Part 3 — Dialogues for Schools and Lyceums.

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.

Be you the divorce man?

Lawyer Porter. (Smiling.) Well, I don’t exactly know that my vocation lies particularly in that direction, but I have been known to undertake such cases. Are you in trouble?

Far. H. I should rather say so! It’s come to jest this ’ere climax that I can’t stand it nohow, not another day; an’ ef you can’t git me unspliced, I’ll hev to find some one who can.

Law. P. What are your grounds for complaint?

Far. H. Grounds! Ordinary grounds wouldn’t hold ’em! I’ve a hull farm full!

Law. P. One or two are just as efficient in procuring a divorce as a hundred, providing the offence is grave enough. Your wife now, for instance; I suppose she hasn’t fallen in love with another man?

Far. H. Haw-haw! That’s a good ’un! Betsey in love with another feller! Wal, hardly, mister! Betsey isn’t no fool. You can bet high on that!

Law. P. Of course that was a suppositional case, merely. Is she a scandal-monger?

Far. H. Scandal-monger? Not much; ef ever a woman knew how to hold her tongue when other folks’s is a-waggin’, that’s Betsey every time.

Law. P. Cruel to her children, possibly?

Far. H. I swow, I’ll begin to take you fer the fool, mister. Our children is growed up an’ in homes of the’r own, years back; an’ ez fer gran’children, ef ever an old woman made an idjit of herself over babies, it’s Betsey with them thar youngsters. She jest sp’iles them no end, an’ thar’s nobudy they sets such store by as gran’ma. You hain’t on the right track, by long odds.

Law. P. Evidently not. Suppose now, as my time is valuable, we reverse the case, and you enlighten me as to the cause of your unhappiness, instead of my wasting the minutes in making conjectures? Perhaps incompatibility of temper may cover the ground.

Far. H. In—com—what kind of temper? You beat me with them long words o’ yourn; but, mebbe you’ve struck it, this time. Thar’s no use talking, but Betsey’s that aggervatin’, she riles me so it seems like as though I’d bu’st! Ef she’d ever say a word I could stand it; but she’s that mum you can’t get a word out o’ her edgewise; you’d say, for sartain, thet she’d b’en born deaf, an’ without a tongue in her mouth.

Law. H. A woman and dumb? Ye gods! This is a reversal of the laws of nature with a vengeance! Do you mean for me to understand that your wife never speaks? How can she conduct her household?

Far. H. Oh, she’s chipper enough when things goes to suit; but when I’m r’iled, an’ dyin’ to see the fur fly—to hev it out with some one—then she’s mummer than the side o’ a house; ye couldn’t git a word out o’ her then with a pair o’ oxen! Ef she’d only spit it out, too, an’ hev a good out en out settlin’ o’ matters, ’twould clear the air like a thunder-storm; but thet’s exactly whar the pinch comes. I might r’are an’ tear, an’ pull the house down over our heads, fer all the good ’twould do—thet woman would set as calm es a cucumber, or go about her chores, an’ you’d never guess she knew I was within a hundred miles o’ her! Either she hain’t got an atom o’ sense in her git up, or else she’s too dumb to show it at sech times. It’s enough to drive a man into fits, an’ I can’t go it no longer. It’s either her or me that’s got to git out! I’m willin’ to do my duty to the letter, an’ give her a share in the old farm. I wouldn’t see her want for nothin’, fer in spite o’ her tongue—

Law. P. I rather think you mean her want of tongue!

Far. H. Jest so! There isn’t a kinder or willin’er woman in the section.

Law. P. Suppose, now, that we sum up: your wife, according to your statements, is a good, pure woman—

Far. H. That she is, lawyer! I’d like to hear any one say a thing against Betsey’s character! I’d choke the life out ov him!

Law. P. Fond of her children and grandchildren; don’t gossip; domestic in her tastes—Does she keep your house in order, your clothes mended, your wants all attended to, and give you your meals on time!

Far. H. Why, of course! Thet’s what a wife’s fer, isn’t she? What a question to ax!

Law. P. You acknowledge all this. Now, supposing, on the contrary, that your wife was a shrew.

Far. H. (Bewildered.) A which?

Law. P. A cross, scolding woman; a woman who left her own fireside to gossip and make scandal among her neighbors; who neglected her home; who got your meals at all or no times and let you look out for yourself; who abused the little children around her; who—

Far. H. Stop, mister! Betsey couldn’t do none o’ them things. Why, you’d make her out a pretty sort o’ critter for me to hev been livin’ with these forty years!

Law. P. No, Betsey couldn’t do all or any of these things. From your own story you have a saint instead of an ordinary woman for a wife; a being who knows that essence of all true happiness—how to hold her tongue; who, instead of lowering herself to petty quarrels and commonplace bickerings, keeps her temper within bounds while you are purposely doing all you possibly can to aggravate her—to make her dislike you—to—

Far. H. (Shamefacedly.) Sho! You air trying to make out a purty strong case against me, ain’t you now? I never looked at it in jest that light before, an’ you can’t tell how a few words now an’ then would splice up things in general.

Law. P. If your wife were to come to me and demand a divorce, after what you have told me, I should be strongly tempted to take up her case.

Far. H. Betsey git a divorce from me! Thet’s the best yet! Well, I should as soon think o’ the sky falling. (Knock at door, voice outside asking if Lawyer Porter is in.) I’ll be everlastin’ly simmered, ef thet don’t sound like Betsey’s voice this actual minute! Whar’ll I go? I don’t want to be found around these parts; but, what in the name o’ conscience kin she want with you, now? (Glares, at the lawyer, who takes him by the shoulder and leads him up to closet door or behind a screen.)

Law. P. Step into this cover, and be quick about it. You’ll soon ascertain what your wife wants of me. And remember, this is a private interview which you are not to interrupt (Farmer Hanks disappears, and the lawyer goes to door.)

