CALLAGHAN’S FAILURE.


by Thomas Winthrop Hall.

Mr. Callaghan was busily engaged in an inspection of silverware that seemed to interest him exceedingly. He examined each object carefully, often stopping long enough to test the particular object with his teeth, or even to bend it. At the same time his actions were quiet, and, one might say, reserved. He did not appear to care to be noticed.[1]

He was a rather tall young fellow, carelessly dressed, as they say in novels, and he had a pale face, like a student’s. One might, indeed, have thought him a poor student, were it not for his eyes, which, instead of looking tired and dreamy, like a student’s, were exceedingly active and restless. On the whole, his face and his general appearance were not pre-possessing. Indeed, the policeman on the beat most frequented by Mr. Callaghan in social life, reported him at the Precinct House as “a general tough--suspicious.”

Mr. Callaghan, although very young, had already learned the value of exceeding caution. Hence, he was almost noiseless; and he inspected the silverware in the very mild light of a half-opened dark lantern. A happy smile played around the corners of his face for a while, for the silverware he was examining proved to be of the finest and newest, and bore the monogram of a famous New York family. For that matter, the entire surroundings of Mr. Callaghan, at that time, were of the richest. The very sideboard at which he labored was worth a small fortune, and the cut glass upon it looked very beautiful in the mellow light. There were rich red tints in some of the glassware, occasioned by their contents, but Mr. Callaghan did not stop to examine them. He did not believe in drinking during business hours. The time was something after midnight.

Mr. Callaghan was aroused from his pre-occupation by a faint click. It sounded very much like the click of the trigger, as a revolver is cocked. ’Twas a trifle startling, but he did not lose his presence of mind. He faced around like a flash, and turned off the rays of his dark lantern. He knew it was almost useless to take the latter precaution, however, for he was well informed, and knew that, in the houses of the rich of to-day, it required but the pressure of a button to turn on a full stream of electric lights throughout an entire floor. The sudden burst of light came, just as he expected it would, and as it did so, he heard a voice say “Don’t dare to move!”

He was more startled by the voice than he was by the sudden glare of electric light, for it was the voice of a young girl!! Mr. Callaghan blinked a few times, took a good look, and then his thin face broadened a trifle into a smile. At the other end of the room stood a very pale but resolute girl in a pink wrapper. She held a little gold-mounted revolver, of a calibre so small that Mr. CallaghanCallaghan but for his natural politeness, would have laughed at it outright, and she was biting her lip, for she was apparently rather nervous. The revolver was pointed in Mr. Callaghan’sCallaghan’s direction, but alas! the hand that held it was shaking very perceptibly[2]....

Callaghan grinned. “Isn’t it rather late for you to be out?” he asked her.

“Don’t dare to move,” she replied; “I know precisely what to do. Papa told me before he went away. I’m going to sound the burglar alarm and have you arrested; then you will be sent to State’s Prison.”

“Well,” almost laughed Mr. Callaghan, “why don’t you do it? I’m waiting.”

“Because,” she answered, hesitatingly,--“because you’re standing in front of it.”

“Oh, am I?” answered Callaghan. “Then I’ll move away, I always like to be polite to ladies.” He moved away a few steps. She frowned a little bit. Then she said “Excuse me. Will you please move a little further away?” “Certainly,” he replied, “anything to oblige a real lady.”

She stepped toward the alarm, which Callaghan had not, until then, perceived, and stretched forth her hand.[3]

She was about to turn the little handle, when Callaghan said hastily: “Hold on a minute. Do you think that would be a nice thing to do?”

“Of course it would,” she answered.

