69 
 
 ing still on his face, is dressed in his Sunday 
 clothes, bought some ten years before. There is 
 kindness as well as character, gained through pri 
 vation, well marked on his features as he stands 
 looking at MATTIE], Yes, that is so; in London 
 I never would have found you. 
 
 MATTIE. Just think, I ve only known you two 
 months. 
 
 JOHN. [Goes over to her by the pantry door] 
 Mattie, Mattie! do you understand me my love? 
 
 MATTIE. Be off with you and do your feedin 
 fore they get ere. I ll meet you tomorrow where 
 the road branches off to McKeever s. 
 
 JOHN. I cannot wait until then to have you 
 tell me Mattie ! 
 
 SAWYER [appears in the doorway as the last 
 word is spoken. He stops, and MATTIE, facing 
 him, wards off JOHN S approach by the changed 
 look in her face]. Is it here you are without a 
 fire laid? 
 
 JOHN [going into the pantry, knocks a lot of 
 pans down in his confusion], Alice is such a fine 
 housekeeper that one can never lay his hands on 
 a thing that s wanted. 
 
 SAWYER. What s wanting, John? 
 
 JOHN. [MATTIE is taking down ALICE S apron
 
 70 l^uman 
 
 to help prepare dinner ] The kindling. I cannot 
 find a shaving. 
 
 SAWYER [going to the basket behind the stove]. 
 Here s a plenty. 
 
 JOHN [in surprise and disgust]. Oh? 
 
 SAWYER [takes a bit and begins to lay the fire 
 himself]. You re a bit nervous, lad. Let me 
 do it. 
 
 MATTIE [m a storming rage]. You are a fine 
 guest comin ere to put a man hout of is wits, 
 and not lettin m do is own chores. Out wid you, 
 let Mr. Menton himself 
 
 SAWYER [standing erect and facing her, with 
 shavings in his hands]. I have had enough of 
 this now, Mattie. What s come over you the last 
 month? There is no living with you any more. 
 
 MATTIE. [JOHN is lighting the fire] Matter 
 enough ; when you married me why didn t you tell 
 me of what was expectin of me? 
 
 SAWYER. So I did. 
 
 MATTIE. No, there were no words of ouse- 
 work, milkin , feedin stock and the likes no woman 
 ever card of in Hingland. 
 
 SAWYER. I told you of my great wheat fields. 
 
 MATTIE That s just hit. You was full of the 
 wind sweepin the grain like waves of the ocean,
 
 Eipening &3f)eat 71 
 
 and the gold field that called forth the man of life 
 within you when your harvest was on. 
 
 SAWYER. And you ll see it all, Mattie, when 
 the wheat is growing and ripening. Now she is 
 but a green carpet, covering the old, brown earth. 
 
 MATTIE. But she doesn t come in and do my 
 work. You are makin a slave of me instead of 
 the lidy I ought to be. [JOHN coughs and goes 
 out] 
 
 SAWYER. The lady you ought to be. Sure I 
 took you out of the slums of London, out of where 
 the rats even refused to live, and brought you out 
 here where life is wholesome and sweet. 
 
 MATTIE. You said I would be a lily in the 
 wheat fields. 
 
 SAWYER. So you are, lass. 
 
 MATTIE. No, I am not [standing in pantry 
 door with pan in hand] , rather a 
 
 SAWYER [walking back and forth across the 
 floor]. It is hard work transplanting plants from 
 one soil to another, and I spose I did make a mis 
 take bringing you out here. 
 
 MATTIE. I likes the soil all right, but what is 
 there in the world for me now? I can see just 
 what I am to do every day for the next forty 
 years. Day in and day out it will be
 
 72 
 
 SAWYER. Isn t it a fine work then we will do? 
 In twenty years we will be the greatest land owners 
 in miles about. 
 
 MATTIE. You can ave the land, but what I 
 wants is life life. [Looking about] I cannot 
 find a potato in the ouse. 
 
 SAWYER. Let me go to the cave and get some. 
 
 MATTIE. No, I wants to go myself. [Goes out 
 carrying pan] 
 
 SAWYER, [still pacing the floor]. You cannot 
 make wheat grow in a worn-out soil, and you can 
 not make a girl love an old man. [Stands wring 
 ing his hands] 
 
 ALICE MENTON [comes in at the door. She has 
 a strong face, somewhat hard, made so by the 
 long years of pioneer life. There are traces of 
 her former beauty in the outline of lier features, 
 although the wind and weather on the prairie have 
 taken all the softness out of her skin]. I m not 
 much of a neighbor when I leave your wife to get 
 dinner, but I was worried about that sick calf. 
 
 SAWYER. She don t mind a bit, Alice. She 
 
 ALICE. No, no ; don t tell me that. She s but 
 a girl yet, and it is no easy work to settle down to 
 this rough life. 
 
 SAWYER. Yes, I know. But I was in the hopes
 
 Hipening GB&eat 73 
 
 she would like it. I have been trying to make 
 things as easy as I could. I 
 
 ALICE. It killed your first wife. For ten years 
 I watched her growing sadder and sadder fore she 
 took to her bed. [Goes into room on the left to 
 lay her hat and shawl away] 
 
 SAWYER. And the five years she was bed-ridden 
 you was mighty good to her. [Sits down in a 
 rocker] 
 
 ALICE. I just tried to be a good neighbor, 
 man. [Begins setting the table] 
 
 SAWYER. You were that. I always wanted to 
 repay you in some way. 
 
 ALICE [coming over to him]. Repay me? Re 
 pay. I told you oft that I asked but one thing 
 in return. 
 
 SAWYER [impatiently]. Yes, yes. I know. 
 
 ALICE [waiting; after a moment s pause]. Did 
 you see her when you was in London? 
 
 SAWYER [trying to evade answer]. Mattie 
 went to get some potatoes. 
 
 ALICE. I have waited and waited for you to tell 
 me. You said as soon as you got to London you d 
 hunt up my little one, my child, and tell me about 
 her. 
 
 SAWYER. Yes ?
 
 74, 
 
 ALICE [in an agonized manner]. But where 
 was she ? Would I 
 
 SAWYER. She d be no disgrace to you. 
 
 ALICE [stretching out her arms to him]. You 
 did see her, then? 
 
 SAWYER [crosses his legs, and looks as if he 
 were being cross-examined. Biting his lips, nods 
 in answer] 
 
 ALICE;. What was she doing, what is she like? 
 
 SAWYER. I will tell you some other time, Alice ; 
 I cannot tell you now. 
 
 ALICE. Then I would be ashamed of her. Tis 
 me to blame. I deserted her, left her in a found 
 lings home. 
 
 SAWYER. Alice, you are a good woman; you 
 have been kind to every neighbor for miles around 
 here. 
 
 ALICE [with a silencing hand]. No, no ; I have 
 been punished in my silence. 
 
 SAWYER. But I cannot understand how you 
 could desert a little child your own child. It 
 doesn t seem like you. 
 
 ALICE [throwing her hands to her eyes]. No, 
 no, don t. 
 
 SAWYER. Perhaps I have no right to judge. 
 
