IN WANT OF A SERVANT.
Characters:
- Mr. Marshall and Wife.
- Margaret O’Flanagan.
- Katrina Van Follestein.
- Snowdrop Washington.
- Mrs. Bunker.
- Freddie.
Scene I.—The breakfast-room of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. Mr. Marshall enjoying the morning paper with his heels on the mantel.
Mrs. Marshall (in a complaining tone.)
Oh, dear, Charles, how sick and tired I am of housework! I do envy people who are able to keep help. Here I am tied up to the little hot kitchen morning till night—stewing, and baking, and frying, and scrubbing, and washing floors, till I am ready to sink! One thing over and over again. I wonder why Hood, when he wrote the “Song of the Shirt,” had not kept on and written the “Song of the Basement Story.”
Mr. M. Is it so very bad, Lily? Why, I always thought it must be nice work to cook—and washing dishes is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is to pour a little hot water over ’em and give ’em a flirt over with a towel.
Mrs. M. That’s all you men know about it; it is the hardest work in the world! I always hated it. I remember, when I was a little girl, I always used to be taken with a headache when mother wanted me to wash the dishes. And then she’d dose me with rhubarb. Ugh! how bitter it was; but not half so bitter as washing dishes in boiling water in a hot kitchen in the middle of August!
Mr. M. (meditatively taking his feet from the mantel.) I made a lucky sale this morning, and saved a cool three hundred. I had intended giving you a new silk, but I’ll do better—I’ll hire you a girl. How will that suit?
Mrs. M. Oh, what a darling! I would kiss you if you hadn’t been smoking, and my collar weren’t quite so fresh. I am afraid I shall muss it. But you are a good soul, Charlie; and I shall be so happy. Do you really mean it?
Mr. M. To be sure.
Mrs. M. Won’t Mrs. Fitzjones die of envy? She puts her washing out, and she’s always flinging that in my face. I guess the boot will be on the other foot now! I wonder what she’ll say when she runs in of a morning to see what I’m cooking, and finds me in the parlor hem-stitching a handkerchief, and my maid attending to things in the kitchen? But where is a girl to be had? Will you go to the intelligence office?
Mr. M. No; I don’t approve of intelligence offices. I will advertise. Bring me a pen and ink, Lily.
Mrs. M. (bringing the articles.) You won’t say that to me any more, Charles. It will be, “Biddy, my good girl, bring me the writing implements.” Won’t it be nice? Just like a novel. They always have servants, you know.
Mr. M. What, the novels?
Mrs. M. No; the people in them. Are you writing the advertisement? Be sure and say that no one need apply except experienced persons. I want no green hands about my kitchen.
Mr. M. (reads from the paper what he has been writing.) “Wanted, by a quiet family, a girl to do general housework. None but those having had experience need apply. Call at No. 116 B— street, between the hours of ten and two.” How will that answer?
Mrs. M. Admirably! Charles, you ought to have been an editor. You express your ideas so clearly!
Mr. M. Thank you, my dear, thank you. I believe I have some talent for expressing my meaning. But I am going down town now, and will have this advertisement inserted in the Herald, and by to-morrow you can hold yourself in readiness to receive applicants. By-bye (goes out).
Mrs. M. (alone). If it isn’t the most charming thing! Won’t the Fitzjoneses and Mrs. Smith be raving? Mrs. Smith has got a bound girl, and Mrs. Fitzjones puts out her washing; but I am to have a regular servant! I shall get a chance to practice my music now. Dear me—how red my hands are! (looks at them) I must get some cold cream for them; one’s hands show so on the white keys of a piano. I’ll go and open that piano now, and dust it. It must be dreadfully out of tune. But I’ll have it tuned as soon as ever I get that girl fairly initiated into my way of doing work (goes out).
Scene II.—Mrs. Marshall awaiting the coming of “applicants.” A furious ring at the front door bell.
Mrs. M. (peeping through the blinds). Dear me! I wonder who’s coming! A person applying for the situation of servant would not be likely to come to the front door. I can just see the edge of a blue-silk flounce, and a streamer of red ribbon on the bonnet. I’ll go and see who it is (opens the door, and a stout Irish girl, gaudily dressed, with an eye-glass, and a bonnet of enormous dimensions pushes by her, and entering the parlor, seats herself in the rocking-chair).
Mrs. M. To what am I indebted for this visit?
Irish Girl. It looks well for the like of yees to ask! It’s the leddy what’s wanting a young leddy to help in the wurrk that I’m after seeing.