“Just think about it a moment,” Callaghan continued; “if you did that, I’d be arrested, and sent up for fifteen or twenty years. Fifteen or twenty years, in a little cell, all by myself, with no one to talk to and nothing to do--except break stones for my health. Now, I don’t care anything about it myself, of course; I havn’t done you any wrong. I havn’t got away with the silver, and therefore, there isn’t any wrong done you, is there? I tried to, but you’ve got the best of me, and you’re an awfully brave little girl to do it, too. But just think of yourself during the next fifteen or twenty years, if you have me sent up. Every day you’ll be thinking about the poor fellow who’s doing time because you made him; and every night you’ll be lying awake, crying, because you made him suffer so much, for such a little thing; and every time the minister in your church says anything about forgiving your enemies, you’ll be thinking he means you; and,”

She broke in “I think I’ll let you go.” She said it very earnestly.

Callaghan laughed aloud. “That’s right,” he said, “I knew you would, for I knew you were a lady the minute I saw you. I didn’t mean what I said. Probably in a month you’d forget all about me. No one remembers a fellow who’s doing time, but the police and the detectives. I was just trying an experiment. Do you think I was afraid you’d call the police? Nonsense. Do you think I was afraid of your little revolver? Nonsense. I’ve been shot twice by real revolvers. If you’d tried to sound the burglar alarm, do you know what I’d have done? I’d have made a quick jump for you and I’d have my hands about your throat before you could have winked. If you’d fired the revolver, you’d missed me. Girls can’t shoot.”

He said this last almost contemptuously, but he was sorry a moment after, for he noticed that she was growing very white, and very frightened too. Nevertheless, he continued: “And after I’d got my hands about your neck, and you couldn’t scream or struggle or shoot, what do you suppose I’d have done?”

She did not reply. She could not speak. She was trembling violently. “I’d have--I’d--,” he was embarrassed, and he actually blushed,--Callaghan blushed--“I’d have kissed you,” he said with an effort, “and then I’d have gone away. But you needn’t look frightened any longer. I ain’t going to hurt you, and I ain’t going to kiss you; for some day you’d be ashamed of it. You’d be ashamed to tell your sweetheart that Rocky Callaghan kissed you; and I ain’t goin’ to take any thing that belongs to this house, although I could, right before your eyes. I’m just going home peaceably.”

He started to walk toward the window by which he had entered.[4] As he did so, however, he looked at her critically, stopped, and said: “You’re going to hold out just about till I’m gone. Then you are going to faint. I can’t leave you here alone in a faint. I’ll fix it.”

He walked deliberately to the sideboard and poured out a glass of ice-water. “Here,” said he, “drink this, and then go upstairs as quick as you can. I’ll lock the window after I go out.”[5]

She took the water with a frightened “Thank you,” and drank it. Mr. Callaghan turned to leave. “That brings the red back in your cheeks,” he said.... “Now, I’m going, but I want you to remember that I’m not afraid of the burglar alarm nor of your little revolver. I’m not going to rob you because--because you’re so brave and because you’re so pretty. I sort of hate to make a failure of a job, and I guess the boys will guy me a bit for it; but you are too pretty.” Saying which, Mr. Callaghan climbed nimbly through the window and disappeared.

TABLEAUX.

1. Dining-room scene, very scant light. Silverware on table, on which sits half-opened dark lantern; side-board in background; burglar behind table in center, faces audience while examining silverware, face lighted by lantern. (Face may be darkened by scorched flour.)

2. Same scene, brilliantly lighted, with burglar at left end of table; girl in pink wrapper at right end of room, hair down and arm extended holding toy pistol or revolver. (Face powdered white.)

3. Same as second. Girl moved a little to right with arm reached toward burglar alarm.

4. Burglar turned facing girl, back half turned to audience.

5. Burglar passing water, which girl has stretched hand to receive.


MATRIMONIAL PHILOSOPHY.


[With Moving Tableaux Arranged for this Publication.]