(Enter Mrs Hanks, hesitatingly.)

Law. P. Good morning, madame! What can I do for you? Let me give you a chair. (Seats her with back to closet or screen. Farmer H. pokes his head out.)

Far. H. I’ll be durned but it is Betsey! (Comes half out into room, but Lawyer P. scowls and motions him back. Mrs. Hanks sits silent.)

Law. P. (Kindly.) Well, madame, you want—

Mrs. Hanks. (In a half whisper.) I want, or I guess I want a bill of divorce. (Farmer Hanks’s face pops out again, with an expression of bewilderment and horror upon it.)

Law. P. Your husband is addicted to the excessive use of liquor, maybe? (Farmer H. shakes his fist at the lawyer.)

Mrs. H. Good gracious, no! Samuel never took too much liquor in his life, to my knowledge.

Law. P. Then, perhaps, he is violent, and cruel to you and the children?

Mrs. H. Mercy, no! Whatever made you think of sech a thing! Samuel wouldn’t hurt a fly; he’s the softest-hearted man in the world; it isn’t that—it’s only—only—

Law. P. Well, you must try to tell me your difficulty, or I will be unable to help you.

Mrs. H. (Bursting into tears.) It’s so hard to tell, yet it’s so hard to bear. It seems jest as if I’d go wild ef I had it to stand another day. Yet except fer this one thing Samuel’s the best husband a woman could ask fer. He is perfect temperate in all his habits, liberal an’ open-handed as the day is long, an’ as kind an’ considerate as any one could wish fer. (Farmer H. looks out at the lawyer exultingly.) But—but—

Law. P. But what?

Mrs. H. Oh, those dreadful tantrums of his’n! They come on without any apparent reason at all, an’ he’s like to a crazy man.

Law. P. And you oppose him and aggravate him when he gets in these moods, possibly?

Mrs. H. (Sadly.) Oh, no! What good would that do? or rather, what harm wouldn’t it do? I jest stand them as best I may, an’ pray the Good Power above for strength to hold my tongue, an’ bear the affliction which he has seen fit to visit me with. (Farmer H. looks out again with an incredulous, shamefaced expression, and seems about to speak, but the lawyer motions him back.)

Law. P. And you say absolutely nothing?

Mrs. H. I never hev given way to my tongue yet; ef I once should, or to the feelin’ that he rouses in me at sech times, I almost think I should strike him. (Farmer H. again advances, but is motioned back.)

Law. P. Wouldn’t that serve him right?

Mrs. H. (Surprised.) Strike Samuel? I’d never forgive myself ef I did. Yet, it is so hard; you can’t tell! It really seems as ef the harder I tried to hold my tongue an’ keep the peace, the worse he got, until sometimes I ’most think he’d like to kill me!

Law. P. Oh, surely not! His wicked temper would not, or could not, carry itself to such an extent against such an angel of peace. But, I cannot find words to express my opinion of such a brute. I cannot find strong enough terms to convey my condemnation. A man who will seek willfully to quarrel with a wife who is gentleness and meekness itself, to say nothing of the other cardinal virtues, is a selfish heartless piece of humanity, unworthy of the name of man, and deserves nothing better than the public whipping-post, which, unhappily—

Mrs. H. Stop! I will not allow you to speak of Samuel in such a manner! He may hev his little faults as all men do—

Far. H. (Rushing out). Yes, let him say every durned thing he kin of me, Betsey! I deserve it all, an’ a hundred times more—(Mrs. Hanks gives a scream and almost sinks to the floor, but her husband catches her)—when I think of what a howlin’ idjit I’ve b’en all these years. The whippin’-post ain’t half severe enough.

Mrs. H. Oh, you never was that, Samuel!

Far. H. Yes I was, an’ be, up to this very minute; but I be goin’ to make a clean breast of it or bu’st. Here I hev b’en thinkin’ an’ sayin’ that you didn’t quarrel with me nor answer me back, because ye didn’t know enough—

Mrs. H. Oh, Samuel, how could you?

Far. H. An’ thet you was a perfect fool, with no spunk in ye, an’ here you’ve b’en with the spunk all bottled up, an’ never darin’ to let her loose for fear o’ makin’ me wuss, an’ doin’ wrong yourself! Oh! I’m the wickedest kind of a sinner, Betsey. (Groans). I don’t wonder you want to git a bill ag’inst me; an’ this here lawyer’ll be sure to git ye one, as he sees you deserve it fast enough, an’ I don’t blame neither o’ ye.

Mrs. H. But I don’t want it, Samuel. Now you see jest how it is, an’ that I never allowed to r’ile you, I’m sure ’twill all be right. (Turning to Lawyer P). An’ you won’t let what I’ve said turn you ag’inst him, will you? You can see for yourself that he never could hev meant it.

Law. P. And he never was such a man as he proves at this very time when he humbles himself to confess how wrong he has been, and acknowledges the true worth of his devoted wife whom he has so long misjudged or misunderstood.

Far. H. You’re right thar, Lawyer Porter. I can’t find the words to tell what a blamed fool I’ve been; yet, ef you’ll believe it, I feel lighter o’ heart this blessed minute than I hev in a month o’ Sundays before. An’ to think that an hour ago I was actually hankerin’ after a bill ag’in ye, Betsey! I don’t desarve ye should forgive me, like this, but I give ye my word o’ honor that the next time a tantrum strikes me I’ll hev it out down in the meddar with that old Jersey bull o’ mine.

(Curtain falls.)

TAKING THE CENSUS.

Characters:

Inquisitor. A Patient Man, with pen, ink and a large sheet of paper, engaged in taking the census.

Mrs. Touchwood. An old lady in frilled cap and set-sprig apron, engaged in giving it.