Mrs. M. (with dignity). I am that person, if you please. What may I call your name?
Irish Girl. Me name’s Margaret O’Flanagan, though some people has the impudence to call me Peggy; but if ever the likes of it happens agin I’ll make the daylight shine into ’em where it never dramed of shining before. What may your name be, mum?
Mrs. M. My name is Marshall. I am in want of a servant.
Margaret. Sarvint, is it? Never a bit of a sarvint will I be for anybody! The blud of my forefathy would cry out against it. But I might have ixpected it from the appearance of yees. Shure, and I’d no other thought but ye was the chambermaid. Marshall, is it? Holy St. Patrick! why that was the name of the man that was hung in County Cork for the murthering of Dennis McMurphy, and he had a nose exactly like the one foreninst your face. (A second ring at the door. Mrs. Marshall ushers in a stolid-faced German girl, and an over-dressed colored lady. They take seats on the sofa.)
German Girl. Ish dis the place mit the woman what wants a girl in her housework that was put into de paper day pefore to-morrow.
Mrs. M. Yes, I am the woman. What is your name?
German Girl. Katrina Van Follenstein. I can do leetle of most everything. I can bake all myself, and bile, and fry; and makes sourkrout—oh, sphlendid! And I sphanks the children as well as their own mudders.
Marg. If ye’ll condescend to lave that dirty Dutchman, young leddy, I’ll be afther asking ye a few questions; and then if ye don’t shute me I can be laving. Me time is precious. Is them the best cheers in yer house?
Mrs. M. They are.
Marg. Holy Virgin! Why, mum, I’ve been used to having better cheers than them in me own room, and a sofy in me kitchen to lay me bones on when they’re took aching. Have ye got a wine cellar?
Mrs. M. (indignantly). No! We are temperance people.
Marg. Oh, botheration! Then ye’ll niver do for me, at all at all? It’s wine I must have every day to keep me stummach in tune, and if Barney O’Grath comes in of an evening I should die of mortification if I didn’t have a drop of something to trate him on. And about the peanny. It’s taking lessons I am, meself, and if it’s out of kilter, why, it must be fixed at once. I never could think of playing on a instrument that was ontuned. It might spile me voice.
Mrs. M. I want no servants in my house who are taking music lessons. I hire a girl to do my work—not to dictate to me, and sit in the parlor.
Marg. Ye don’t hire me. No mum! Not by a long walk. It’s not Margaret O’Flanagan that’ll be hosted round by an old sharp-nosed crayter like yerself, wid a mole on yer left cheek, and yer waterfall made out of other folks’ hair! The saints be blessed, me own is an illegant one—and never a dead head was robbed for to make it! ’Twas the tail of me cousin Jimmy’s red horse—rest his soul!
Mrs. M. (pointing to the door). You can leave the house, Miss O’Flanagan. You won’t suit me.
Marg. And you won’t shute me. I wouldn’t work with ye for a thousand dollars a week! It’s not low vulgar people that Margaret O’Flanagan associates with. Good-bye to ye! I pity the girl ye gets. May the saints presarve her—and not a drop of wine in the house! (Margaret goes out.)
Mrs. M. Well, Katrina, are you ready to answer a few questions?
Katrina. Yah; I is.
Mrs. M. Are you acquainted with general housework?
Kat. Nix; I never have seen that shinneral. I know Shinneral Shackson, and Shinneral Grant, but not that one to speak of!
Mrs. M. I intended to ask if you are used to doing work in the kitchen.
Kat. Yaw, I sees. Dat ish my thrade.
Mrs. M. Can you cook?
Kat. Most people, what bees shenteel, keeps a cook.
Mrs. M. I do not. I shall expect you to cook. Can you wash?
Kat. Beeples that ish in de upper-crust puts their washing out.
Mrs. M. Can you make beds, and sweep?
Kat. The dust of the fedders sthuffs up my head, what has got one leetle giutar into it. Most beeples keeps a chambermaid. Now, I wants to ask you some tings. You gits up in morning, and gits breakfast, of course? It makes mine head ache to git up early. And you’ll dust all the furnitures, and schrub the kittles, and your goot man will wash the floors and pump the water, and make the fires, and——
Mrs. M. We shall do no such thing. What an insolent wretch! You can go at once. I’ve no further use for you. You won’t suit.
Kat. (retreating). Mine krout! what a particular vomans.
Colored Lady. Wall, missis, specks here’s jest de chile for ye. What wages does you gib? and what is yer pollyticks?
