M PS 3525 .A2765 S6 1917 LIBRARY OF CX)NGRESS D0DD35fl7flm .*^.V/ \.'ir^-.o'5 '^^i.'^-'y % /% ''^} /\ '" >^ ^ . , ^ . ' • ^* ^^ "^ •©lis* <>? "^ oK/^aw-* o 0^ ^^ \ '"' y •. "v '••" ^^ AN «. ^^^s^n^.* "T/. ^ ^ * • aV*^* ♦ A V •>^, • ^9^ 1.0 v!^ • I 1 •"•'♦ <^^ o THE S. & K. DRAMATIC SERIES THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEATRE. Anonymous. Net $1.00. FOUR PLAYS OF THE FREE THEATRE. Authorized Translation by Barrett H. Clark. Preface by Brieux of the French Academy. "The Fossils," a play in four acts, by Frangois de Curel. "The Serenade," a Bourgeois study in three acts, by Jean Jullien. "Frangoise' Luck," a comedy in one act, by Georges de Porto-Riche. " The Dupe," a comedy in five acts, by Georges Ancey. Net $1.50. CONTEMPORARY FRENCH DRAMATISTS. By Barrett H. Clark. Net $1.50. PLAYS AND PLAYERS: LEAVES FROM A CRITIC'S SCRAP BOOK. By Walter Prichard Eaton. Net $2.00, THE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES. Prof. Joseph Edward Harry. Net $1.00. EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS. A Literary and Critical Appraisal of Strindberg, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Wilde, Shaw and Barker. By Archibald Henderson, M.A., Ph.D. Net $2.00. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW: HIS LIFE AND WORKS. By Archibald Henderson, M.A., Ph.D. Net $5.00. SHORT PLAYS. By Mary MacMillan. Net $1.50. THE GIFT— A POETIC DRAMA. By Margaret Douglas Rogers. Net $1.00. COMEDIES OF WORDS AND OTHER PLAYS. By Arthur Schnitzler. Translated by Pierre Loving. Net $1.50. LUCKY PEHR. By August Strindberg, Authorized Transla- tion by Velma Swanston Howard. Net $1.50. EASTER (A Play in Three Acts) AND STORIES. By August Strindberg. Authorized Transla- tion by Velma Swanston Howard. Net $1.50. THE HAMLET PROBLEM AND ITS SOLUTION. By Emerson Venable. Net $1.00. PORTMANTEAU PLAYS. By Stuart Walker. Net $1.50. See page 243 for description of above Boohs. STEWART & KIDD COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, CINCINNATI. More Short Plays BY Mary MacMillan Author of "Short Plays" CINCINNATI STEWART ^ KIDD COMPANY 1917 Copyright, 1917, by STEWART & KIDD COMPANY A /I rights reserved Copyright in England For permission to present any of these plays apply to the author ~\ The old man ain't home, is he? Woman. No, he went out. Neighbor. I reckon he gets tired of a sick woman in the house all the time. Men like women to be healthy. I don't know as I blame them. \^She smiles insinuatingly. Honey whirls the rocking-chair about and pulls the Mill-Woman by the sleeve over to it.^ Honey. You sit here. Woman. I was healthy up In the mountains. Mill-Woman. Maybe the mills makes you sick. \_She goes to the bed of the sick Woman and the Neighbor takes the rocking-chair despite the efforts of Honey to prevent it.~\ Cotton gets in some folks' lungs and makes them feel sick. Woman. I don't know. Only I felt all right up there in the clean air. And I wisht I was back home. I do get dreadful lonesome for the moun- tains. If I could only smell the piny woods. If I could only see the clouds go by over the other mountains. Neighbor. I reckon the old man wouldn't go back. Mill-Woman. Seems as if it was all a mis- take, your coming down here. It's made you sick, and your girl can't get the schooling she's hankering after. Up in the mountain country she could get some but here she can't get none, because she's got to work all the time. And as 70 HONEY for your old man, he could have smoked and chewed up in the mountains same as down here, I guess. Woman. They was set on coming but it was me made it so as we could come. He couldn't have, if I hadn't managed. I thought to better things for my little daughter but I just fell sick and botched it. Mill-Woman. That's what women do when they try to fix things and rule. Like me. I planned to get married so as to save my wages for myself and not have to pay them to my pap. And I just had babies one after another and had to work harder than ever and the wages slipping through my fingers into everybody's mouth. Women is just pore forlorn critters, tools in the hands of the Lord. They hadn't ought never to try to rule things. The Lord, he means them to suflfer for the sin of Eve. And if they try to escape their punishment, they just make things a heap worse for theirselves. Honey [timid but determined to ask the ques- tion^. If women is punished for Eve's sin, why shouldn't men be, too? Mill-Woman [solemnly^. It's all on ac- count of their sect, women being women and men being men. Eve was a woman. Honey. Yes, but ain't men as much the chil- dren of Eve as women are? Neighbor [laughing derisively^. Would you listen to that now? A silly girl trying to argufy! You shut up and leave that to men and preachers. [There is another knock at the door and Honey goes to open /7.] 