Scene.—A house in the country. Mrs. Touchwood at a wash-tub hard at work.

Enter Inquisitor.

Inquisitor.

Good morning, madam. Is the head of the family at home?

Mrs. Touchwood. Yes, sir, I’m at home.

Inq. Haven’t you a husband?

Mrs. T. Yes, sir, but he ain’t the head of the family, I’d have you to know.

Inq. How many persons have you in your family?

Mrs. T. Why, bless me, sir, what’s that to you? You’re mighty inquisitive, I think.

Inq. I’m the man that takes the census.

Mrs. T. If you was a man in your senses you wouldn’t ask such impertinent questions.

Inq. Don’t be offended, old lady, but answer my questions as I ask them.

Mrs. T. “Answer a fool according to his folly!”—you know what the Scripture says. Old lady, indeed!

Inq. Beg your pardon, madam; but I don’t care about hearing Scripture just at this moment I’m bound to go according to law and not according to gospel.

Mrs. T. I should think you went neither according to law nor gospel. What business is it to you to inquire into folks’ affairs, Mr. Thingumbob?

Inq. The law makes it my business, good woman, and if you don’t want to expose yourself to its penalties, you must answer my questions.

Mrs. T. Oh, it’s the law, is it? That alters the case. But I should like to know what the law has to do with other people’s household matters?

Inq. Why, Congress made the law, and if it don’t please you, you must talk to them about it.

Mrs. T. Talk to a fiddle-stick! Why, Congress is a fool, and you’re another.

Inq. Now, good lady, you’re a fine, good-looking woman; if you’ll give me a few civil answers I’ll thank you. What I wish to know first is, how many are there in your family?

Mrs. T. Let me see [counting on her fingers]; there’s I and my husband is one——

Inq. Two, you mean.

Mrs. T. Don’t put me out, now, Mr. Thinkummy. There’s I and my husband is one——

Inq. Are you always one?

Mrs. T. What’s that to you, I should like to know. But I tell you, if you don’t leave off interrupting me I won’t say another word.

Inq. Well, take your own way, and be hanged to you.

Mrs. T. I will take my own way, and no thanks to you. [Again counting her fingers.] There’s I and my husband is one; there’s John, he’s two; Peter is three, Sue and Moll are four, and Thomas is five. And then there’s Mr. Jenkins and his wife and the two children is six; and there’s Jowler, he’s seven.

Inq. Jowler! Who’s he?

Mrs. T. Who’s Jowler! Why, who should he be but the old house dog?

Inq. It’s the number of persons I want to know.

Mrs. T. Very well, Mr. Flippergin, ain’t Jowler a person? Come here, Jowler, and speak for yourself. I’m sure he’s as personable a dog as there is in the whole State.

Inq. He’s a very clever dog, no doubt. But it’s the number of human beings I want to know.

Mrs. T. Human! There ain’t a more human dog that ever breathed.

Inq. Well, but I mean the two-legged kind of beings.

Mrs. T. Oh, the two-legged, is it? Well, then, there’s the old rooster, he’s seven; the fighting-cock is eight, and the bantam is nine——

Inq. Stop, stop, good woman, I don’t want to know the number of your fowls.

Mrs. T. I’m very sorry indeed, I can’t please you, such a sweet gentleman as you are. But didn’t you tell me—’twas the two-legged beings——

Inq. True, but I didn’t mean the hens.

Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. The old gobbler, he’s seven, the hen turkey is eight; and if you’ll wait a week there’ll be a parcel of young ones, for the old hen turkey is setting on a whole snarl of eggs.

Inq. Blast your turkeys!

Mrs. T. Oh, don’t now, good Mr. Hipper-stitcher, I pray you don’t. They’re as honest turkeys as any in the country.

Inq. Don’t vex me any more. I’m getting to be angry.

Mrs. T. Ha! ha! ha!

Inq. [striding about the room in a rage.] Have a care, madam, or I shall fly out of my skin.

Mrs T. If you do, I don’t know who will fly in.

Inq. You do all you can to anger me. It’s the two-legged creatures who talk I have reference to.

Mrs. T. Oh, now I understand you. Well then, our Poll Parrot makes seven and the black gal eight.

Inq. I see you will have your own way.

Mrs. T. You have just found out, have you! You are a smart little man!

Inq. Have you mentioned the whole of your family?

Mrs. T. Yes, that’s the whole—except the wooden-headed man in front.

Inq. Wooden-headed?

Mrs. T. Yes, the schoolmaster what’s boarding here.

Inq. I suppose if he has a wooden head he lives without eating, and therefore must be a profitable boarder.

Mrs. T. Oh, no, sir, you are mistaken there. He eats like a leather judgment.

Inq. How many servants are there in the family?

Mrs. T. Servants! Why, there’s no servants but me and my husband.

Inq. What makes you and your husband servants?

Mrs. T. I’m a servant to hard work, and he is a servant to rum. He does nothing all day but guzzle, guzzle, guzzle; while I’m working, and stewing, and sweating from morning till night, and from night till morning.

Inq. How many colored persons have you?

Mrs. T. There’s nobody but Dinah, the black girl, Poll Parrot and my daughter Sue.

Inq. Is your daughter a colored girl?

Mrs. T. I guess you’d think so if you was to see her. She’s always out in the sun—and she’s tanned up as black as an Indian.

Inq. How many white males are there in your family under ten years of age?

Mrs. T. Why, there ain’t none now; my husband don’t carry the mail since he’s taken to drink so bad. He used to carry two, but they wasn’t white.

Inq. You mistake, good woman; I meant male folks, not leather mails.

Mrs. T. Let me see; there’s none except little Thomas, and Mr. Jenkins’ two little girls.

Inq. Males, I said, madam, not females.