Mrs. M. What is your name—what wages do you expect?
Colored Lady. My name is Snowdrop Washington, and I specks five dollars a week if I do my own washing, but if it is put out to de washerwoman’s wid de rest of de tings, den I takes off a quarter. And it’s best to have a fair understanding now, in de beginning. I’m very particular about my afternoons. Tuesdays I studies my cataplasin and can’t be ’sturbed; Wednesdays I goes to see old Aunt Sally Gumbo, what’s got de spine of de back; Thursdays I allers takes a dose of lobeely for me stummuch, and has to lay abed; and Fridays I ginerally walks out wid Mr. Sambo Snow, a fren of mine—and in none of dem cases can I be ’sturbed. And I shall spect you to find gloves for me to do de work in; don’t like to sile my hands.
Mrs. M. I want to hire a girl to work—every day—and every hour in the day.
Snowdrop. The laws-a-massy! what a missis! Why, in dat case dis chile haint no better off dan wite trash! Ketch Snowdrop Washington setting in that pew! Not dis nigger. I wish you a berry lubly morning! (goes out, and a woman clad in widow’s weeds, and a little boy enter.)
Woman (in a brisk tone). Are you the person that wants to hire help? Dear me, don’t I smell onions! I detest onions! Only vulgar people eat ’em! Have your children had the measles? Because I never could think of taking Freddie where he might be exposed to that dreadful disease! Freddie, my love, put down that vase. If you should break it, you might cut yourself with the pieces. Have you a dog about the house, marm?
Mrs. M. Yes, we have.
Woman in Black. Good gracious! he must be killed then! I shouldn’t see a bit of comfort if Freddie was where there was a dog. The last words my dear lamented husband said to me were these: “Mrs. Bunker, take care of Freddie.” Bunker’s my name, marm. Have you a cow?
Mrs. M. We have not.
Mrs. Bunker. How unfortunate! Well, I suppose you can buy one. Freddie depends so much on his new milk; and so do I. How many children have you?
Mrs. M. Three.
Mrs. B. Good gracious! what a host! I hope none of them have bad tempers, or use profane language. I wouldn’t have Freddie associate with them for the world if they did. He’s a perfect cherub in temper. My darling, don’t pull the cat’s tail! she may scratch you.
Mrs. M. You need not remain any longer, Mrs. Bunker. I do not wish to employ a maid with a child.
Mrs. B. Good heavens! (indignantly). Whoever saw such a hard-hearted wretch! Object to my darling Freddie! Did I ever expect to live to see the day when the offspring of my beloved Jeremiah would be treated in this way? I’ll not stay another moment in the house with such an unfeeling monster! Come, Freddie. (Goes out. Mrs. Marshall closes the door and locks it.)
Mrs. M. Gracious! if this is the way of having a servant, I am satisfied. I’ll do my own work till the end of the chapter! There’s another ring; but I won’t answer it—not I. I’ll make believe I’m not at home. Ring away, if it’s any satisfaction to you! It doesn’t hurt me.
Clara Augusta.
THE UNWELCOME GUEST.
Characters:
- Mr. Edward Simpson.
- Mrs. Emeline Simpson, his wife.
- John Simpson, his brother, and a guest.
- Mr. Martin Jones.
- Mrs. Eliza Jones, his wife.
SCENE.—A room in Edward Simpson’s house. Mr. and Mrs. Simpson discovered.
Mrs. S.
Edward, I may just as well say plainly that I think we must do something to get your brother off our hands. He has been here now over two weeks, and he stays and stays just as if this was his home, and as if he hadn’t the slightest idea of ever going away.
Mr. S. You are quite right, wife; we must get him away. I thought it possible, when he came here, that he had plenty of money; but that idea has vanished entirely. If he had money, he would not go around so shabbily dressed. He had the audacity to hint to me yesterday that I might buy him a new coat; just as if I hadn’t enough to do to buy new coats for myself and my children.
Mrs. S. Oh! the impudence of some people! I am sure we have done very well in keeping him these two weeks, and not charging him a cent for his boarding. And now he wants a new coat, does he? I wonder he didn’t ask for a full suit; he certainly has need of it; but he needn’t expect to get it here. But are you sure, Edward, that he didn’t bring any money home with him?
Mr. S. Yes, quite sure. I didn’t say anything to him about it, but John was never the man to go in rags if he had any money in his pocket. He has been away for fifteen years, you know, and he might have made plenty of money in that time; but it is my impression, that if he did make anything, he spent it all before he started for home.