 ALICE. I met John then, and I dared not tell
 
 Ripening TOeat 75 
 
 him. He was young, handsome, and the girls were 
 all after him. 
 
 SAWYER. He loved you. 
 
 ALICE. No, I loved him, and I urged him to go 
 out to Canada where I could have him all to my 
 self. 
 
 SAWYER. He would have forgave you. 
 
 ALICE. No, no, Frank Sawyer; I tried it on 
 him several times by putting my story in other 
 women s hearts, and he listened with no sympathy 
 whatever. 
 
 SAWYER. Ah, John always seemed a kind, good 
 man. 
 
 ALICE. So he is, but he never would have for 
 gave me for deceiving him. He 
 
 SAWYER. Neither will God. 
 
 ALICE. Don t say that, Sawyer. God is merci 
 ful. I had been deceived by the child s father, and 
 how could I support a child on five bob a week? 
 But I always intended to do the right thing by 
 the little one until I met John. 
 
 SAWYER. He would have helped you. 
 
 ALICE. I loved him too much. I couldn t bear 
 to see him a lovin anybody else. 
 
 SAWYER. Not even your own child? 
 
 ALICE [slowly]. Not even my own child.
 
 76 Oilman 
 
 SAWYER [thoughtfully]. Queer? 
 
 ALICE. No, you cannot understand. John 
 being younger than myself, with a girl around 
 growing up into womanhood it may have made him 
 like her 
 
 SAWYER. Like his own daughter. 
 
 ALICE. I was afraid of even that. I could not 
 share John s love with even my own child. 
 
 SAWYER. But 
 
 ALICE. Tell me of her. What is she like, what 
 is she doing? Is she a fine lass? 
 
 SAWYER. She is. 
 
 ALICE [waiting]. And? 
 
 SAWYER. She ? Why - 
 
 ALICE [clenching her hands]. Yes! 
 
 SAWYER. [MATTIE S voice is heard as she comes 
 down the path singing a refrain from an old Eng 
 lish ballad} Mattie is coming; she ll hear you. 
 [As she passes the window, with wind-tossed hair, 
 her youth is all aglow] She is a fine lass that. 
 
 ALICE [to MATTIE]. Your husband is here 
 doting on you. 
 
 MATTIE. There won t be much left to dote on 
 after a woman as been out ere a year. In two 
 months my skin is like a piece of old leather.
 
 Ripening Meat 77 
 
 SAWYER. Yes, it even hurts my poor lass to 
 laugh. 
 
 MATTIE. Mr. Menton is troubled about the 
 sick calf, Frank, and wants you to come out and 
 elp im. 
 
 ALICE. I am afraid we are going to lose that 
 little heifer, and them so scarce these days. 
 
 SAWYER. I ll go and see what I can do. [Goes 
 out] 
 
 MATTIE. Sure a calf, more or less, in these 
 parts don t matter. 
 
 ALICE. Oh, yes, it does matter, my girl. 
 Every little one means a hundred dollars in a year. 
 That s good interest on a small investment. 
 
 MATTIE. What do I care about the hinterest? 
 It s a undred dollars taken out of my life s blood, 
 and more 
 
 ALICE. Don t say that, child. In twenty 
 years you ll be rich enough to go into Calgary and 
 buy a nice home, and be at ease the rest of your 
 life. 
 
 MATTIE [dropping the knife into the pan of 
 potatoes with a thud]. Twenty years! Twenty 
 years did you say? 
 
 ALICE. Yes.
 
 78 
 
 MATTIE. Give twenty years of life slavin and 
 starvin to ave money to retire on? What am I 
 goin to ave now now that I ave my youth? 
 My very heart is beatin my sides now to get free. 
 
 ALICE. To get free! Mattie, you don t 
 mean 
 
 MATTIE. Yes, I mean that I would rather go 
 to jail or die than endure this life any longer. 
 
 ALICE. You have a good husband; he s had 
 such a hard pull of it for years. Now with you 
 he is just getting on his feet. 
 
 MATTIE. E ll not make a beast of burden of 
 me [with a thoughtful stare], carryin slop to the 
 pigs, sucklin the calves, drivin the plow from 
 sun-up to sun-down. 
 
 ALICE. That s what I have done for more than 
 fifteen years, Mattie, and now see what John and 
 I have got something for our old age. But I 
 cannot let the little thing die, I must go and see 
 if I can help, too. [Goes out] 
 
 MATTIE [alone]. What John and I ave, what 
 John and I ave. [Sees JOHN coming past tlie 
 window] What s the matter? 
 
 JOHN. Nothing, lass. I want to get some hot 
 water. 
 
 MATTIE. Alice s just been talkin to me about
 
 Hipening (KBfjeat 79 
 
 ow ard she as worked for what you and she ave. 
 Perhaps 
 
 JOHN. Perhaps nothing. You are not going 
 back on your word. We ll out of it all, and go 
 where we can have one another. What more do 
 we want? 
 
 MATTIE [obedient], Nothin , John, nothin . 
 
 JOHN. Well, then let her do the worrying. 
 She s driven me like a horse ever since I married 
 her. I was a mere lad, and knew nothing of love. 
 She told me that I loved her, but when I met you, 
 lass, then I knew for the first time what love was. 
 
 MATTIE. "Pis the love of my dreams all come 
 real. 
 
 JOHN. Year after year as I plowed the fields 
 and sowed the grain I saw you always a little ahead 
 of me in the furrow. I use to call to you to stop ; 
 didn t you ever hear me? 
 
 MATTIE. Yes, John, I heard you, but I was 
 far across the waters. 
 
 JOHN [throwing his arms about her, he buries 
 his face against hers] . Oh, my love, my love ! 
 
 ALICE [is seen looking through the window. 
 She comes m with a mad rush, grabbing JOHN S 
 sleeve] . What do you mean ? What 
 
 JOHN. Alice !
 
 so ^uman 22Jis;p0 
 
 ALICE [going at MAT-TIE]. You hypocrite, out 
 of here ! Why do you come here and steal my hus 
 band ? 
 
 JOHN [standing between them, extending a pro 
 tecting arm to MATTIE]. Alice, it is my doing; 
 blame me. 
 
 ALICE. You, my husband! No, I will not be 
 lieve it. 
 
 JOHN. I have been a changed man ever since 
 I saw Mattie. I love her ! 
 
 ALICE. She s a harlot. I knew it the first time 
 I saw her. She has a good husband, and she treats 
 him like a dog. 
 
 MATTIE [in a rage\. Yes, I treat him like a 
 dog. I know it, but I am no beast of burden for 
 him to ride to death. 
 
 ALICE. You are too lazy to work. 
 
 MATTIE. How can a woman work when there 
 is no love in the doing of things, or for the man 
 that you are married to ? 
 
 ALICE. He is your husband. 
 
 MATTIE. Yes, in name only. I was born in 
 the filth of London, reared in its darkness and 
 poverty, and when Frank Sawyer came along and 
 hoffered to take me out into the sunlight, I gladly 
 haccepted. Then when I came ere I found love.
 
 Bipemng TOeat si 
 
 JOHN. Yes, we love one another, Alice. We 
 
 ALICE. You dare to flaunt it in my face. You, 
 my husband, that I have trusted. 
 
