IN the State of Kentucky, in one of whose towns the writer’s early childhood was spent, the summers are long, and frequently very hot spells occur when even in the early morning hours there is no refreshing coolness in the air. As the sun rises higher and higher in the heavens, its rays grow fiercer and fiercer, until by afternoon, the heat is so intense that few persons care to venture out of doors, unless compelled by business or necessity to do so.
At dusk, however, after the heat of the day is spent, and the air, although not cool, is a degree or two less hot, the population of the town makes itself visible. Ladies and children clad in the thinnest of white and light colored muslin gowns, emerge from the houses to sit upon piazza and door-step, and there welcome the husband, father, and brothers of the family upon their return from business; that business which is never neglected no matter what the thermometer may register. After tea the door-steps are once more taken possession of, and to enter the house again until ready to retire for the night, is not to be thought of. Friends and neighbors making social calls are received and entertained informally upon the door-steps, and sometimes when the party becomes too large for the steps to accommodate, chairs are placed upon the pavement immediately in front of the door, and no one feels, while occupying one of these seats, that the position is at all public or conspicuous.
Hatless and bonnetless as all of the ladies and children are, the warmth of the evenings making all head coverings and extra wraps unnecessary and uncomfortable, the streets present a gay and fête-like appearance seldom seen in our eastern towns.
At least this is as it was when, as one of the band of merry children, I played “Oats-peas-beans” and “Come Philanders,” upon the sidewalk, and I do not think these customs have changed much since then.
Later, when I and my young friends had outgrown the “ring-around-arosy” games, we used to gather upon the door-step, and there chatter away about the day’s doings, or whatever interested us at the time. When tired of talking, we would amuse ourselves by playing quiet games or telling stories. Sometimes the thoughtful mother of our young hostess would add to our enjoyment by serving some light refreshment, such as ice-cream or fruit. The greatest treat, and the one most appreciated, was when we were invited to partake of a great crisp frozen water-melon, whose blood-red core, sweet as sugar and cold as ice, quickly melted away between the rosy lips of the little guests. We were not always thus favored, however; the refreshments were ever a pleasant surprise, but the pleasure of our evening was not marred by their absence.
The remembrance of what very pleasant times we used to have at these impromptu little parties, urges me to devote some pages of this book to the description of a door-step party, that by acting upon the suggestion, others may enjoy them even as did that group of little Kentucky girls.
Now is just the time for a door-step party; now when the beauty of the evening lures us from the lighted parlor to the shadowy piazza whose coolness is so attractive after the long, hot summer day. Here soft breezes fan our cheeks, and here, perhaps, the moonlight filtering through vine and trellis, is carpeting the floor with lacy shadows, and with its soft mysterious light is casting a glamour over all familiar things.
It is a modest little fête, this door-step party, a simple way of entertaining one’s friends of a summer evening when the heat will not permit of the exertion of active games. The delightful out-door surroundings give it a novel charm and make it entirely different from the frolics usually indulged in during the winter season.
Because the entertainment is not noisy it need not be the less enjoyable, and a party of bright, merry girls will derive plenty of amusement and fun from the quiet games of a door-step party. The following will give an idea of what games are suitable for an occasion of this kind.
is not exactly a game, although there are rules which must be obeyed in order to make it interesting.
A programme with small pencil attached, like the one shown in Fig. 97, should be given to each guest upon her arrival. The engagements for five minutes’ conversation are made by putting your name down on your friend’s card opposite the time chosen for your conversation with her.
Five minutes only are allowed for one conversation.
Two or more consecutive engagements with one person are not allowable. When engagements are made and programmes filled, the hostess, or anyone willing to be time-keeper, must ring a bell giving notice that the conversation is to begin.
At the end of five minutes the bell is to be rung again, when all talking must instantly cease, the exchange of positions be quickly made, and a new conversation be commenced.
The time-keeper should be strictly attentive to her duties, for the bell must be rung regularly at the end of every five minutes.
The hour allotted to this new mode of conversation will pass very quickly, and cannot become in the least tiresome, as the time spent in talking to any one person is so very short.
One of the party must be blindfolded to take the part of teacher. The class composed of the rest of the players should sit in a line facing her.