Mrs. S. Well, what are we to do with him?
Mr. S. Send him to the poor-house, I suppose. I don’t quite like to do that, either; for people will talk, and they will say that I ought to have kept him in his old days.
Mrs. S. Let them talk. It’s nobody’s business but our own, and it will all blow over in a week or two. Of course we can’t have him on our hands as long as he lives, merely because the neighbors will talk a little about our sending him to the poor-house.
Mr. S. No, of course not. Here he comes now; we must inform him of our decision.
Enter John Simpson, shabbily dressed.
Mr. S. John, we have been talking about you.
John. So I supposed. I thought I heard my name mentioned. You were considering that matter about the coat, were you? I hope you will think favorably of it.
Mrs. S. (bridling up.) No, sir; we were not thinking of buying you a coat, but we were speaking of your audacity in making such a request.
John. Ah! were you? Don’t you see I am old now, and dreadfully crippled with rheumatism? And, of course I am not able to work to buy myself clothes. If my brother will not take care of me now, who will?
Mrs. S. That’s just what we are going to talk about.
Mr. S. Wife, allow me to speak to John about the matter. (To John.) It may sound a little harsh and unpleasant, but we have come to the conclusion that we cannot keep you any longer. You know that we are not very well off in this world’s goods; we have not much house-room, and we have three children that demand our attention. We have kept you two weeks and we think we have done very well. We feel that you would be considerably in our road here, and we have concluded to send you to the poor-house.
John. The poor-house! I always did hate the poor-house. It must be so lonesome there; and then, I don’t think the boarding will be good. Must I go to the poor-house?
Mr. S. Yes, we have decided. We cannot keep you.
John. I thought, when I was away, that if I could only get home again, I would find my brother willing to take me under his roof, and allow me to end my days there. But I was mistaken. When must I go?
Mr. S. I will have the papers made out, and be ready to take you to-morrow afternoon.
John. Send for Eliza Jones and her husband. They will not want to keep me either, I suppose—how can I expect them, when they are a great deal poorer than you? But send for them. I want to see them, and say good-bye, before I go away.
Mrs. S. Emeline, tell Parker to run across Jones’ for his Uncle Martin and Aunt Eliza.
[Exit Mrs. S.
John. If they do not treat me well at the poor-house, what shall I do? Cut stick and run off, or sue them for breach of promise?
Mr. S. (aside.) It seems to me, he takes it exceedingly cool. But it is better he should do so, than to make a noise about it. (To John.) I think you will be well treated. The Superintendent is very kind to all under his care, and is considered a perfect gentleman.
John. A gentleman! I’m glad of that. (Sarcastically.) Ah! Edward, it is a great thing to be a gentleman.
Mr. S. I am glad you are willing to go without making any fuss about it. You know people will talk; and they would talk a great deal more, if you should be opposed to going. I hope you will not think unkindly of us, because we have concluded to take this step; you see that we can not well keep you here; and as you are getting old, and are greatly afflicted with rheumatism, you will be better attended to there than you could be here.
John. Yes, yes, I understand. Don’t fret about me, Edward. I suppose it isn’t much difference where I live, and where I end my days. But, Edward, I think I would not have treated you so. However, one hardly knows what one will do when one comes to the pinch. If I had brought home a market-basket full of ninety-dollar gold pieces, perhaps I would not have taken up so much room in your house, nor crowded your children so dreadfully.
Enter Mrs. Simpson, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones.
Mrs. J. (running to John.) O John, my brother, they want to send you to the poor-house! You shall not go! you shall not go!
Mr. J. No, John, you shall not go. While we have a crust of bread, you shall share it with us.
John. But I never did like to eat crusts.
Mrs. S. That’s him, for you! He doesn’t want to pay anything for his board, but he wants to have the best.
John. And he doesn’t like to eat dirt.
Mrs. S. Do you mean to say I am a dirty cook?
John (whistles “Yankee Doodle.”) Come, if I am to go to the poor-house, let me be off.
Mrs. J. You shall not go. We are poor, but you shall stay with us. We can find room for you, and we will be provided for, I’ll warrant, some way.
Mrs. S. People oughtn’t to be rash about taking on a load they can’t carry.
Mr. S. Emeline, if Martin and Eliza want to keep John, let them do so; don’t say a word. Of course, I think they have quite enough to do to keep their own heads above water; but if they want to keep John, it is their own business.