There were lovers three in the days gone by,
They were healthy, they were wealthy, yet they’d sit and sigh,
Sit and sigh till the window curtains shook,
And all for the sake of a sweet maid’s look.
For they loved her one, and two, and three,
And each one prayed her his bride to be;
Till she cried, “Ah, no, you must surely see,
If I don’t love one that I can’t love three.”
Three sad men, but they loved enough for ten,
And they sighed enough for twenty, these sad young men.[1]
Then these lovers three in the days gone by,
In their anguish did they languish, and they longed to die.[2]
Longed to die, till a year had passed or more,
And a fourth suitor came to the maiden’s door;
And he knelt so low on bended knee,
As he asked the maid his bride to be,
That the others thought “He will cut out me,”
And their souls were racked with jealousy.[3]
Three stern men, but they frowned enough for ten,
And they scowled enough for twenty, these stern young men.[4]
Then the fourth young swain in the days gone by,
Wooed this maiden so love laden, till she made reply,
Made reply--“You have won my trusting heart,”
And at church they vowed never more to part;
But they quarreled so when they were wed,
That the three young men they smiled and said--
“It’s a lucky thing that he cut out me,
For his wife is a shrew as we all can see.”[5]
Three wise men, but they smiled enough for ten,
And they laughed enough for twenty, these wise young men.[6]
TABLEAUX.

1. Parlor scene, with lady on one side of the room, the lovers in waiting--each in turn approaching and being rejected, retire to a seat to “sit and sigh.”

2. Shows the young men only; having changed their positions they are doing a general “languishing” business.

3. The young lady in center of foreground receives suitor No. 4, who comes on “bended knee.”

4. Shows the first three young men in center of front, hands in pockets--frowning and scowling.

5. Shows husband and wife at left end of stage quarreling--young men at right in attitudes of interest, watching the couple.

6. The three young men in center, front of stage, one smiling, the other two laughing.


THE OPENING OF THE PIANO.


Oliver W. Holmes.

(With Tableaux.)
In the little southern parlor of the house you may have seen,
With the gambrel roof, and the gable looking toward the green,
At the side towards the sunset with the window on the right,
Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night.[1]
Ah me! how I remember the evening when it came,
What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in flame.
When the wondrous box was opened that had come from over seas,
With its smell of mastic, and its flash of ivory keys.[2]
Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy;
For the boy would push his sister and the sister crowd the boy,[3]
Till the father asked for quiet in the grave, paternal way,
But the mother hushed the tumult, with the words, “Now Mary, play!”
For the dear soul knew that music was a very sovereign balm;
She had sprinkled it o’er sorrow, and had seen its brow grow calm;
In the days of slender harpsichords, with tapping twinkling quills,
Or caroling her spinit with its thin metallic trills.
So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to please,
Sat down to the new “Clementi” and struck the glittering keys;[4]
Hushed were the children’s voices, and every eye grew dim,
As floating from lips and finger, arose the Vesper Hymn.[5]
Catherine, child of a neighbor, curly and rosy red,
(Wedded since, and a widow--something like ten years dead,)
Hearing a gush of music such as never heard before,
Steals from her mother’s chamber and peeps at the open door.[6]
Just as the “Jubilate” in threaded whisper dies,
“Open it! open it, lady!” the little maiden cries.
(For she thought ’twas a singing creature caged in a box she heard);
“Open it! open it, lady! and let me see the bird!”[7]
TABLEAUX.

1. Sitting-room. Piano at right. Piano box just opened, in background at left. Center-table has books and papers.

2. Several children crowding about the instrument in attitudes of eager inspection. Parents a little in background.

3. Boy and girl in foreground, crowding and pushing.

4. Oldest daughter sits down to play, children near front, parents in background.

5. Sing “Vesper Hymn”--if possible, with piano accompaniment.

6. Little girl looking in from opposite side of room, screen door ajar; family grouped as above.

7. She has advanced to center of foreground, side face to audience, but looking toward the mother, the rest watching her.


DEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER.