Mrs. T. Well, if you don’t like them, you may leave them off.

Inq. How many white males are there between ten and twenty?

Mrs. T. Why, there’s nobody but John and Peter, and John ran away last week.

Inq. How many white males are there between twenty and thirty?

Mrs. T. Let me see—there’s the wooden-headed man is one, Mr. Jenkins and his wife is two, and the black girl is three.

Inq. No more of your nonsense, old lady; I’m heartily tired of it.

Mrs. T. Hoity toity! Haven’t I a right to talk as I please in my own house?

Inq. You must answer the questions as I put them.

Mrs. T. “Answer a fool according to his folly”—you’re right, Mr. Hippogriff.

Inq. How many white males are there between thirty and forty?

Mrs. T. Why, there’s nobody but I and my husband—and he was forty-one last March.

Inq. As you count yourself among the males, I dare say you wear the breeches.

Mrs. T. Well, what if I do, Mr. Impertinence? Is that anything to you? Mind your own business, if you please.

Inq. Certainly—I did but speak. How many white males are there between forty and fifty?

Mrs. T. None.

Inq. How many between fifty and sixty?

Mrs. T. None.

Inq. Are there any between this and a hundred?

Mrs. T. None except the old gentleman.

Inq. What old gentleman? You haven’t mentioned any before.

Mrs. T. Why, gramther Grayling—I thought everybody knew gramther Grayling—he’s a hundred and two years old next August, if he lives so long—and I dare say he will, for he’s got the dry wilt, and they say such folks never dies.

Inq. Now give the number of deaf and dumb persons.

Mrs. T. Why, there is no deaf persons, excepting husband, and he ain’t so deaf as he pretends to be. When anybody axes him to take a drink of rum, if it’s only in a whisper, he can hear quick enough. But if I tell him to fetch an armful of wood or feed the pigs or tend the griddle, he’s as deaf as a horse-block.

Inq. How many dumb persons?

Mrs. T. Dumb! Why, there’s no dumb body in the house, except the wooden-headed man, and he never speaks unless he’s spoken to. To be sure, my husband wishes I was dumb, but he can’t make it out.

Inq. Are there any manufactures carried on here?

Mrs. T. None to speak on, except turnip sausages and tow cloth.

Inq. Turnip-sausages!

Mrs. T. Yes, turnip-sausages. Is there anything so wonderful in that?

Inq. I never heard of them before. What kind of machinery is used in making them?

Mrs. T. Nothing but a bread-trough, a chopping-knife and a sausage filler.

Inq. Are they made of clear turnips?

Mrs. T. Now you’re terrible inquisitive. What would you give to know?

Inq. I’ll give you the name of being the most communicative and pleasant woman I’ve met with for the last half-hour.

Mrs. T. Well, now, you’re a sweet gentleman, and I must gratify you. You must know we mix with the turnip a little red cloth, just enough to give them a color, so they needn’t look as if they were made of clear fat meat; then we chop them up well together, put in a little sage, summer savory, and black pepper; and they make as pretty little delicate links as ever was set on a gentleman’s table; they fetch the highest price in the market.

Inq. Indeed! Have you a piano in the house?

Mrs. T. A piany! What’s that?

Inq. A musical instrument.

Mrs. T. Lor, no. But Sary Jane, down at the Corners, has one—you see. Sary got all highfalutin about the great Colushun down to Bosting, and down she went; an’ when she came back the old man got no rest until she had one of the big square music boxes with white teeth—’spose that’s what you call a piany.

Inq. You seem to know what it is, then.

Mrs. T. Yes, sir. Have you anything more to ax?

Inq. Nothing more. Good morning, madam.

Mrs. T. Stop a moment; can’t you think of something else? Do now, that’s a good man. Wouldn’t you like to know what we’re a-going to have for dinner; or how many chickens our old white hen hatched at her last brood; or how many—

Inq. Nothing more—nothing more.

Mrs. T. Here, just look in the cupboard, and see how many red ants there are in the sugar-bowl; I haven’t time to count them myself.

Inq. Confound your ants and all your relations.

[Exit in a huff.

ELDER SNIFFLES’ COURTSHIP

Characters.

Widow Bedott, Elder Sniffles, In Character.

The widow retires to the grove in the rear of Elder Sniffles’ house, sits down on a log and sings in a plaintive voice.

Widow Bedott.

She sighs profoundly, and the Elder advances unexpectedly.

W. B. Good gracious! is that you, Elder Sniffles! how you did scare me! Never was so flustrated in all the days o’ my life! hadn’t the remotest idee o’ meeting you here—would’t a come for forty dollars if I’d a s’posed you ever meander’d here. I never was here afore—but was settin’ by my winder and I cast my eyes over here, and as I observed the lofty trees a wavin’ in the gentle blast, and heerd the feathered songsters a wobblin’ their mellancolly music, I felt quite a call to come over; it’s so retired and morantic—such an approbriate place to marvel round in, ye know, when a body feels low-sperrited and unconsolable, as I dew to-night. O, d-e-a-r!

E. S. Most worthy Mrs. Bedott, your evident depression fills me with unmitigated sympathy. Your feelings (if I may be permitted to judge from the language of your song, which I overheard)——

W. B. You didn’t though, Elder! the drefful suz! what shall I dew! I wouldn’t a had you heerd that song for no money! I wish I hadn’t a come! I wish to gracious I hadn’t a come!

E. S. I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, it was unintentional on my part, entirely unintentional, but my contiguity to yourself and your proximity to me were such as rendered it impossible for me to avoid hearing you—

W. B. Well, it can’t be helped now; it’s no use crying for spilt milk, but I wouldn’t have you to think I know’d you ever came here.