John. Yes, it is their own business; and if they were on the point of sinking, would you raise a finger to keep their heads above water? No! Edward.—I cannot call you brother,—I know you now. I leave your house to-day, but I do not go to the poor-house. I have money enough to buy and keep a hundred such little farms as yours, and a hundred such little men. I do not need your coats nor your cringing sympathies; I wanted to know what kind of a man you were, and I know. When I came home, I determined to find out, in some way, whether you or the Jones family were most deserving of my money. I have found that out; and I go with them, to make my home there.
Mrs. S. But we didn’t know——
John. Ay, I know it. You thought I was a beggar; you thought I had no money and no clothes. If you had believed otherwise, you would have received me with open arms. Come (to Mr. and Mrs. Jones), we will go. I shall not forget you for your kindness. I will make my home with you; and if it is true that you have hard enough work to keep your heads above water it shall be so no longer. (To Mr. and Mrs. Simpson.) I had almost forgotten. Here are twenty dollars, for my two weeks’ board (throwing down the bills). You see that although I may have a shabby appearance, I am yet able to pay my way in the world. Good-day, Mr. and Mrs. Simpson.
(Exit John Simpson, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones.)
Mrs. S. Isn’t this dreadful! (Rushes out at one side of the stage.)
Mr. S. Confound the luck! (Rushes out at the other side of the stage.)
[Curtain falls.
H. Elliot McBride.
AUNTY PUZZLED.
Characters:
- Pious Maiden Aunt and Wayward Little Girl, five or six years old.
Aunt.
Now, Beth, this is the Sabbath day, and—
Niece. How do you know it is?
A. It is wrong to play to-day, Beth—
N. Wrong to play what?
A. Anything.
N. Tain’t wrong to play Sunday-school. Didn’t you wish dat Carlo was me when you was whippin’ him, jest now, Aunt Dora?
A. Beth, I’ll tell you a beautiful story, the tender story of Joseph.
N. Joseph who?
A. He had no other name.
N. Well, dat’s funny.
A. Joseph was the son of a good old man, named Jacob—
N. I knows him, he saws our wood, an’ he’s dot a wooden leg! What was his last name?
A. I don’t know, dear.
N. Well, dat’s ze same man. Our Jacob he ain’t dot no ozzer name, either: des Jacob, old Jacob.
A. This good old man had twelve sons.
N. Any little girls?
A. Only one.
N. Huh! I dess she was mighty sorry wiz such a houseful of boys an’ no little sister.
A. Well, Jacob loved this son very much—
N. How much?
A. Oh, ever so much; more than he could tell.
N. Ten hundred thousand bushels?
A. Yes, and more than that. He bought him a new coat—
N. May Crawford’s dot a new dress, dray and blue, an’ pearl buttons on it, an’ a new parasol, and I’m doing to have some new button shoes as twick as I can kick zese ones out.
A. His father bought him a new coat, a beautiful coat of many colors—
N. Oh, ho! des like a bed quilt.
A. And Joseph was very proud of this pretty coat—
N. Huh! I bet you ze boys frowed stones an’ hollered at him if he wored it to school!
A. But his brothers, all of his older brothers, who—
N. Did he wear it to school, Aunt Dora?
A. No, I don’t think he did.
N. I dess he was afraid, and kept it for a Sunday coat. Did he wear it to Sunday school?
A. He didn’t go to one.
N. Den he was a heathen.
A. No, Joseph wasn’t a heathen.
N. Den he was a bad boy.
A. No, indeed; Joseph was a good boy—
N. Den why didn’t he go to Sunday-school?
A. No matter. But all his brothers hated him because his father loved him the best and—
N. I spect he always dot the biggest piece of pie.
A. And so they wanted to get rid of him, because—
N. Den why didn’t zey send him out in the kitchen to talk with Jenny? Dat’s what my ma’am does.
A. And they hated him all the more because one night, Joseph had a dream—
N. Oo-oo! I dreamed dot ze big Bible on ze parlor had five long legs and a mouf full of sharp teeth, an’ it climbed onto my bed and drowled at me ’cause I bit ze wax apple an’ tied gran’pa’s wig onto Carlo’s head last Sunday! Oh, I was so scared an’ I hollered an’ ma’am said she dessed I had ze nightmare.