 JOHN. I have sacrificed enough of my life with 
 you. 
 
 MATTIE. I ave my life to live, too. You don t 
 think I am going to sacrifice hit for marriage 
 scruples either. 
 
 ALICE. You are a cur worse than the low 
 est of women. 
 
 JOHN. Alice ! 
 
 ALICE. A woman that would take the husband 
 of another woman is a thief without a price. 
 
 MATTIE [taking the knife out of the pan and 
 swinging it in her wrath]. That is not so. I ad 
 my chance in the slums of London, but I wouldn t 
 sell myself that cheap. 
 
 ALICE. You came out here with Frank Sawyer 
 as a mere blind. You sold yourself to him for a 
 railroad ticket just so you could flirt with men. 
 Here I find you in the arms of my husband. 
 
 JOHN. We are going away, Alice. Mattie and 
 I will start life in some new place. 
 
 ALICE. Away! [Staggers back toward the 
 door] Away! No, no, my God, don t do that. 
 
 MATTIE. You ave ad im long enough without
 
 82 
 
 love. Your marriage has been on the altar of 
 make-believe, too. 
 
 ALICE. Without love? 
 
 JOHN. Yes, Alice. I never loved you. 
 
 MATTIE. E loves me, e loves me. See ! [She 
 goes up and throws her arms about John} 
 
 ALICE [putting a revolver from the table 
 drawer~\. He does, does he? \Shoot s\ 
 
 MATTIE [falling in JOHN S arms]. John! 
 
 JOHN. What have you done, Alice? 
 
 SAWYER [appearing in the doorway hesitates 
 for a moment, then staggers forward and grabs 
 the revolver out of ALICE S hand]. My God, 
 woman ! You have shot your own daughter. 
 
 ALICE [stands pinned to the floor for a minute, 
 then rushes forward and takes MATTIE in her arms, 
 weeping] . My little girl ! 
 
 CURTAIN
 
 THE NEW RACE 
 
 A ONE-ACT PLAY
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 STRENGTH, a Russian, father of the new race 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM, a Japanese, mother of the new 
 
 race 
 
 LIFE, the last of the old American race 
 OLD AGE, his mother 
 TIME, father of all time 
 Japanese Travelers
 
 The facade of an ancient and dilapidated cathe 
 dral on Morningside Heights in New York is 
 faintly seen in the dying day. Beyond, in tlie 
 west, silver clouds are fading away into the red 
 sky, deepening with the setting of the sun. This 
 is soon changed into a sombre gray, as a few dark 
 clouds develop and roll across the sky, behind 
 which the new moon can be seen at intervals. A 
 half discernible figure of a decrepit old man can be 
 seen moving across the foreground into the church. 
 A few lights spring up through the windows and 
 door of the cathedral, then slowly a red glow, the 
 reflection of a large bonfire, one of many that the 
 inhabitants start at dusk to light the remnant of 
 their city, spreads over the great mass of rock that 
 once was the pride of the greatest city in America. 
 
 Time %500 A. D. 
 
 LIFE. [A small, Hi-shaped individual, repre 
 senting the last of the American race, is seen 
 crouching on the steps] Why stand you there, 
 Time, eyeing me like a toad? Think you that it 
 is my day to pass into the great eternity? 
 
 TIME [the old, symbolic figure, chuckles to him- 
 
 85
 
 86 l^uman 
 
 self as he stands, enveloped in a long coat, in the 
 arched doorway]. What difference does it make 
 whether you live in this world or the next, so spent 
 are your forces? 
 
 LIFE. So say you, but I know no other. I 
 have always been like this. You tell me of my 
 people of a strong and mighty race that lived 
 here, the mingling of all the nations of Europe. 
 Methinks it is another childish story of yours 
 [shnekf\ t like the glove of the giant in the thumb 
 of which Thor lived. 
 
 TIME [drawing his mantle more closely about 
 him and with a weary sigh]. So it is, so it has 
 ever been, so it shall ever be ! 
 
 LIFE {with a conquering cough]. Then why 
 do you stand here mocking me and my people? 
 We are living, loving, forgetting! 
 
 STRENGTH. [A strong stalwart youth, whose 
 dress indicates that he belongs to the steppes of 
 Russia, appears over the edge of the rocks, carry 
 ing a heavy sack on his back] Living, loving, 
 forgetting. Life, you are too serious. [Looks 
 at LIFE with pity, and disappears through a hole 
 into the crypt] 
 
 TIME. You are living only on the dregs of the 
 past, my boy.
 
 Cfje H3eto Uace 87 
 
 LIFE. What do we care ! Our ancestors made 
 the world in which we live, and we are content with 
 it. You stay here, I see. 
 
 TIME. Content to be shriveled up mere 
 ghosts of your forefathers ; content to eat the 
 food that the animals of your ancestors refused; 
 content with the lustful existence that was only 
 licensed to the fallen? 
 
 LIFE. Say not so, Father Time. You are an 
 old prude. You judge the present standards with 
 the moral code of the Puritans. 
 
 TIME. When America first built her boat, it 
 was her intention to gather the best brain and 
 brawn of Europe and man it, but wealth and lux 
 ury came too easily and they hired out the work 
 of its steering. Before they knew it, others who 
 were jealous bribed the crew. When the crew 
 could no longer be relied upon, what was to be 
 expected of their children, their children s chil 
 dren ? 
 
 LIFE. And now, old father? 
 
 TIME [sighing, reflecting, and pausing as his 
 eye scans the city before him~\. Now, all seem to 
 be misguided, flitting before the lights of mockery ; 
 the children of these misguided parents cry and 
 sing in their superficial happiness. The bones of
 
 88 
 
 the dead are too saturated with vice to rot; they 
 sing in their sizzling with joy over the ruin they 
 have brought to the once God-given America. 
 
 LIFE [frightened, drawing back]. Time, you 
 blaspheme this sacred earth ! 
 
 TIME [with a hollow laugh]. Sacred!!! Sa 
 cred!!! [The sneer dies away in echoes] 
 
 OLD AGE. [A very old, bent and ragged form 
 comes creeping up the steps] Tis you, Time, 
 that I have spent thirty-five years in finding. 
 You robbed me of my youth, my jewels, my ability 
 to earn a living. You took from me my beauty, 
 my wealth, the keen edge of my wits, and have 
 left only these old rags in their place. Do you 
 think that they glorify me? Down on your knees ; 
 beg my pardon and ask the great Divine Spirit to 
 forgive you. The footlights of the world are 
 calling me back, are calling me back to amuse them, 
 but you wrinkled my brow, you parched my skin, 
 and made me the hag that you now see me. Give 
 me back my youth, my beauty, my lovers. 
 