Grandmother paces with stately tread
Forward and back through the quaint old room,
Out of the firelight dancing and red,
Into the gathering dusk and gloom;
Forward and back in her silken dress,
With its falling ruffles of frost-like lace,
A look of the deepest tenderness
In the faded lines of her fine old face.[1]
Warm on her breast, in his red night-gown,
Like a scarlet lily, the baby lies,
While softly the weary lids creep down
Over the little sleepy eyes.
Grandmother sings to him sweet and low,
And memories come with the cradle song
Of the day when she sang it long ago,
When her life was young and her heart was strong.[2]
Grandmother’s children have left her now,--
The large old house is a shadowed place;
But shining out in the sunset glow
Of her life, like a star, comes the baby’s face.
He lies where of old his father lay,
And softly she sings him the same sweet strain,
Till the years intervening are swept away,
And the joys of life’s morning are hers again.[3]
Grandmother’s head is bending low
Over the dear little drowsy one.
The steps of her pathway are few to go;
The baby’s journey has just begun.
Yet the rosy dawn of his childish love
Brightens the evening that else were dim;
And in after years, from her home above,
The light of her blessing will rest on him.[4]
MOVING TABLEAUX.

1. Sitting-room with antique furniture. Old lady pacing across stage front, carrying baby in red night-dress.

2. Baby in cradle; grandmother near, facing audience, sings “Hush, my dear; lie still and slumber.” If Grandmother’s part is taken by some one who can not sing, this may be done by a hidden voice.

3. Same as 2. Sings “Sleep, Baby, Sleep.”

4. Grandmother sits quiet--bending over cradle.

ANSWERING AN ADVERTISEMENT.


by Frank M. Thorn. (Abridged and Adapted.)

Characters.--Lawyer; Irish woman and son.
Costumes.--Typical.
Place.--Lawyer’s office.
Good mornin’ til yez, yer honor! And are yez the gintlemon
As advertised, in the paper, for an active intilligint b’y?
Y’ are? Thin I’ve brought him along wid me,--a raal fine sprig iv a wan:--
As likely a b’y iv his age, sur, as iver ye’d wish til empl’y.[1]
That’s him. Av coorse I’m his mither! Yez can see his resimblance til me,
Fur ivery wan iv his faytures, and mine, are as like as two paze,--
Barrin’ wan iv his hivenly eyes, which he lost in a bit iv a spree
Wid Hooligan’s b’y, which intinded to larrup me Teddy wid aize.
And is it rid-headed ye call him? Belike he is foxey, is Ted;
And goold-colored hair is becomin’ til thim that’s complicted wid blonde!
But who cares for color? Sure, contints out-vally the rest iv the head!
And Ted has a head full iv contints, as lively as t’hrout in a pond!
Good timpered? Sure niver a bet’her. The peaceablest, quietest lamb
As lives the whole lin’th iv our st’hrate, where the b’ys is that kane fur a row
That Ted has to fight iv’ry day, though he’d quarrel no more than a clam.--
Faith, thim b’ys ’ud provoke the swate angels, in hiven, to fight onyhow!
Perliteness comes aisy til Ted, for he’s had me to tache him the thrick
Iv bowin’ and scrapin’ and spakin’ to show paple proper respict.
Spake up till the gintlemon, Teddy! Whist! Aff wid yer cap first, ye stick!
He’s shapish a t’hrifle, yer honor; he’s allus been brought up that strict.[2]
Come! Spake up, and show yer foine bradin! Och! Hear that! “How air yez, Owld Moke?”
Arrah, millia murther! Did iver yez hear jist the aqual iv that?
“How air yez, Owld Moke?” says he! Ha! Ha! Sure, yer honor, he manes it in joke!
He’s the playfullest b’y! Faith, it’s laughin’ at Teddy that makes me so fat!
Honest? Troth he is that! Yez can t’hrust wid onything. Honest! Does he luk like a b’y that ’ud stale?
Jist luk in the swate, open face iv him, barrin’ the eye wid the wink:--
Och! Teddy! Phat ugly black st’hrame is it runnin’ down there by yer hale!
Mutheration! Yer honor, me Teddy has spilt yer fine bottle iv ink![3]
Phat? How kem the ink in his pocket? I’m thinkin’ he borry’d it, sir;--
And yez saw him pick up yer pin-howlder and stick it up intil his slaive!
And yez think that Ted mint til purline ’em? Ah, wirra! wirra! The likes iv that slur
Will d’hrive me,--poor, tinder, lone widdy,--wid sorrow down intil me grave![4]
Bad cess til yez, Teddy, ye spalpeen! Why c’u’dn’t yez howld on, the day--
Ye thafe iv the world!--widout breakin’ the heart iv me? No. Yez must stale!
I’ll tache yez a t’hrick, ye rid-headed, pilferin’, gimlet-eyed flay!
Ye freckle-faced, impident bla’guard!--Och! whin we git home yez’ll squale![5]
MOVING TABLEAUX.

