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The speaker's ideal entertainments

Chapter 9: Dying to Win.
By George M. Vickers
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Plays/Films/DramasTeaching & Education

About This Book

A curated anthology of recitations, dialogues, and short dramas compiled for use in home, church, and school entertainments, accompanied by practical annotations on gesture, dramatic poses, and delivery. Selections include newly obtained manuscripts and engraved illustrations, and introductory guidance defines a system of hand positions and movement directions to shape expressive action. Hints on staging, tasteful modulation, and the distinctions between emphatic and conversational gestures aim to help novices and trained elocutionists alike, making the collection a hands-on resource for developing vocal technique and coordinated physical expression.

Dying to Win.

Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows[27] rattle;
Why, the stars seemed never half so bright.
Hark![28] ’Twas a bell that tolled—
There, again! must I battle
Through another dreadful winter night?
Better by far to die.
Who[29] in this mighty city
Wastes a thought on such a wretched life?
Who heeds my weary sigh?
Who sheds a tear in pity?
All alone I wage[30] the bitter strife.
Bright gleams yon chandelier,[31]
Gay sound the reckless voices;
And how tempting warm the red grate glows!
No![32] rather perish here—
Ah, no—my soul rejoices,[33]
For I triumph spite of all my woes.
Now, that I’ve made my vow,
Who[34] comes to help me keep it?
Are the saints that preach asleep or dead?
Ripe is the harvest now,
Yet comes there none to reap it.
Not a cent![35] no home; no crust of bread.
Fie,[36] upon hearts so cold!
Not one will deign to aid me;
And my own sex turn[37] me off with scorn;
Sneer at me; call me bold;
Taunt me, and then upbraid me—
O, my God,[38] how can I wait till morn?
Mother, is that you[39] there?
Surely,[40] I must be dreaming—
Do not leave me, mother;[41] take me home!
Oh, how keen[42] bites the air!
Yonder[43] the dawn is gleaming.
It is I, your child: Oh, mother,[44] come!
Sleepy, indeed, am I—
Wait till I kneel[45] down, mother—
Now[46] I lay me down to sleep—keep off—[47]
Help! help! help! I shall die—
Give me some air—I smother!
I am saved![48] Now let the cold world scoff.
*  *  *  *  *
Fierce blows the gale and cold,
Loudly the windows[49] rattle,
And the stars are paling[50] out with fright:
Oh, ’tis a tale oft told:
Done is the hard-fought battle—
And a weary soul has said good-night.
—Geo. M. Vickers.

Gestures.