 TIME. Ha! ha! ha! You witch; thousands 
 have fallen in your pathway. I gave you warn 
 ing innumerable times, but you waved them aside 
 only to mock me. Here is your child, Life. Be 
 hold him in all his magnificence. He represents
 
 dace 89 
 
 the glittering diamond, the wine room, the pawn 
 shop, all in one; contrast him with your old mil 
 lionaire lover that had lost every trace of man 
 hood. His bag of gold bought you the late sup 
 pers, but stole from you the bloom of your cheeks, 
 and little by little we see no longer beauty, but the 
 dissipated girl who soon became an old woman, 
 a toothless scrub-woman, then the beggar. Look 
 at him well, Old Age. His shrunken frame is the 
 result of a life of pleasure begun with the first 
 glass of wine. Do you remember how you blushed 
 and apologized as you circled your sweet white 
 hand about the stem of the crystal glass? He 
 was lurking in its depths ; you did not see him 
 then, but he has no doubt been revealed to you in 
 the dreary years that have followed, in the cuffs 
 and the rebuffs, in the curses that society put upon 
 you as it stamped you under its feet, and photo 
 graphed him to you of what he might have been. 
 [Laughs] I saw him then as I see him now, plead 
 ing with you for a chance at manhood, to be all 
 that God intended him to be you robbed him of 
 everything, then you ask for mercy ? 
 
 OLD AGE [shaking zdth rage]. Curses on thee, 
 get thee gone! Out of my sight, you bewildering 
 fool. What do you mean by laying the curse of
 
 90 
 
 the world at my feet? May God smite you with 
 his rod of iron ! You have lived too long now. 
 [In a pleading voice] Oh, give me back my youth, 
 my beauty, for woman is naught without them. 
 [Falls in a swoon~\ 
 
 LIFE. What have you done now, Time? 
 
 TIME. Just what I have been doing for a 
 million years or more. 
 
 LIFE [hobbling over to his mother]. My 
 mother! How sacred is the word! Arise, fear 
 him not, for I am here to shield you. All the 
 Rolands of old are not dead yet. (Time mocks 
 me, but I heed him not) yes ; here lingers chivalry, 
 duty, loyalty. Mother, do you not hear your 
 son s voice? He calls, he calls. 
 
 TIME. Yes, but he calls in vain [in a sarcastic 
 voice] 
 
 LIFE. Well has my mother defined you ; well 
 has she outlined your deeds, your crimes. Away 
 with you, vanish into the world of forgetfulness ; 
 I want one more hour to live. 
 
 TIME [fading away slowly as he speaks]. 
 What is one hour compared to the millions of 
 eternity? 
 
 LIFE. I know of this hour; I know nothing of 
 the lies that you tell about the future and the mil-
 
 Jl2eto Race 91 
 
 lion and million of years to come. [Looks up, 
 and seeing that TIME has gone cries\ Thief, 
 where goest thou now? 
 
 FIRST TRAVELER. [A band of weary travelers, 
 with heavy sacks on their backs, comes over the 
 ledge in front of the cathedral. They are dark 
 skinned, arched eyed, and dressed in heavy tunics, 
 roped in at the waist like the fathers of the East. 
 They drop their loads~\ Let us rest awhile here, 
 comrades ; there seems to be habitation here, and 
 perhaps some living soul will give us a bidding; 
 perhaps life is better here than we have seen it 
 down at the shore. 
 
 SECOND TRAVELER. No, no, brother, stay not 
 here. The pathway was strewn with death. We 
 come here for life, so let us seek shelter for the 
 night where the vultures will not mistake us for 
 the dead. 
 
 THIRD TRAVELER. Methinks if we hurry we 
 can yet reach yonder shore, where our camp is 
 pitched. 
 
 STRENGTH [coming out of hole in the crypt~\. 
 Oh, ho, some strangers, I see. Welcome to this 
 city of desolation. Such as it is, you may share. 
 
 FIRST TRAVELER. Kind sir, we are looking for 
 homes, and in our search wandered farther away
 
 92 
 
 from our camp than was wise for the time of day. 
 
 STRENGTH. Tarry not long here then, 
 strangers. This is the home of everything but 
 God s love. [Sees CHERRY BLOSSOM and paiises] 
 
 FIRST TRAVELER [after a moment s silence]. 
 Speak to the stranger, daughter. Have you no 
 word of greeting? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [embarrassed]. What shall 
 I say, my father? 
 
 STRENGTH [wishing to help her]. It is my 
 place to greet her. Welcome you are, fair daugh 
 ter of the East. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [spellbound]. We tarry not 
 long, stranger, but we thank you. 
 
 SECOND TRAVELER. Our camp is on yonder 
 hills ; can you direct us there by some short 
 route? 
 
 STRENGTH [with a glance toward CHERRY 
 BLOSSOM]. Will you not remain here for a while? 
 The church is at your disposal, and I live in the 
 cellar yonder in great comfort, which shall be 
 yours as long as you care to stay. 
 
 THIRD TRAVELER, It is not comforts that we 
 are looking for, sir. We are looking for life, and 
 all the things that make for life. 
 
 STRENGTH. So I offer you here.
 
 C|je Jfteto laace 93 
 
 FIRST TRAVELER. Say not so, stranger. We 
 find this once great city nothing but heaps of 
 stone and brick, and the dwellers poor imitations 
 of what men ought to be. 
 
 STRENGTH. Put yourself to test here, then ; 
 abide in their midst, and teach them to the way of 
 higher life. 
 
 SECOND TRAVELER. So great are they in num 
 ber they would pull our children down and our 
 people would soon be wiped out. [Turning to the 
 crowd] No, no, brethren, let us not remain here 
 in the midst of rack and ruin, but go to the open 
 fields again. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [seeing the men are about to 
 take up their packs, she looks hopefully at 
 STRENGTH, then runs to her father]. Can we not 
 remain a day or two, father, just to see some of 
 the wonderful old buildings and the great under 
 ground passages? 
 
 STRENGTH [with enthusiasm]. And I will show 
 them to you, my 
 
 FIRST TRAVELER. No, no, my child, this is no 
 place for you to abide, show us the way, my friend, 
 and we will make for our boats. 
 
 STRENGTH [reluctantly]. To the right behind 
 the cathedral you will find a pathway that will
 
 94. ^uman 2x3i0p0 
 
 take you to the river, where you will find some 
 fishermen; they will direct you from there. 
 
 SECOND TRAVELER. Onward then, my men. 
 [They all lift their burdens and start forward, 
 except CHERRY BLOSSOM. She stands gazing at 
 STRENGTH] The moon will soon be up to help 
 us keep in the path. 
 
 STRENGTH [following CHERRY BLOSSOM, as she 
 is the last to leave the stage, he stops just at the 
 feet of LIFE, who is still sitting in the corner of 
 the steps. With outstretched arms]. Come to 
 me again in my dreams, my fairy one. Come to 
 me [CHERRY BLOSSOM looks back until she 
 disappears, but says nothing] 
 
 LIFE [with a laugh that echoes through the very 
 walls of the church]. And you lost your little 
 fairy one, didn t you? 
 
 STRENGTH [wishing to kick him]. Whelp! 
 
 LIFE. She was a pretty one, wasn t she? If 
 you hadn t been here I might have stood a chance 
 myself. 
 
 STRENGTH [with contempt]. You! Life, you 
 cannot see your own shortcomings. Don t you 
 see your shriveled body, your crooked legs, your 
 cocked eyes, all of which are hideous to beautiful 
 woman ?
 