1. Lawyer at desk, left of center and a little back; woman in center, faces judge and audience alternately; boy in background.

2. Boy dragged to front by mother, and while she talks, he fusses with desk furnishings.

3. Boy and mother in center--front. (Ink on his light colored pants may be simulated by black cloth sewed on.) Mother points to it.

4. Boy in background--mother side faces audience while addressing the lawyer, wrings hands and weeps.

5. Boy again near front, listening to threats of mother, who shakes him and her fist in turn.


THE BRIDAL VEIL


by Alice Cary.

We’re married, they say, and you think you have won me,--
Well, take this white veil from my head and look on me.me.
Here’s matter to vex you and matter to grieve you.
Here’s doubt to distrust you and faith to believe you--
I am all, as you see, common earth, common dew;
Be wary, and mould me to roses, not rue![1]
Ah! shake out the filmy thing, fold after fold,
And see if you have me to keep and to hold--
Look close on my heart--see worst of its sinning--
It is not yours to-day for the yesterday’s winning--
The past is not mine--I am too proud to borrow--
You must grow to new heights if I love you to-morrow.[2]
We’re married! I’m plighted to hold up your praises,
As the turf at your feet does its handful of daisies;
That way lies my honor--my pathway of pride.
But, mark you, if greener grass grows either side,
I shall know it; and keeping the body with you,
Shall walk in my spirit with feet on the dew.
We’re married! Oh, pray that our love do not fail!
I have wings fastened down, hidden under my veil!
They are subtle as light--you can never undo them;
And swift in their flight--you can never pursue them;
And spite of all clasping and spite of all bands,
I can slip like a shadow, a dream, from your hands.
Nay, call me not cruel, and fear not to take me.
I am yours for a lifetime, to be what you make me,
To wear my white veil for a sigh or a cover,
As you shall be proven my lord or my lover;
A cover for peace that is dead; or a token
Of bliss that can never be written or spoken.[3]
TABLEAUX.

1. Drawing-room scene. Bride and groom in full wedding costume; bride in white, with orange blossoms and veil of tarlatan or lace; both stand near center in foreground, a little apart, facing each other.

2. Husband in act of lifting veil from side front.

3. Both are sitting on sofa--settled and serene.


JIMMY BROWN’S SISTER’S WEDDING


[Abridged and Adapted.]

She ought to have been married a long while ago. That’s what everybody says who knows her. She has been engaged to Mr. Travers for three years and has had to refuse lots of offers to go to the circus with other young men. I have wanted her to get married, so that I could go and live with her and Mr. Travers. When I think that if it hadn’t been for a mistake I made she would have been married yesterday, I find it dreadfully hard to be resigned.

Last week it was finally agreed that Sue and Mr. Travers should be married without waiting any longer. You should have seen what a state of mind she and mother were in. They did nothing but buy new clothes and sew, and talk about the wedding all day long.[1]

Sue was determined to be married in church, and to have six bridesmaids and six bridegrooms, and flowers and music and all sorts of things. The only thing that troubled her, was making up her mind who to invite. Mother wanted her to invite Mr. and Mrs. McFadden and the seven McFadden girls; but Sue said they had insulted her and she couldn’t bear the idea of asking the McFadden tribe! Everybody agreed that old Mr. Wilkinson, who once came to a party at our house with one boot and one slipper, couldn’t be invited; but it was decided that every one else that was on good terms with our family should have an invitation.