A. Well, one day Joseph’s father sent him away to see how his brothers were getting along—
N. Why didn’t he write ’em a letter?
A. And when they saw Joseph coming they said—
N. Did he ride in ze cars?
A. No, he walked. And when his brothers saw him coming—
N. I dess they fought he was a tramp. I bet you Carlo would have bited his legs if he’d been zere.
A. No, they knew who he was, but they were bad, cruel, wicked men, and they took poor Joseph, who was so good, and who loved them all so well—
N. I see a boy climbing our fence! I dess he’s goin’ to steal our apples. Let’s go sic Carlo on him.
A. Poor Joseph, who was only a boy, just a little boy, who never did any one any harm; these great rough men seized him with fierce looks and angry words, and they were going to kill the frightened, helpless little youth, who cried and begged them so piteously not to hurt him; going to kill their own little brother—
N. Nellie Taylor has a little brother Jim, an’ she says she wishes somebody would kill him when he tears off her doll’s legs an’ frows her kittens in ze cistern.
A. But Joseph’s oldest brother pitied the little boy when he cried—
N. I dess he wanted some cake; I cry when I want cake, an’ mamma dives me some.
A. And as he wouldn’t let them kill him, they found a pit—
N. I like peach pits, an’ I know where I can find a great lot of ’em now. Come along.
A. No, let’s finish the story first. These bad men put Joseph in the pit—
N. Why—Aunt—Dora! What is you talking about?
A. About those cruel men who put Joseph into the pit—
N. I dess you mean zey put the pit into Joseph.
A. So there the poor little boy was, all alone in this deep, dark hole—
N. Why didn’t he climb out?
A. Because he couldn’t. The sides of the pit were rough, and it was very deep, deep as a well—
N. Ding-dong-dell, cat’s in ’e well; oh auntie, I know a nice story, ’bout a boy that felled into a cistern and climbed out on a ladder.
A. Poor Joseph was sitting in this pit—
N. Did he have a chair?
A. No, he was sitting on the ground, wishing—
N. I wish I was a bumble bee an’ could stand on my head like a boy, an’ have all ze honey I could eat.
A. But while Joseph was in the dark pit, frightened and crying all alone—
N. I bet he was afraid of ghosts!
A. While he was wondering if his cruel brothers were going to leave him in the dark pit, some merchants came along, and Joseph’s brothers took him out of the pit and sold him for a slave. Just think of it. Sold their little brother to be a slave in a country far away from his home, where he would have to work hard and where his cruel master would beat him; where—
N. What did zey get for him, Aunt Dora?
A. Twenty pieces of silver, and now—
N. Hump, dat was pitty cheap, but, I spec’ it was all that he was worth.
THE POOR LITTLE RICH BOY.
(Dialogue for two boys.)
Harry. (Enters room, tossing his hat on table where Roy sits studying.) “I tell you, Roy, I’m sorry for Harold Belmont!”
Roy. “Sorry for Harold Belmont! Why, I’d like to know? His father is the richest man in town. You know father has been working for him ever since we were born.”
Harry. “Yes, I know; but Harold don’t have half the nice times we do.”
Roy. “Well, I like that. Don’t he wear nicer clothes every day than we ever had for Sunday?”
Harry. “Yes, but they’re so nice his mother won’t let him roll on the grass, or go wading in the pond, or anything.”
Roy. “Well, did you ever notice what nice lemon pie and frosted cake he has in his lunch basket?”
Harry. “Yes, but he often wants to trade lunches with me.”
Roy. “But, Harry, he’s got a bicycle!”
Harry. “He told me yesterday that he would rather have a dog like our Rover that he could drive to a little wagon like ours.”
Roy. “But only think, Harry, of the hundreds and hundreds of books in his father’s library that he can read as much as he pleases! Why, if I had them, I’d be the happiest boy in the State. I wouldn’t waste a minute. I know just what books I’d read first—Dickens’ Child’s History of England, and—”
Harry. “O yes, Roy, but then he doesn’t care for books, like you, nor to be a carpenter, as I mean to be. He wants to be a farmer, and he says his father don’t mean to let him—wants Harold to be a banker, like himself; but those are not the things I was thinking of when I said I was sorry for him.”
Roy. “What was it?”
Harry. “Why, you know I made a little bird-house out of that cracker-box mother gave me; just a common little bird-house, without any paint or nice things about it, and set it up on a pole in the garden—”
Roy. “Yes, I know, and two families of blue-birds are living in it. What else?”