The teacher informs her scholars that they will begin the lesson by singing the scales. Then the head girl, or the one at the top of the line, sings ah! and the next, ah! a little higher or lower, and so it goes down the line; each one in turn uttering ah! in any key or note she please; in a high shrill voice, or the deepest tone a girlish throat is capable of. The teacher should listen attentively, and when she thinks she recognizes a voice she must command the class to stop while she makes some criticism on the manner in which the note is sung, at the same time calling the singer by name.
When one of the players is named correctly, she must be blindfolded and become teacher, while the former teacher takes her place in the class.
A general exchange of seats is made before the singing lesson recommences, that the voices may not be guessed by the direction from which they come. To give variety to this game the second teacher may direct the class to sing a song, selecting some well-known nursery rhyme; then, beginning at the top of the line as before, each player must sing the word which comes to her to supply. It is the privilege of each teacher to direct the class to sing whatever she may choose, either song or exercise.
is played in this way: The hostess begins the game by saying, I know a celebrated poet; the first part of his name is very black, and the last is an elevation. Whoever gives the right name, which is Coleridge (coal, ridge), in her turn describes the name of some noted person. She may choose Shakespeare and say, I give the name of a noted author and poet; the first part is something people are apt to do when they are cold, the last is a weapon of warfare.
There are quite a number of names which will do nicely for this game; a few of them are—
When giving a name to be guessed, the profession of the man, whether poet, author, statesman, or soldier, must be given, but nothing else should be told about him.
can be played very nicely while the party are enjoying some light refreshments.
The hostess alone should be in the secret, and these directions are addressed only to her.
Commence the game by announcing that you propose to give a picnic, that it depends upon what your guests will bring for lunch whether they will be allowed to attend, and that each one must furnish two articles of food. Then ask the person nearest you, What will you take to the picnic? If the name of neither of the articles she mentions commences with the initial letter of her Christian name or surname tell her she cannot go, and put the question to the next person, asking each in turn, What will you take to the picnic?
For example, we will suppose that the name of one of the party is Susan Davis, and she says she will take crackers and lemons, she cannot go, as neither of her names commence with C or L; but if she proposes to take salmon and doughnuts, she will be doubly welcome, since S and D are both her initials. Should she say sugar and cream, she could go for one of her names commences with S.
Continue to put the question to each player until all, or nearly all, have discovered why their proposed contribution to the lunch secures them a welcome, or debars them from attending the picnic.
In this game some well-known novelist is selected—Dickens, for instance—and each player chooses one of his characters to personate, telling no one her choice. Then one of the players relates the life as though it were her own, and portrays with voice and gesture the character she has assumed. Of course no names must be mentioned.
The person who first guesses what character is being personated has the privilege of deciding who shall be the next to tell her story.
The game of Assumed Characters will prove to be very entertaining if each player does her part and makes her narrative as amusing and interesting as possible.
A white sheet is fastened tightly across a French window, or doorway opening upon the piazza, and a large lamp set behind it.
The company separates into two parties; one enters the house, while the other remains seated upon the piazza facing the suspended sheet.
The outside party chooses a verb which the others are to guess and perform. When their decision is made they call the leader of the inside party and say, “The verb we have chosen rhymes with rake,” or whatever it may rhyme with. The leader then joins her followers and consults with them what the first guess shall be. It is best to take the verbs which rhyme with the noun given in alphabetical order. Bake would come first for rake, and if it is decided that they shall act this, several of the party step before the lamp, which casts their shadows on the sheet and, without speaking, go through the motions of making and baking bread. If the guess is right (that is if to bake was the verb chosen) the spectators clap their hands; if wrong, they cry, No, no.
When they hear the no, no, the actors retire and arrange what to do next. Make, quake, take, wake are all acted in turn, until the clap of approval announces that they have been successful in guessing the verb. Then the actors take the seats vacated by the spectators, who in their turn enter the house to become shadows and act the verbs chosen by the other party, and the game goes on as before. A little ingenuity on the part of the players in producing funny and absurd shadows makes the whole thing very laughable and causes great amusement.
There are an unlimited number of games that may be played, but the object of this chapter is not so much to describe the games as it is to illustrate those that are appropriate to the quiet and delightful entertainment known as a door-step party.