E. S. On the contrary, this grove is a favorite resort of mine; it affords a congenial retreat after the exterminating and tremendous mental labors of the day. I not unfrequently spend the declining hours of the evening here, buried in the most profound meditations. On your entrance I was occupying my customary seat beneath that umbrageous mounting ash which you perceive a few feet from you; indeed, had not your mind been much pre-occupied you could scarcely have avoided discovering me.

W. B. Oh, granf’ther grievous! I wish I’d staid to hum! I was born for misfortin’ and nothin’ else! I wish to massy I’d staid to hum to-night! but I felt as if I’d like to come here once afore I leave the place. [She weeps.]

E. S. Ah! indeed! do you project leaving Scrabble Hill?

W. B. Yes, I dew; I calklate to go next week. I must hear you preach once more—once more, Elder, and then I’m gwine—somewhere—I don’t care where, nor I don’t care what becomes o’ me when I git there. [She sobs violently.]

E. S. O, Mrs. Bedott, you distress me beyond limitation—permit me to inquire the cause of this uncontrollable agony?

W. B. O, Elder Sniffles, you’re the last indiwidual that ought to ax such a question. O, I shall die! I shall give it up!

E. S. Madame, my interest in your welfare is intense; allow me to entreat you still more vehemently to unburden your mind; perhaps it is in my power to relieve you.

W. B. Relieve me! what an idee! O, Elder, you will be the death o’ me if you make me revulge my feelings so. An hour ago I felt as if I’d a died afore I’d a said what I hev said now, but you’ve draw’d it out o’ me.

E. S. Respected madame, you have as yet promulgated nothing satisfactory; permit me——

W. B. O, granf’ther grievous! must I come to’t? Well, then, if I must, I must, so to begin at the beginnin’. When I fust heern you preach, your sarmons onsettled my faith; but after a spell I was convinced by yer argefyin’, and gin up my ’roneus notions, and my mind got considerably carm. But how could I set Sabberday after Sabberday under the droppin’s o’ yer voice, and not begin to feel a mor’n ordinary interest in the speaker? I indevored not tew, but I couldn’t help it; ’twas in vain to struggle against the feelin’s that prepossest my buzzom. But it’s all over with me now! my felicitude is at an end! my sittiwation is hopeless! I shall go back to Wiggleton next week, and never truble you no more.

E. S. Ah, Mrs. Bedott, you alarm——

W. B. Yes, you never’ll see no more truble with Prissilly. I’m agwine back to Wiggleton. Can’t bear to go back thar, nother, on account o’ the indiwidduals that I come away to git rid of. There’s Cappen Canoot, he’s always been after me ever since my husband died, though I hain’t never gin him no incurridgement—but he won’t take no for an answer. I dread the critter’s attentions. And ’Squire Bailey—he’s wonderful rich—but that ain’t no recommendation to me, and I’ve told him so time and agin, but I s’pose he thinks I’ll come round bumby. And Deacon Crosby, he lost his partner a spell afore I come away; he was very much pleased with me; he’s a wonderful fine man—make a fust-rate husband. I kind o’ hesitated when he promulgated his sentiments tew me, told him I’d think on’t till I cum back—s’pose he’ll be at me as soon as I git there. I hate to disappoint Deacon Crosby, he’s such a fine man, and my dezeased companion sot so much by him, but then I don’t feel for him as I dew for——. He’s a Presbyterian, tew, and I don’t think ’twould be right to unite my destination to hisen.

E. S. Undoubtedly in your present state of feeling, the uncongeniality would render a union——

W. B. O, dear, dear, dear! I can’t bear to go back there and indure their attentions, but, thank fortune, they won’t bother me long—I shall go into a decline, I know I shall, as well as I want to know it. My trubles’ll soon be over—undoubtedly they’ll put up a monnyment to my memory—I’ve got the description all ready for it—it says:

And O, Elder, you’ll visit my grave, won’t ye, and shed tew or three tears over it? ’Twould be a consolation tew me tew think you would.

E. S. In case I should ever have occasion to journey through that section of the country, and could consistently with my arrangements make it convenient to tarry for a short time at Wiggleton, I assure you it would afford me much pleasure to visit your grave, agreeably to your request.

W. B. O, Elder, how onfeelin’!

E. S. Unfeeling! did I not understand you correctly when I understood you to request me to visit your grave?

W. B. Yes, but I don’t see how you could be so carm, when I’m talkin’ about dyin’.

E. S. I assure you, Mrs. Bedott, I had not the slightest intention of manifesting a want of feeling in my remark. I should regard your demise as a most deplorable event, and it would afford me no small degree of satisfaction to prevent so melancholy a catastrophe were it in my power.

W. B. Well, I guess I’ll go hum. If Sally should know you was here a talkin’ with me, she’d make an awful fuss.

E. S. Indeed I see no reason to fear that my domestic should interfere in any of my proceedings.

W. B. O, lawful sakes! how numb you be, elder! I didn’t allude to Sal Blake—I meant Sal Hugle. She’t you’re ingaged tew.

E. S. Engaged to Miss Hugle! You alarm me, Mrs. Be——

W. B. Now don’t undertake to deny it, Elder; everybody says it’s a fact.

E. S. Well, then, it only remains for me to assert that everybody is laboring under an entire and unmitigated mistake.

W. B. You don’t say so, Elder! Well, I declare, I do feel relieved. I couldn’t endure the idea o’ stayin’ here to see that match go off. She’s so onworthy—so different from what your companion had ort to be—and so lazy—and makes such awful poitry; and then she hain’t worth a cent in the world. But I don’t want to say a word against her; for, if you ain’t ingaged now, mabby you will be. O, Elder! promise me, dew promise me now’t you won’t marry that critter. ’Twould be a consolation to me when I’m far away on my dyin’ bed to know—[She weeps with renewed energy.] O, Elder, I’m afeared I’m a gwine to have the highsterics. I’m subjick to spasmotic affections when I’m excited and overcome.