Sue counted up all the people she meant to invite and there was nearly three hundred of them! You would hardly believe it but she told me that I must carry round all those invitations and deliver them myself. Of course I couldn’t do this without neglecting my studies and losing time, so I thought of a plan which would save Sue the trouble of directing the invitations and save me from wasting time in delivering them.

So I got to work with my printing press and printed a dozen splendid big bills about the wedding. When they were printed I cut out a lot of small pictures (of animals and ladies riding on horses) of some old circus bills and pasted them on the wedding bills.[2] They were perfectly gorgeous and you could see them four or five rods off. When they were all done I made some paste in a tin pail, and after dark went out and pasted them in good places all over the village.

The next afternoon father came into the house looking very stern and carrying in his hand one of the wedding bills. He handed it to Sue and said: “Susan, what does this mean? These bills are posted all over the village, and there are crowds of people reading them.” Sue read the bill, and then gave an awful shriek and fainted dead away--and I hurried down to the post-office, to see if the mail had come in.[3]

This is what was on the wedding bills, and I am sure it was spelled all right:

Miss Susan Brown announces that she will marry
Mr. James Travers,
at the church, next Thursday, at half-past seven sharp
All the friends of the family
with the exception of the McFadden tribe and old Mr. Wilkinson
are invited.
Come early and bring lots of flowers and cake and ice cream.[4]

(The wedding as it finally took place will now be shown.)[5]

TABLEAUX.

1. Sewing-room; Susan, mother and two dressmakers at work, by hand and machine, on the trousseau, “billows” of which appear everywhere. (Properly--Susan should be in duplicate, one for the sewing-room and one for the bridal scene there not being enough time for the bride to dress between the scenes.)

2. Jimmy at work on his big bills.

3. Father holding the poster; Susan in a faint.

4. The “poster” illustrated according to description. (Insert the name of your most prominent local church.)

5. The wedding as it finally took place--a typical scene, with minister, bride and groom in foreground, bridesmaids and attendants on either side; parents and guests in background; pages and maids of honor, if stage is large enough. Costumes should all be elegant and harmonious. (See “Bridal Wine Cup,” p. 44.)


STRONG COFFEE.


by Charles Mackay.

“Hush! Joanna!
I’ll forgive you!
But it’s certain that the coffee wasn’t strong!
Own your error! Why so stubborn in the wrong?”[1]
“You’ll forgive me? Sir, I hate you!
You have used me like a churl.
Have my senses ceased to guide me?
Do you think I am a girl?”
“Oh no! You’re a girl no longer
But a woman, formed to please.
And it’s time you should abandon
Childish follies, such as these.”
“Oh I hate you! but why vex me?
If I’m old--you’re older still.
I’ll no longer be your victim
And the creature of your will.”[2]
“But, Joanna; why this bother?
It might happen I was wrong.
But if common sense inspire me,
Still that coffee wasn’t strong.”
“Common sense? You never had it!
Oh, that ever I was born
To be wedded to a monster
That repays my love with scorn.”
“Well, Joanna, we’ll not quarrel;
What’s the use of bitter strife?
But I’m sorry I am married.
I was mad--to take a wife.”
“Mad, indeed! I’m glad you know it.
But if law can break this chain
I’ll be tied to you no longer--
In this misery and pain.”
“Hush, Joanna! Shall the servants
Hear you argue, ever wrong?
Can you not have done with folly?
Own the coffee was not strong.”[3]
“Oh you goad me past endurance!
Trifling with my woman’s heart.
But I loath you and detest you!
Villain! monster! let us part!”
*         *         *         *
Long this foolish quarrel lasted
Till Joanna, half afraid,
That her empire was in peril,
Summoned never failing aid.
Summoned tears in copious torrents,
Tears and sobs, and piteous sighs;
Well she knew the potent practice--
The artillery of the eyes.[4]
And it chanced as she imagined--
Beautiful in grief was she.
Beautiful to best advantage;--
And a tender heart had he.
Kneeling at her side he soothed her:
“Dear Joanna! I was wrong.
Never more I’ll contradict you--
But, oh, make my coffee strong!”[5]