 95 
 
 LIFE. My heart throbs just the same as yours 
 for the love of the beautiful. If women had 
 learned that lesson long ago, that love and ugli 
 ness brought harmony to the home, there would 
 have been fewer of you Apollos brought into the 
 divorce courts. 
 
 STRENGTH [going on his wa,y\. My people 
 have all been Apollos, but none of them ever 
 sought a divorce, because life began and ended in 
 the home. Something very strange must have 
 entered into the homes of this land? 
 
 LIFE [alone]. Some day I am going to throt 
 tle that fellow. He - 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [comes running back]. 
 Where is he, where is he? 
 
 LIFE. Who? Strength? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. That handsome youth, with 
 eyes like the stars above, and a face like the sea 
 when the sun is rising. 
 
 LIFE. Ah! You mean me. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. You? 
 
 LIFE. I change my expression sometimes to fit 
 my mood. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. You must be in a very ugly 
 mood now. [He rises and starts to hobble toward 
 her] You are hideous oh go away I
 
 96 
 
 LIFE. Be not afraid, fair one. You see, to 
 me you are the most wonderful creature I have 
 ever seen. I changed my body into this [grab 
 bing his sides] when I thought that I had lost you. 
 Now that you have frightened me, I cannot turn 
 back. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. What is your name? 
 
 LIFE. They call me Life, because I am the last 
 of a great race. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. But you, Life, are merely 
 the shell of a man. 
 
 LIFE, I am the best of my people when I am in 
 my other mood. But tell me, why came you here ; 
 you are a strange people? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. I lived in a beautiful land 
 in the East, where the temples went skyward, and 
 trees and flowers were so many in number they 
 were but rainbows stretched across the earth. 
 
 LIFE. Why came you here then among us, so 
 poor, so weary of what existence we know? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. The father of our people 
 told all the young families to find new homes be 
 yond our sea our lands were getting too small 
 for so many. Many of our people stopped on the 
 islands on the way, but our ship was driven by a 
 storm through a great canal into the warm seas.
 
 Cfje I3eto mace 97 
 
 When we arrived upon the shores we were met by 
 large hosts of birds vultures, eagles that fol 
 lowed us to tear the very life out of us. We were 
 trying to get back to our people when we came 
 here. [STRENGTH has come up behind her and 
 has been listening] 
 
 STRENGTH. We are very glad that you lost 
 your way, and that Fate sent you to us. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [looking at one, then at the 
 other in surprise]. Fate was kind to send me 
 your way, even though it were a perilous journey. 
 
 STRENGTH. See what you have found in the 
 end? Behold Life, the great king, and his lost 
 world empire ! 
 
 LIFE [hobbling away m anger]. This is no 
 place for me. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Oh, sir, your land is terri 
 ble. We traveled far, and only found great 
 wastes of land, with millions of dead souls that 
 served as carrion for the birds of prey. From 
 east to west, from north to south, it was the same. 
 
 STRENGTH. A great pestilence struck this 
 wonderful America with one blow [seeing LIFE as 
 he trudges up the steps into the cathedral], but 
 this city was lost long before the great known 
 One laid His hand upon the country people.
 
 98 ^uman 2x3i0p0 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. So feared our great ruler 
 when he sent our fathers with their families out 
 in search of new homes. 
 
 STRENGTH. How can you share the want and 
 suffering that is necessary in these long pilgrim 
 ages ? You are but a lily 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [interrupting /lira]. Thou 
 sands of lilies like me are left behind in the rice 
 fields. Their brown eyes tell no tales but famine, 
 suffering. 
 
 STRENGTH. From the land of want to the land 
 of death you came? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. But I must be on my way 
 before my father misses me. 
 
 STRENGTH. I will guarantee you a safe return, 
 if you wish, but won t you remain here with me a 
 little while? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Oh, no, no. I am afraid. 
 
 STRENGTH. Of me? [Leads her over to the 
 stairway, and touches a button. The interior of 
 the crypt, which can be seen through a large hole 
 in the wall, loosened by the ravages of time, is in 
 stantly lit up. About, one can see costly articles 
 of silver and gold and brass that STRENGTH has 
 picked up from the ruins. Vases, urns, candle 
 sticks, statues, exquisite in design and finish, adorn
 
 Cfte H3eto Race 99 
 
 the wonderful old furniture within] Why do you 
 tremble ; do you fear me ? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Take me not into the earth. 
 I want the open, the great, wide world. 
 
 STRENGTH [tapping loudly on the rocks], Ly- 
 cia, Lycia! 
 
 [An old, decrepit woman comes out of the open 
 ing] 
 
 LYCIA. I come, master; I come. 
 
 STRENGTH. Who has been here? 
 
 LYCIA. Life has been here. 
 
 STRENGTH [seats CHERRY BLOSSOM on the top 
 of the steps while he stands at the foot]. Have I 
 not warned you of the consequences? 
 
 LYCIA. What harm can poor little Life do? 
 
 STRENGTH. You shall see. Everything that 
 he touches falls ; if you wish to be happy, shun 
 him as you would a house these days above the 
 ground. Go prepare a room for Cherry Blossom. 
 [LYCIA goes bach] 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Tell me, how came you 
 here? Where are your people? 
 
 STRENGTH. In Russia Land, my child; the 
 land of light, free air and plenty. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Why came you here? 
 
 STRENGTH. One day I was out for a lark, test-
 
 ioo 
 
 ing my new air engine, and two days brought me 
 to these shores. Finding such a wasted mess of 
 men and men s work, I became interested, and re 
 mained oh I know not why. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [jumping down]. But you 
 must help me now to get to my people; it is get 
 ting late. 
 
 STRENGTH. But you are going to stay with 
 me, Cherry Blossom ; it was for you that I re 
 mained here now I know. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. How? 
 
 STRENGTH. I had a great premonition that I 
 was to start a world empire here upon the ashes 
 of the old. You are going to help me. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [runs to the ledge]. See, 
 they are building a fire by the river; they have 
 built it to guide me to them. 
 
 STRENGTH [seizing her]. No, no, Cherry 
 Blossom, you are to be mine. This last remnant 
 of civilization has to be wiped out. I have wires 
 of radium running in all directions, and with one 
 touch the whole ruins will fall. One I have 
 stretched across the river to destroy all boats that 
 dare to approach these shores. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. But you will not destroy my 
 people?
 
 Cfje I3eto Eace 101 
 
 STRENGTH. Am I not more to you than your 
 people? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. No, no, not more than my 
 people. They are sacred to me. We seek new 
 homes, new lands that we may increase the earth. 
 That is our mission. We have been sent out by 
 the great emperor himself; we must do his bid 
 ding. 
 
 STRENGTH. Believe in me. Help me to con 
 quer my world. [Before she realizes he has 
 wrapped her close in his arms and kissed her] 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [struggling against the tide]. 
 But you have committed a great crime. In my 
 country even a husband does not kiss his wife. 
 
 STRENGTH. I would hate to live in your land, 
 then. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. That is what has kept our 
 world pure and free from disaster. 
 
