Yankee Chorus Girls.

Col. William H. Foster, the manager of the Boston Ideals, tells us that his principals do not cost him so much worry and vexation as his chorus-girls do. “It is admitted,” says he, “that my chorus-girls are the prettiest on the operatic stage this year. I selected them with great care, and made these three conditions the basis upon which that selection was made: First, each candidate had to be under nineteen years of age; second, each had to weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds, and less than a hundred and sixty pounds; third, each had to agree to subsist on the diet prescribed by me. I have eleven girls in my chorus, and I venture to say they are the cream and flower of New-England beauty. I suffer them to eat but three meals a day.—Their breakfasts consist of hulled corn or oatmeal, rare beefsteak, and graham bread. For dinner they eat boiled mutton with boiled potatoes and Hubbard squash, or corned beef and cabbage, or pork and beans; and their only dessert is pumpkin-pie or apple-pie. Their suppers consist of smoked halibut, dried beef, graham bread, dried-apple sauce, cold doughnuts, 108and cookies. I watch them all the time lest some foolish admirer sends them candy or fruit, two godless luxuries which I never countenance. The consequence of my jealous care is, that my chorus-girls are plump, rosy, and vigorous, the paragons of girlish beauty. I shall never forget the scene that took place the night we opened this season in Syracuse, N.Y. Barnabee came off the stage after the first act, looking like a boy of nineteen. His eyes were afire, his cheeks were flushed, his step was bounding, and a joyous smile wreathed his face.

“‘In Heaven’s name, Foster,’ said he, ‘how can I ever thank you,—how can I express to you my gratitude for the inestimable boon you have conferred upon me!’

“‘What do you mean?’ I asked, aghast; for his unusual excitement alarmed me.

“‘Look at me,’ said he. ‘Scrutinize me closely, and search me well. I am an old man. Age has frosted my sparse locks, chilled my blood, and traced furrows in my cheeks. For twenty-three years I have been identified with this Boston Ideal Company; and for twenty-three years have I groped my way around among the sphinxes, the obelisks, the ivy-mantled towers, and the grand old ruins, of ancient female history. So inured had I become to this hardship, that it came like second nature to me to weave my arms about relics, and to sing impassioned sonnets in the dull, cold ears of survivors of the silurian epoch. To-night, 109however, when I clasped in my embrace, in view of an enthusiastic public, the female to whom my serenade had been addressed, I found her not the mossy reminiscence I expected, but a living, breathing, palpitating girl, with rosebud lips and peachy cheeks. Instantly I experienced a blissful change percolating through my being. For twenty-three years I had felt like a government mule hauling a load of pig-iron, but now I feel like a two-year-old colt behind a band of music. Don’t you think, Foster, that McDonald needs a rest? I believe I would like to sing his rôles for the balance of the season.’”