E. S. You alarm me, Mrs. Bedott! I will hasten to the house and bring the sal volatile, which may restore you.

W. B. For the land’s sake, Elder, don’t go after Sal; she can’t dew nothin’ for me. It’ll only make talk, for she’ll tell it all round the village. Jest take that ar newspaper that sticks out o’ yer pocket, and fan me with it a leetle. There, I feel quite resusticated. I’m obliged tew ye; guess I can manage to get hum now. [She rises.] Farwell, Elder Sniffles! adoo! we part to meet no more!

E. S. Ah, Mrs. Bedott! do not speak in that mournful strain; you distress me beyond all mitigation. [He takes her hand.] Pray reseat yourself, and allow me to prolong the conversation for a short period. As I before observed, your language distresses me beyond all duration.

W. B. Dew you actually feel distressed at the idee o’ partin’ with me?

E. S. Most indubitably, Mrs. Bedott.

W. B. Well, then, what’s the use o’ partin’ at all? O, what have I said? what have I said?

E. S. Ahem—ahaw, allow me to inquire—are you in easy circumstances, Mrs. Bedott?

W. B. Well, not entirely yet, though I feel considerable easier’n what I did an hour ago.

E. S. Ahem! I imagine that you do not fully apprehend my meaning. I am a clergyman, a laborer in the vineyard of the Lord—as such you will readily understand I cannot be supposed to abound in the filthy lucre of this world; my remuneration is small—hence——

W. B. O, Elder, how can you s’pose I’d hesitate on account o’ your bein’ poor? Don’t think on’t—it only increases my opinion of you; money ain’t no objick to me.

E. S. I naturally infer from your indifference respecting the amount of my worldly possessions that you yourself have——

W. B. Don’t be oneasy, Elder, dear—don’t illude tew it again; depend on’t you’re jest as dear tew me, every bit and grain, as you would be if you owned all the mines in Ingy.

E. S. I will say no more about it.

W. B. So I s’pose we’re ingaged.

E. S. Undoubtedly.

W. B. We’re ingaged, and my tribbilation is at an end. [Her head drops on his shoulder.] O, Shadrack! what will Hugelina say when she hears on’t?

Francis M. Whitcher.

THE MATRIMONIAL ADVERTISEMENT.

Characters.—Mary Cole; Grandmother Cole, who is very deaf; Jack Cole; Aunt Martha Gordon; Cyrus Gordon.

Scene I.—The sitting-room of the Cole family. Mary reading a newspaper. Grandmother Cole knitting. Aunt Martha crocheting. Jack playing with the balls in Aunt Martha’s work-basket.

Mary Cole.

Oh, Aunt Martha! only hear this! it’s in the Chronicle. What a splendid chance! I declare, I’ve a great mind to answer it myself!

Aunt M. What have you got hold of now? You’re allez a-making some powerful diskivery somewheres. What now? Something to turn gray eyes black, and blue eyes gray?

Mary. No; it’s a matrimonial advertisement. What a splendid fellow this “C. G.” must be!

Aunt M. Oh, shaw! A body must be dreadfully put to it, to advertise for a pardner in the newspapers. Thank goodness! I never got in such a strait as that ’er. The Lord has marcyfully kept me thus fur from having any dealings with the male sect, and I trust I shall be presarved to the end.

Jack Cole. Didn’t you ever have an offer, Aunt Mattie?

Aunt M. (indignantly.) Why, Jack Cole! What an idee! I’ve had more chances to change my condition than you’ve got fingers and toes. But I refused ’em all. A single life is the only way to be happy. But it did kinder hurt my feelings to send some of my sparks adrift—they took it so hard. There was Colonel Turner. He lost his wife in June, and the last of August he come over to our ’ouse, and I gave him to understand that he needn’t trouble himself; and he felt so mad that he went rite off and married the Widder Hopkins afore the month was out.

Jack. Poor fellow! How he must have felt! And, Aunt Mattie, I notice that Deacon Goodrich looks at you a great deal in meeting, since you’ve got that pink feather on your bonnet. What if he should want you to be a mother to his ten little ones?

Aunt M. (simpering). Law, Jack Cole! What a dreadful boy you be! (pinches his ear.) The deacon never thought of such a thing! But if it should please Providence to appoint to me such a fate, I should try and be resigned.

Granny Cole. Resigned? Who’s resigned? Not the President, has he? Well, I don’t blame him. I’d resign, too, if I was into his place. Nothing spiles a man’s character so quick as being President or Congress. Yer gran’father got in justice of the peace and chorus, once, and he resigned afore he was elected. Sed he didn’t want his repetition spiled.

Jack. Three cheers for Gran’father Cole!

Granny C. Cheers? What’s the matter with the cheers, now? Yer father had them bottomed last year, and this year they were new painted. What’s to pay with ’em now?

Mary (impatiently). Do listen, all of you, to this advertisement.

Aunt M. Mary Cole, I’m sorry your head is so turned with the vanities of this world. Advertising for a pardner in that way is wicked. I hadn’t orter listen to it.

Mary. Oh, it won’t hurt you a bit, auntie. (reads) “A gentleman of about forty, very fine looking; tall, slender, and fair-haired, with very expressive eyes, and side whiskers, and some property, wishes to make the acquaintance of a young lady with similar qualifications——”

Jack. A young lady with expressive eyes and side whiskers——

Mary. Do keep quiet, Jack Cole! (reads) “With similar qualifications as to good looks and amiable temper, with a view to matrimony. Address, with stamp to pay return postage—C. G., Scrubtown; stating when and where an interview may be had.” There! what do you think of that?

Jack. Deacon Goodrich to a T. “C. G.” stands for Calvin Goodrich.