Harry. “Well, Harold begged his father to let him have a bird-house, and so Mr. Belmont got a man to make one—oh, a little beauty!—just like a little Swiss chalet, with porches and gables, and all painted so nicely, white with green trimmings and a dark brown roof, and the pole is striped red, white and blue, and they put it close to the big maple tree on the lawn. Oh, it was so nice I was almost ashamed of my poor little unpainted house—only the birds were building in it then, and it made me glad to see them so busy and happy. Harold was happy, too. He sat by the window for hours, watching for the birds to come to his house. But, Roy, none ever came! They were afraid of that beautiful house. I guess they thought it was a trap. Harold don’t sit by the window to watch it any more; that’s why I’m sorry for him.”
Roy. “Well, that is too bad; but I don’t know that we can help him. You couldn’t give him your little house, because it isn’t fine enough for his father’s lawn; besides, the blue-birds might object to moving.”
Harry. “Of course; but, Roy, don’t you believe he’d like to come over here and watch our birds feed their little ones? I never get tired of seeing them.”
Roy. “He might. Let’s go and ask him.”
(Both boys take their hats and pass out.)
Mrs. Adrian Kraal.
COLLOQUY.
AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT MATTER.
Scene.—An office with a desk or table on which are an inkstand, a pile of ledgers and some extra sheets of paper. Mr. Pinchem, with gray wig and whiskers and spectacles sits in his office busily engaged in figuring up his accounts. He does not look up from his paper, but keeps on figuring while his clerk enters and takes a seat near the table in such a position as to both face the audience.
Clerk.
Mr. Pinchem, I—I—
Mr. Pinchem. Have you got those goods off for Kalamazoo?
Clerk. Yes, sir, they are off. Mr. Pinchem, I—
Mr. P. And about that order for starch?
Clerk. That has been attended to, sir. Mr. Pinchem—
Mr. P. And that invoice of tea?
Clerk. That’s all right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have—
Mr. P. And that cargo of sugar?
Clerk. Taken care of as you directed, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long—
Mr. P. What about Bush & Bell’s consignment?
Clerk. Received in good order, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted—
Mr. P. And that shipment to Buffalo?
Clerk. All right, sir. Mr. Pinchem, I have long wanted to speak to you—
Mr. P. Ah! speak to me? Why, I thought you spoke to me fifty times a day.
Clerk. Yes, sir, I know, but this is a private matter.
Mr. P. Private? Oh! Ah! Wait till I see how much we made on the last ten thousand pounds of soap—Six times four are twenty-four; six times two are twelve and two to carry make fourteen; six times nought are nothing and one to carry makes one; six times five are thirty; seven times four—ah! well go ahead, I’ll finish this afterwards.
Clerk. Mr. Pinchem, I have been with you ten long years.—
Mr. P. Ten, eh! Long years, eh! any longer than any others years? Go ahead.
Clerk. And I have always tried to do my duty.
Mr. P. Have, eh? Go on.
Clerk. And I now make bold—
Mr. P. Hold on! What is there bold about it? But never mind, I’ll hear you out.
Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask—ask—I want to ask—
Mr. P. Well, why don’t you ask, then? I don’t see why you don’t ask if you want to.
Clerk. Mr. Pinchem I want to ask you for—for—
Mr. P. You want to ask me for the hand of my daughter. Ah! why didn’t you speak right out? She’s yours, my boy, take her and be happy. You might have had her two years ago if you had mentioned it. Go along, now, I’m busy. Seven times six are forty-two, seven times five are thirty-five and four are thirty-nine, seven times eight—
Clerk. Mr. Pinchem—
Mr. P. What! You here yet? Well, what is it?
Clerk. I want to ask you for—
Mr. P. Didn’t I give her to you, you rascal!
Clerk. Yes, but what I wanted to ask you for was not the hand of your daughter, but a raise of salary.
Mr. P. Oh! that was it, eh? Well, sir, that is an entirely different matter, and it requires time for serious thought and earnest deliberation. Return to your work. I’ll think about it, and some time next fall I’ll see about giving you a raise of a dollar or so a week. Seven times eight are fifty-six and three are fifty-nine—
THE GOSSIPS.
- Characters.—Mrs. Pry, Mrs. Quick, Mrs. Search, Mrs. Gossip.
Scene.—The Street. Mrs. Pry, Mrs. Search and Mrs. Quick, meeting.
Mrs. Pry.
Have you heard any news, neighbor Search?
Mrs. Search. News? no. I am dying to hear some. I have not heard a word since last night, and it is now almost noon.
Mrs. Quick. I have heard a piece of news as I came along, and you will hardly believe it, though I received it from a person of veracity, who was knowing to the fact, and therefore could not mistake.
Mrs. S. Pray let us have it. I hope it is nothing short of an elopement.