 STRENGTH. No, Cherry Blossom, not that. 
 There are other things in your character, strong 
 underlying principles, born and fostered by want 
 and suffering, that have kept the nation s family 
 together. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [looking westward]. The 
 ship is going down stream without me. Give them 
 a signal that I am coming.
 
 102 l^uman 
 
 STRENGTH. Won t you decide to give them up? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. What, my people ! 
 
 STRENGTH. You have lived with them all your 
 few, short years, and all your life has been their 
 life. You have known me but a short hour. 
 Have you not lived more than one life in that 
 hour? Tell me, Cherry Blossom [holding her 
 hands ], what has this hour been to you? 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Oh, I cannot tell you I 
 only know that the world here, that was so ter 
 rible a land of waste and disease, looks beautiful 
 to me now. 
 
 STRENGTH [points to the out-going ship]. 
 Now you must choose. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [m wonder]. Choose? 
 
 STRENGTH. Between me and your fair land. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. No, I will not stay I 
 cannot. [Begins to cry on his arm] 
 
 STRENGTH. Good-by, then. In my land of 
 great hopes and plenty I ll remember you always. 
 [He embraces her fondly on the forehead, then 
 leads her to the ledge to the right of the cathe 
 dral] 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [hesitating]. But you will 
 go with me to my people ? 
 
 STRENGTH. No, Cherry Blossom. I ll watch
 
 CJ)e I3eto Bace 103 
 
 you until you are safe on the boat ; they have 
 stopped for they have felt the shock of the ra 
 dium. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [in an imploring tone}. But 
 you said that you wanted me to help you? 
 
 STRENGTH. So I do, but my wife must go with 
 me, not to her people, nor to mine just with 
 me. [Reaches his hands to her, pleadingly} 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [climbing back on the rocks, 
 looking toward the boats}. Good-by, my people; 
 good-by, my cherished land. 
 
 STRENGTH. You have decided well, my fair 
 one. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM [holding him by one hand, as 
 she waves the other in farewell from the cliff}. 
 Yes, Strength, I will stay with you, for I, too, 
 must be a parent in a new land. I must give to 
 a new race the best that is in my people ; I must 
 teach my children to love and respect the far 
 East, for much as she has been held down by tra 
 dition, much has she given to civilization. 
 
 STRENGTH. The best that is in us, that will we 
 give to the new race. 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. The best that is in us. 
 [She holds her face to his, as he leads her across 
 the tiles}
 
 104 ^uman 2x3i0p0 
 
 STRENGTH [his face and hers in dark silhouette 
 against the light -within the crypt]. Nations will 
 rise and fall, as other worlds have done, but the 
 love for husband and wife lives on, and will live 
 down through the ages and through all eternity. 
 [A great rumbling sound is heard as CHERRY 
 BLOSSOM draws closer to STRENGTH] What is 
 it? Are we in eternity? 
 
 STRENGTH. Yes, in our eternity. I have 
 touched off the wires ; the last of the ruins are 
 falling. In the morning there will be nothing left 
 but a few dead bodies to tell that life was recent 
 the last of great lives and noble aims. To the 
 city, the accumulator of wit, wisdom, and vice, I 
 give you back the ashes of your glorious work. 
 Your fathers built well, but thy children, oh, thy 
 children reaped and forgot to sow again. Fare 
 well. [The jailing and crashing of buildings is 
 heard] 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Farewell to what, my hus 
 band? 
 
 STRENGTH. To the past. [The little form of 
 LIFE is seen coming out of the church and hob 
 bling across the tiles] 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOM. Every home and every fam 
 ily dedicate their love to the future. [LIFE has
 
 CJje Jfteto Race 105 
 
 touched a wire, stumbles back on the stage, and 
 falls dead at their feet] 
 
 STRENGTH [Their forms are hidden half tJie 
 time from the gusts of wind and flame that wreak 
 ravages upon the city]. So shall we dedicate our 
 love to the future, a wonderful future. 
 
 CURTAIN
 
 DANNY 
 
 A ONE-ACT PLAY 
 
 " And all men kiU tlie thing they love, 
 
 By all let this be heard, 
 Some do it with a bitter look, 
 
 Some with a flattering word, 
 The coward does it with a kiss, 
 The brave man with a sword."
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 DANNY, a hunchback 
 ANN, a half-witted girl 
 Mas. WELSH, Danny s mother 
 JACK WYNN, a neighbor 
 MRS. NOLAN, a neighbor
 
 Scene: A sitting room of a family of very 
 modest means, but in no way poor. To the left 
 a door opening from the street; at the back two 
 large windows some five feet apart, in which space 
 stands an old-fashioned stove. Before each win 
 dow is a rocking chair, where the members of the 
 family are wont to sit to get a good view of the 
 street. To the right a sofa, to the left of which, 
 and halfway between the front stage and the win 
 dows, is a table with chairs at either side. An 
 old ingrain carpet is on the floor; crayon por 
 traits of the brothers and sisters, as well as those 
 of all the grandparents, adorn the wall. 
 
 Time: Early spring. 
 
 MRS. WELSH [sewing at the window to the left]. 
 Rouse yourself from there, lad. You haven t got 
 your chores done as yet. 
 
 DANNY [curled up on the sofa]. Wait a bit, 
 mother. I don t feel much fit this morning. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You were out most of the night. 
 
 Where do you go, lad, these dark nights? 
 
 109
 
 no 
 
 DANNY. I likes to talk with the little men and 
 women in the trees, mother. They tell such funny 
 stories. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. About what, Danny? 
 
 DANNY. How the spider gets his silver from 
 the stars, and builds himself a house more beauti 
 ful than the kings. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Don t be silly, Danny. 
 
 DANNY [with an attempt to rouse himself. 
 I m no silly, little mother. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You are always so queer, lad. 
 You never play with other children, but instead 
 you roam through the brake by the river, or the 
 trees in the woods, or by the rocks in the quarry. 
 
 DANNY. Yes, mother. [Throws himself back- 
 on the sofa, and draws himself up into a heap that 
 doesn t look much larger than the hump on his 
 back] 
 
 MRS. WELSH. And why? 
 
 DANNY. I love to see my friends, the hobgob 
 lins. They tell me such queer things, mother; 
 perhaps that s why I m queer. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You are too old for that now, 
 lad. 
 
 DANNY. Eighteen my last birthday, mother. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. And you such a little fellow.
 
 Dannp 111 
 
 DANNY. It s the hump on my back that makes 
 me little. If God hadn t given me that, but in 
 stead had made me a big, fine fellow so the girls 
 would not run when they see me, or the gamblers 
 pat my back to bring them luck, I d 
 
 MES. WELSH. You d what? [Stops sewing 
 and looks, wondering] 
 
 DANNY Never mind, mother. If I wa n t as 
 ugly as a toad, maybe I d have a sweetheart, too. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. What! You are not thinking 
 of the girls already? 
 
 DANNY. Yes, mother. I be a man now. I 
 may not look it. 
 
 MRS. WELSH [distressed]. A man? [A knock 
 on the door] Who is that, now? [Opening the 
 door] Well, good-morning, Mrs. Nolan ; come in, 
 will you? 
 