Aunt M. The land of goodness! Deacon Goodrich, indeed! a pillar of the church! advertising for a wife! No, no, Jack; it can’t be him! He’d never stoop so low!

Jack. But if all the women are as hard-hearted as you are, and the poor man needs a wife. Think of his ten little olive plants!

Granny C. Plants? Cabbage plants? ’Taint time to set them out yet. Fust of August is plenty airly enuff to set ’em for winter. Cabbages never begin to head till the nights come cold.

Jack. Poor Mr. C. G.! Why don’t you answer it, Aunt Mattie; and tell him you’ll darn his stockings for him, and comb that fair hair of his?

Aunt M. Jack Cole! if you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll comb your hair for you in a way you won’t like. Me answering one of them low advertisements! Me, indeed! I hain’t so eager to get married as some folks I know. Brother Cyrus and I have lived all our lives in maiden meditation, fancy free—the only sensible ones of the family of twelve children; and it’s my idee that we shall continner on in that way.

Mary. Why, don’t you believe that Uncle Cyrus would get married if he could?

Aunt M. Your Uncle Cyrus! I tell you, Mary Cole, he wouldn’t marry the best woman that ever trod! I’ve hearn him say so a hundred times.

Mary. Won’t you answer this advertisement, auntie? I’ll give you a sheet of my nicest gilt-edge note-paper if you will!

Aunt M. (furiously). If you weren’t so big, Mary Jane Cole, I’d spank you soundly! I vow I would! Me answer it, indeed!

(Leaves the room in great indignation.)

Mary. Look here, Jack. What’ll you bet she won’t reply to that notice?

Jack. Nonsense! Wouldn’t she blaze if she could hear you?

Mary. I’ll wager my new curled waterfall against your ruby pin that Aunt Mattie replies to Mr. “C. G.” before to-morrow night.

Jack. Done! I shall wear a curled waterfall after to-morrow.

Mary. No, sir! But I shall wear a ruby pin. Jack, who do you think “C. G.” is?

Jack. Really, I do not know; do you? Ah! I know you do, by that look in your eyes. Tell me, that’s a darling.

Mary. Not I. I don’t expose secrets to a fellow who tells them all over town. Besides, it would spoil the fun.

Jack. Mary, you are the dearest little sister in the world! Tell me, please. (taking her hands.)

Mary. No, sir! You don’t get that out of me. Take care, now. Let go of my hands. I’m going up stairs to keep an eye on Aunt Mattie. She’s gone up now to write an answer to “C. G.” And if there is any fun by-and-by, Jack, if you’re a good boy you shall be there to see.

Granny C. To sea? Going to sea? Why, Jack Cole! you haint twenty-one yet, and the sea’s a dreadful place! There’s a sarpint lives in it as big as the Scrubtown meeting-’us’, and whales that swaller folks alive, clothes and all! I read about one in a book a great while ago that swallered a man of the name of Jonah, and he didn’t set well on the critter’s stummuck, and up he come, lively as ever!

(Curtain falls.)

Scene II.—The garden of a deserted house, in the vicinity of Mr. Cole’s. Mary leading Jack cautiously along a shady path.

Mary. There; we’ll squat down behind this lilac bush. It’s nearly the appointed hour. I heard Aunt Mattie soliloquizing in her room this morning, after this manner—“At eight o’clock this night I go to meet my destiny! In the deserted garden, under the old pear tree. How very romantic!” Hark! there she comes!

Jack. Well, of all the absurd things that ever I heard tell of! Who would have believed that our staid old maid aunt would have been guilty of answering a matrimonial advertisement?

Mary. Hush! Jack, if you make a noise and spoil the fun now, I’ll never forgive you. Keep your head still, and don’t fidget so.

Aunt Mattie (slowly walking down the path—soliloquizing.) Eight o’clock! It struck just as I started out. He ought to be here. Why does he tarry? If he aint punctual I’ll give him the mitten. I swow I will! Dear gracious! what a sitivation to be in! Me, at my time of life! though, to be shure, I haint so old as—as I might be. The dew’s a-falling, and I shall get the rheumatiz in these thin shoes, if he don’t come quick. What if Jack and Mary should git hold of this? I never should hear the last of it! Never! I wouldn’t have ’em know it for a thousand dollars! Goodness me! What if it should be the deacon? Them children of his’n is dreadful youngsters; but, the Lord helping me, I’d try to train ’em up in the way they should go. Hark! is that him a-coming? No; it’s a toad hopping through the carrot bed. My soul and body! what if he should want to kiss me? I’ll chew a clove for fear he should. I wonder if it would be properous to let him? But then I s’pose if it’s the deacon I couldn’t help myself. He’s an awful deetarmined man; and if I couldn’t help it I shouldn’t be to blame! Deary me! how I trimble! There he comes! I hear his step! What a tall man! ’Taint the deacon. He’s got a shawl on! Must be the new school-master! he wears a shawl! (a man approaches, Miss Mattie goes up to him cautiously.) Is this Mr. C. G.?

C. G. Yes, it is; Is this Miss M. G.?

Aunt M. It is. Dear sir, I hope you wont think me bold and unmaidenly in coming out here all alone in the dark to meet you?

C. G. Never! Ah, the happiness of this moment! For forty years I have been looking for thee! (puts his arm around her.)

Aunt M. Oh, dear me! dont! dont! my dear sir! I aint used to it! and it aint exactly proper out here in this old garden! It’s a dreadful lonely spot, and if people should see us they might talk.

C. G. Let ’em talk! They’ll talk still more when you and I are married, I reckon. Lift your veil and let me see your sweet face.

Aunt M. Yes, if you’ll remove that hat and let me behold your countenance.

C. G. Now, then; both together. (Aunt M. throws back her veil. C. G. removes his hat. They gaze at each other a moment in utter silence.)