Mrs. P. I hope it is a murder, or, at least, a suicide. We have not had any news worth mentioning these two months.
Mrs. Q. It is neither an elopement nor a murder, but you may think it something akin to the latter. The truth is, there is a woman down in the village, and they will not allow her to be buried.
Mrs. S. You don’t say so?
Mrs. Q. I do. The coroner has positively refused to bury her.
Mrs. P. Do tell! What could the poor creature have done to be denied Christian burial?
Mrs. Q. I do not know what the offense was, but they say he has his reasons, and buried she shall not be.
Mrs. P. Where is she lying? I must go and inquire into it. Bless me, Mrs. Search, how could this happen and we not hear of it?
Mrs. S. Did you hear her name, Mrs. Quick? That may give us a clue to the mystery.
Mrs. Q. I did not learn her name, though, if I forget not, it began with a G, or some such letter. But I have a little errand up the street, and must leave you. In the meantime as we know so little of the circumstances, it will be prudent not to repeat what I have told you. Good morning. (She goes out).
Mrs. P. Did you ever hear anything so strange? One of two things is certain, she has either killed herself or been killed, and is reserved for examination.
Mrs. S. I don’t understand it so. Mrs. Quick seemed to insinuate that she had been lying a long time, and was not to be buried at all. But here comes Mrs. Gossip, and perhaps she can tell us all about it, as she comes fresh from the village.
Enter Mrs. Gossip.
Mrs. P. Good morning, Mrs. Gossip.
Mrs. Gossip. Good morning, Mrs. Pry. How do you do, Mrs. Search?
Mrs. S. Pretty well, I thank you. How do you do?
Mrs. G. Indifferent, I’m much obliged to you. I’ve had a touch of hydrophoby, I believe they call it or something else.
Mrs. P. (to Mrs. Search aside). No new complaint. She always hated cold water. (aloud) How did the dreadful disease affect you, Mrs. G.? What dog bit you?
Mrs. G. Dog! what do you mean by a dog? The disease began with a cold in my head, and a sore throat, and—
Mrs. S. Oh, it was the influenza.
Mrs. G. So it was; I knew it was some outlandish name, and they all sound alike to me. For my part, I wish there was no foreign words.
Mrs. P. Mrs. Gossip, did you hear the particulars of the dreadful news in the village?
Mrs. G. No. What dreadful news? I have not heard nothing, good, bad, or indifferent.
Mrs. P. What! haven’t you heard of the woman in the village that they won’t bury?
Mrs. G. Not a word. Who is she? What’s her name?
Mrs. S. Her name begins with G, and as that begins your name, I hoped you would know something about it.
Mrs. G. Bless me! I never heard a syllable of it! Why don’t they bury the poor thing? I couldn’t refuse to bury even a dog.
Mrs. P. There is a suspicion of murder or suicide in the case.
Mrs. G. Well, they hang murderers and suicides, don’t they? What can be the matter? There is something very mysterious about it!
Mrs. S. I am dying to know all about it. Come, let’s all go down to the village, and probe the matter to the bottom. I dearly love to get hold of a mystery.
Mrs. P. I say, let us all go, and here is Mrs. Quick coming back. She will go with us, for she told us the news, and she is dying to learn the particulars.
Re-enter Mrs. Quick.
Mrs. Quick. Good morning again, ladies.
All. Good morning.
Mrs. G. What was the matter with that air woman that they won’t bury in the village?
Mrs. Q. Nothing is the matter with her.
Mrs. G. Then, in marcy’s name, why don’t they bury her?
Mrs. Q. I know of but one reason, but that is a very important one.
Mrs. P. We did not know you knew the reason they wouldn’t bury her. Why did you not tell us what it was?
Mrs. Q. You did not ask me, and, besides, it is somewhat of a secret.
Mrs. S. You need not fear our disclosing it. Pray let us have it.
Mrs. P. Pray do. I am bursting with curiosity.
Mrs. G. And I too. Mrs. Quick, you say there is but one reason why they will not bury the woman, and pray what is that?
Mrs. P. What is it?
Mrs. S. Yes, what is it?
All (earnestly). What is it?
Mrs. Q. She is not dead!
FARMER HANKS WANTS A DIVORCE.
(For two males and one female.)
- Characters.—Lawyer Porter; Farmer Hanks; Mrs. Hanks.
Scene.—Lawyer’s office. Lawyer Porter sitting at desk writing. Knock at door.
(Enter Farmer Hanks in rustic attire, looking hesitatingly around.)
Farmer Hanks.