 MRS. NOLAN [in great excitement]. Have you 
 heard what the quarrymen found when they went 
 to work this morning? 
 
 MRS. WELSH. No, I have not, Mrs. Nolan. 
 
 MRS. NOLAN. Well, they found the murdered 
 body of Minnie Wynn, they did. 
 
 MRS. WELSH [surprised]. What are you tell 
 ing me, Mrs. Nolan. [A groom is heard from 
 DANNY on the sofa]
 
 us J^uman 
 
 MRS. NOLAN. They did that, and she so good 
 to your Danny there. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. What do you think of that, 
 Danny? Poor Mrs. Wynn has been murdered. 
 [Not a sound from DANNY] 
 
 MRS. NOLAN. They have been looking all over 
 for her husband, and they cannot find him. 
 
 DANNY [rises up in great excitement]. What? 
 [Then falls back again] 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You ll have no one to bake 
 you little cakes with sugar on any more, my 
 lad. 
 
 MRS. NOLAN. Where was Danny last night? 
 
 MRS. WELSH [looking at DANNY and then at 
 MRS. NOLAN, her jaw dropping], Danny was at 
 home, Mrs. Nolan. 
 
 MRS. NOLAN. Some one said they saw him go 
 ing through her gate before her man came home 
 from work. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. If it is here you come to make 
 trouble, Mrs. Nolan, you can excuse yourself at 
 once. I ll not have a bit of it. 
 
 MRS. NOLAN. I m only asking, Mrs. Welsh. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. But it s for idle gossip you are 
 asking, Mrs. Nolan. My Danny is innocent. Go 
 [opening ihe door~\, go tell the whole neighbor-
 
 Dannp 113 
 
 hood that my Danny is innocent. [Mas. NOLAN 
 goes out] 
 
 DANNY [arousing himself]. Is she gone? 
 
 MRS. WELSH. She is that, bad luck to her evil 
 tongue. 
 
 DANNY. Where do you think Jack Wynn has 
 gone ? 
 
 MRS. WELSH. He is gone where they can t get 
 him. I can tell you that. 
 
 DANNY [rising to a sitting position]. Why? 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Well, if it is him that s killed his 
 little wife, he ain t going to stay around here to 
 let them string him up on a rope. 
 
 DANNY. Why should he kill his little wife? 
 
 MRS. WELSH. I ll tell you something, my 
 Danny boy, these here married folks often have 
 reasons for killing one another. It s often a bad 
 business relationship. It s a wonder more of them 
 ain t killed than are. 
 
 DANNY. Oh ! [wondering] I thought it was all 
 so beautiful. [Crouches again in his corner] 
 
 MRS. WELSH. There s more of your queer 
 thinking now. [The door squeaks. MRS. WELSH 
 jumps and looks in surprise as she sees the face of 
 SILLY ANN peeping through the door] 
 
 ANN. Can I come in ?
 
 l^uman 
 
 MRS. WELSH [pausing before she answers]. 
 Yes, come in, Ann. 
 
 ANN [looking about, and seeing DANNY on the 
 sofa, she laughs in her half-witted way]. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Danny isn t feeling well this 
 morning, Ann. 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Would you do his chores for 
 him? I have got a nice, big cake in the pantry 
 saved for you. 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Feed the pigs, Ann, before you 
 milk. They are squealing their heads off. 
 
 ANN [looking at the sofa, surprised] . He ! he ! 
 [Slips out] 
 
 DANNY. My! But she makes me squirm. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Nothing to be scared about, son. 
 She is as harmless as a kitten. 
 
 DANNY. Well, she just thinks it. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Thinks what now? 
 
 DANNY. I know. [Buries himself deeper in his 
 corner] 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You don t think [pausing] that 
 she s heard of Mrs. Wynn getting killed, do you? 
 You don t reckon she thinks Oh, Danny, if 
 you hadn t stayed out so late last night !
 
 Dannp us 
 
 DANNY. I was sleeping in the barn most of the 
 time, mother. It s warm in the cow s manger, and 
 I likes to snuggle up in the hay and think. 
 
 MRS. WELSH [reassured]. Of course you do; 
 of course you do. I think I ll run down to Mrs. 
 Homer s to see if they know any particulars about 
 about Mrs. Wynn. [Takes her shawl from a 
 hook behind the door and throws it over her head] 
 I won t be gone long, Danny. 
 
 DANNY [hearing his mother close the door, he 
 looks up tenth a somewhat turbulent expression]. 
 Ma, you are a fool! [The door begins to open 
 slowly; the squeak startles DANNY, and he gazes 
 open-mouthed with an expression of fear on his 
 face until he sees the head of SILLY ANN ap 
 pear] 
 
 ANN [coming in slowly, and looking to the back 
 and the side] . He ! he ! 
 
 DANNY. Silly Ann, you re a fool, a damn fool ! 
 
 ANN [with her monotonous grin]. He! he! 
 
 DANNY [his shoulders raised, his head sunk m 
 the hollow of his chest, his claw-like hands on the 
 edge of the sofa]. Don t you say I did it, now! 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 DANNY. You did it yourself. 
 
 ANN. He! he!
 
 116 
 
 DANNY [throwing his legs out from under him~\. 
 You know you are in love with Jack W} f nn. 
 
 ANN. He! he! [Nods] He! he! 
 
 DANNY. I saw you give her the blow on the 
 head. 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 DANNY [jumps into the middle of the room]. 
 Then you strangled her, didn t you? 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 DANNY [emphatically]. Now didn t you? 
 
 ANN [nods]. He! he! 
 
 DANNY. Then you [covers his eyes with his 
 hands], my God! Then you cut her head off. 
 
 ANN [pointing to the blood on his wrist]. He! 
 he! 
 
 DANNY [jumping about the floor with short 
 steps, a weird expression of excitement on his 
 face], I got that when I helped you to pull her 
 down into the hole. 
 
 ANN. He ! he I 
 
 DANNY. Why do you stand there staring at 
 me like an owl? 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 DANNY [recovering himself]. What did you 
 do with the hatchet? 
 
 ANN. He! he!
 
 Dannp in 
 
 DANNY [mocking her] . He! he! 
 
 [ANN, grinning, with her mouth screwed up 
 to one side, just lets out a shrill note]. 
 
 DANNY. Didn t you bury it? 
 
 ANN [shakes her head] . He ! he ! 
 
 DANNY [tearing around the room, limping, his 
 two arms half-raised as if he had a tomahawk 
 in each one; and with every step and pause, ANN 
 steps and pauses]. What are you going to say 
 when they take you to jail? 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 DANNY. Yes ; he ! he ! That grin is driving 
 me mad. Why didn t you dig a hole in the 
 ground and put that bloody thing in it? 
 
 ANN. I gave it to Jack Wynn. 
 He! he! 
 
 DANNY [stunned]. You? 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 DANNY [grabs up an iron off the stove to throw 
 it at her, when voices are heard outside. Listen 
 ing]. Now they have found you out. 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH [entering, followed by JACK 
 WYNN]. You ll not harm a hair of his head, I 
 say. 
 