Aunt M. Good gracious airth! ’tis brother Cyrus!

C. G. Jubiter Ammon! ’tis sister Martha!

Aunt M. Oh, my soul and body, Cyrus Gordon! Who’d ever a-thought of you, at your time of life, cutting up such a caper as this? You old, bald-headed, gray-whiskered man! Forty years old! My gracious! You were fifty-nine last July!

C. G. Well, if I am, you’re two year older. So it’s as broad as ’tis long!

Aunt M. Why, I thought shure it was Deacon Goodrich that advertised. C. G. stands for Calvin Goodrich.

C. G. Yes; and it stands for Cyrus Gordon, too. And Deacon Goodrich was married last night to Peggy Jones.

Aunt M. That snub-nosed, red-haired Peggy Jones! He’d ort to be flayed alive! Married again! and his wife not hardly cold! Oh, the desatefulness of men! Thank Providence I haint tied to one of the abominable sect.

C. G. Well, Martha, we’re both in the same boat. If you wont tell of me, I wont of you. But it’s a terrible disappointment to me, for I sarting thought M. G. meant Marion Giles, the pretty milliner.

Aunt M. Humph! What an old goose! She wouldn’t look at you! I heerd her laffing at your swaller-tailed coat, when you come out of meeting last Sunday. But I’m ready to keep silence if you will. Gracious! if Jack and Mary should get wind of this, shouldn’t we have to take it?

C. G. Hark! what’s that? (voice behind the lilac-bush sings:)

Aunt M. That’s Jack’s voice! Goodness me! Let us scoot for home!

Jack. Did he kiss you, Aunt Mattie?

Mary. Do you like the smell of cloves, Uncle Cyrus?

C. G. Confound you both! If I had hold of ye I’d let you know if I like to smell cloves, and birch, too.

(Curtain falls.)

MRS. MALAPROP AND CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.

From “The Rivals.”

Costumes.

Mrs. Malaprop, Crimson satin dress, trimmed with white lace and satin ribbon.

Captain Absolute, Scarlet regimental full-dress coat, white breeches, silk stockings and cocked hat.

Enter Mrs. Malaprop, with a letter in her hand, Captain Absolute following.

Mrs. Malaprop.

Your being Sir Anthony’s son, Captain, would itself be a sufficient accommodation; but from the ingenuity of your appearance, I am convinced you deserve the character here given of you.

Capt. A. Permit me to say, madame, that as I have never yet had the pleasure of seeing Miss Languish, my principal inducement in this affair, at present, is the honor of being allied to Mrs. Malaprop, of whose intellectual accomplishments, elegant manners and unaffected learning no tongue is silent.

Mrs. M. Sir, you do me infinite honor! I beg, Captain, you’ll be seated. [Both sit.] Ah! few gentlemen, nowadays, know how to value the ineffectual qualities in a woman! Men have no sense now but for the worthless flower of beauty.

Capt. A. It is but too true, indeed, ma’am; yet I fear our ladies should share the blame; they think our admiration of beauty so great that knowledge in them would be superfluous. Thus, like garden trees, they seldom show fruit till time has robbed them of the more spacious blossoms: few, like Mrs. Malaprop and the orange tree, are rich in both at once.

Mrs. M. Sir, you overpower me with good breeding. [Aside.] He is the very pineapple of politeness! You are not ignorant, Captain, that this giddy girl has, somehow, contrived to fix her affections on a beggarly, strolling, eavesdropping ensign, whom none of us have seen, and nobody knows anything of.

Capt. A. Oh, I have heard the silly affair before. I’m not at all prejudiced against her on that account. But it must be very distressing, indeed, to you, ma’am.

Mrs. M. Oh, it gives me the hydrostatics to such a degree!—I thought she had persisted from corresponding with him; but, behold, this very day, I have interceded another letter from the fellow—I believe I have it in my pocket.

Capt. A. My last note! [Aside.]

Mrs. M. Ay, here it is.

Capt. A. Oh, the little traitress, Lucy!

Mrs. M. There, perhaps you may know the writing. [Gives him the letter.]

Capt. A. I think I have seen the hand before—yes, I certainly must have seen this hand before.

Mrs. M. Nay, but read it, Captain.

Capt. A. [reads.] “My soul’s idol, my adored Lydia!” Very tender, indeed!

Mrs. M. Tender! ay, and profane too, o’my conscience.

Capt. A. “I am excessively alarmed at the intelligence you send me, the more so as my new rival”——

Mrs. M. That’s you, sir.

Capt. A. “Has universally the character of being an accomplished gentleman and a man of honor.” Well, that’s handsome enough.

Mrs. M. Oh, the fellow has some design in writing so.

Capt. A. That he had, I’ll answer for him, ma’am.

Mrs. M. But go on, sir—you’ll see presently.

Capt. A. “As for the old weather-beaten she-dragon who guards you”?—who can he mean by that?

Mrs. M. Me, sir—me—he means me there—what do you think now?—but go on a little further.

Capt. A. Impudent scoundrel!—“it shall go hard, but I will elude her vigilance! as I am told that the same ridiculous vanity which makes her dress up her coarse features and deck her dull chat with hard words which she don’t understand”——

Mrs. M. There, sir, an attack upon my language! what do you think of that?—an aspersion upon my parts of speech! was ever such a brute! Sure, if I reprehend anything in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs.

Capt. A. He deserves to be hanged and quartered! let me see—“same ridiculous vanity”——

Mrs. M. You need not read it again, sir!

Capt. A. I beg pardon, ma’am—“does also lay her open to the grossest deceptions from flattery and pretended admiration”—an impudent coxcomb—“so that I have a scheme to see you shortly, with the old harridan’s consent, and even to make her a go-between in our interviews”—Was ever such assurance!