 JACK [a strong, giant-like fellow of the labor-
 
 118 Rinnan 
 
 ing type\. My poor little harmless wife; they 
 killed her! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Not a word of it is true, if the 
 whole neighborhood is saying that it is. Look 
 at them, the two harmless things. [ANN and 
 DANNY look lank and dejected in their innocence] 
 
 JACK. Danny, I loved you better than my own 
 boy ; now to kill the thing I loved. 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Speak up, Danny. Declare 
 your innocence. 
 
 ANN. He! he! [DANNY remains silent] 
 
 JACK. Danny you oh, I felt so safe to 
 go to lodge when you was there with her. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Ann, my God, you speak. 
 
 DANNY. Ann did it. 
 
 ANN. He ! he ! 
 
 JACK. You wouldn t do a thing like that to 
 Jack, would you? I have been a brother to you 
 all my life. 
 
 ANN [shakes her head]. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Ann, now own up; we won t 
 hurt you if you tell the truth. 
 
 DANNY. You choked her, didn t you? 
 
 ANN. He! he!
 
 Dating 119 
 
 JACK [his hands at his throat]. No, no; not 
 that, Ann ! 
 
 ANN [shaking her head]. He! he! 
 
 DANNY. Ann, you ll swing for it ! 
 
 ANN [in terror, her eyes widening, points to 
 DANNY] . No, no, he he killed Minnie. 
 
 JACK [with up-raised chair]. I ll brain you 
 without the law. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. No, Jack, you know Danny 
 loved Minnie as his own sister; he couldn t have 
 hurt the child. 
 
 JACK. But he killed her, Mrs. Welsh. He 
 killed the only thing I loved. [Weeps, sitting 
 down on the chair, with back turned to the audi 
 ence, to hide his tears] 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Danny couldn t even kill a bird, 
 Jack. 
 
 DANNY [aroused]. Yes, mother, I did kill the 
 only thing he loved. 
 
 ANN. He ! he ! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Danny! 
 
 DANNY. Yes, I did it because he loved the only 
 thing that I loved. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. But she was his wife ! 
 
 DANNY. I wanted her.
 
 120 Duman 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Danny! Jack, do you hear 
 what he says? 
 
 DANNY. Yes, I loved her; oh, more than the 
 soul of any able-bodied man ever loved. I loved 
 her fingers ; I loved her eyes ; I loved her mouth. 
 
 JACK [sobbing]. Oh! 
 
 DANNY [with great emphasis]. Yes, I loved 
 her. You all laugh at me ; she laughed at me. 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 DANNY. You vile critter shut up ! I loved 
 her I wanted her, but she wanted [pointing to 
 JACK] she wanted him. 
 
 JACK. Oh, my God ! Give me forgiveness, but 
 I [ri?s] must kill him. 
 
 MRS. WELSH [runs toward him]. No, no, 
 Jack. He didn t do it ; he is shielding Ann. 
 
 ANN. He ! he ! 
 
 JACK. Why should he shield Ann ? 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Because she loves you. 
 
 DANNY. Because we love things that don t love 
 us, and are despised for it. 
 
 JACK. Loves me; oh, Ann, my little weak sis 
 ter! [holding out his hands to her] 
 
 ANN [going to him]. He! he! 
 
 JACK. You didn t kill Minnie, did you?
 
 Danng 
 
 ANN. He ! he ! [Shakes her head as he wraps 
 his arms about her] 
 
 DANNY [m a rage]. Mother, let me tell you, 
 and you, too, Jack; I killed her; I strangled her; 
 I oh, my God, what did I do ? I killed the 
 thing I loved \ 
 
 MRS. WELSH. The thing you loved ! 
 
 DANNY. Yes, mother. 
 
 ANN. He! he! [JACK tries to silence her] 
 
 DANNY. You thought I was a child, a babe 
 still in your arms, but the pangs of manhood have 
 long throbbed in my body. Girls ran from me, 
 women shunned me, and I was a monster to men 
 among men I was a man yet deprived of all 
 the joys their joys. 
 
 JACK. But Minnie ! She was good to you. 
 
 DANNY [breaking away from his mother s 
 grasp]. Yes, that was just it. Minnie was good 
 to me ; she baked cakes for me but she loved 
 you. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Oh, Danny ! Danny ! 
 
 JACK [with compassion]. My little brother! 
 
 DANNY. You all pitied me ; you pity me now ! 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You need pity, my child, if what 
 you say is true ; but it isn t true, is it, my Danny ?
 
 l^uman 
 
 JACK. Oh, Mrs. Welsh, I fear it is. These 
 half-witted children that we think are harmless 
 often rise up to break our hearts when life, when 
 God, when society alone is to blame. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. My Danny is as harmless as a 
 child, Jack Wynn, let me be a-telling you that. 
 
 JACK. And you say that after he has told you 
 that he killed Minnie the only thing I loved. 
 
 DANNY [with scorn]. The only thing I loved, 
 too, mother, and I am willing to die for it. Life 
 without her was nothing is nothing and 
 never 
 
 ANN. He ! he ! 
 
 MRS. WELSH [stretching her arms out to ANN 
 in her last appeal]. Didn t you kill Minnie? 
 
 ANN. He ! he ! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You love Jack, don t you ? 
 
 ANN [nods her head] . He ! he ! 
 
 MRS. WELSH. You see. She owns up to it 
 see! 
 
 DANNY. Listen to sense, mother. [Falls limp 
 upon the sofa, and, pulling up his sleeve, shows 
 them his blood-stained arm] 
 
 JACK [throws ANN from him and turns to the 
 wall, half faint]. Oh, my little wife, my little 
 wife!
 
 Dannp 123 
 
 DANNY. If you suffer at the sight of her blood, 
 what do you think I suffered when I saw you kiss 
 her night after night as you came home from 
 work? If you scorn the sin that is to drench my 
 soul, know that I suffered and am willing to suffer 
 for it, and it will never be half no, not one hun 
 dredth part of the agony that I have endured for 
 months when I saw you gather her into your arms 
 at bedtime and carry her upstairs to her room. I 
 had to turn out into the night, home, and alone. 
 
 JACK [fo the wall, with outstretched arms]. 
 My God ! give me strength, Thy strength, that I ll 
 not take a life for a life. 
 
 MRS. WELSH. Danny, this will kill me ! 
 
 DANNY. It killed me long ago. 
 
 MRS. WELSH [hearing something, she peers out 
 of the window] . Here comes the sheriff they 
 are coming here. There are some men with him. 
 
 DANNY [looks out of the window-]. Yes, they 
 are coming after me. 
 
 JACK. Justice! Justice! 
 
 DANNY [with contempt]. There is no justice. 
 Look at me, then ask God why he made such a 
 critter as me? 
 
 MRS. WELSH. What can we do to save him, 
 Jack?
 
 I^uman 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 JACK. He killed the thing I loved. 
 
 DANNY. Love killed her and me, mother. I m 
 no coward to die for the thing I loved. They can 
 take me. [Goes out to meet them] 
 
 MRS. WELSH [as door closes beJiind him, extend 
 ing her hands] . Danny, my boy ! [Falls in a 
 famt toward JACK, who catches her] 
 
 ANN. He! he! 
 
 CURTAIN
 
 
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