71 MORE SHORT PLAYS Woman [nervously to the Neighbor^. Don't you talk that way to her. She ain't used to hard talk, and she ain't trying to argufy. Mill-Girl [Entering^. Howdy. I just came to ast how your mam is. Honey. Oh, she's better. Come on in. \_The Mill-Girl comes in and the others greet her. She seems subdued and quite unlike her former self-assertive^ lusty self.~\ Mill-Woman. How are you feeling these days? You don't look well. Mill-Girl. I don't feel good. My back aches fit to kill me working in the mill. Neighbor [laughing uproariously']. Well, I reckon everybody knows what that means, you young fool. You're married now, ain't you? Honey [standing in the middle of the room and looking deeply troubled]. You mustn't call her names. Neighbor [laughing more]. Oh, ho, ho, you, too, to be telling I mustn't ! Oh, ho, ho, ho ! Mill-Woman [to the Neighbor], You must be feeling awful merry tonight, ain't you? Well, I'll be going. I got to get the children to bed and I'm so tired myself I just want to fall in with- out taking my clothes off. Mill-Girl. I'll be going with you, I just dropped in [to Honey] to ast how your mam was and I thought I'd help you with the supper dishes but I see you've got them done. Honey [following the Mill-Girl to one side of the room and speaking low. The others do not seem to notice them.] You did see the Teacher that day didn't you ? 72 HONEY Mill-Girl. Oh, yes, the Teacher was on my track hunting me here to your house and then to my house, making me promise not to get married for a year. I promised, but I fooled everybody, you bet. \_Laughing with stupid egotism.^ I promised all right and then I got married the very next day. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ain't I the smart one? Honey. You didn't lie to the Teacher? \_Horrified.^ Mill-Girl. Why, yes, of course I did. When people pin you down and make you prom- ise, you got to lie. Honey. Have you ever seen the Teacher since? Mill-Girl. No. I guess it got noised round what I done and I guess I'll be let alone after this. Honey. Seems as if the Teacher was a hun- dred million miles away. But I got to get it somehow, my larning. Soon as my mammy's well again, I'm going to. I got to take care of her while she's sick and as soon as she's well again I'll have to find some way. I think I got to see the Teacher again. I know I'm going to. \^Her face lights up beautifully with the thought. ~\ Mill-Girl [returning to the others'^. Well, I don't know as I want to see anybody ever again. I ain't hankering after nothing. I'm tired. I'm tired of living. But I did fool them all — that was some fun. \_With a silly, triumphant grin.~\ Mill- Woman. You done what I done, what we all done, tried to be smart and fool God, and you didn't do nothing but fool yourself. You're 73 MORE SHORT PLAYS just a pore critter, too, like us all, and you'll soon be thin and old. Honey, too, her time'll come. She's growed up now, she'll get thin and old, too. Mill-Girl. I don't know what you mean. I didn't try to fool God. And Honey's different. She's changed so lately. [The Neighbor turns about and looks at Honey sharply.'] Mill-Woman. Folks change and get old. They change and wither as the grass withereth, so the Holy Scripture says. Neighbor [looking about the room]. How soon are you expecting of the old man back? Woman. Oh, he mostly don't get home till late. Neighbor [yawning]. Well, I guess I'll be going, too. I'm kind of sleepy myself. Mill-Woman. I hope you'll be feeling bet- ter in the morning. [They all go out, the Neighbor first without the ceremony of saying good-night, the Mill- Girl lingering.] Mill-Girl. Your mam's dreadful sick, ain't she ? I hope she gets well. Honey. Oh, yes, she's going to. [She closes the door after them. It has been growing darker.] I guess I'll make a light. [She gets the little coal-oil lamp down from the shelf against the wall back of the stove, lights it and places it on the table.] Woman. The days are so long, now — about the longest in the year likely. It's light till bedtime. Be you tired, Honey? 74 HONEY Honey. Oh, no, I never get tired. [Briskly.'\ I'm so strong and healthy. Woman \_smUing'\. I don't guess you're tell- ing the truth, Honey. Working in the mills makes everybody tired. \_With a sigh.'\ It kills some people. Honey. Will you drink a cup of milk afore you go to sleep ? Woman. You take such good care of your old mammy, don't you, Honey? You've growed so since we come to town down from the moun- tains, and got to be so wise and helpful. S^Gaz- ing at Honey long and silently.'\ The Mill-Girl was right when she said as how you'd changed. You're different somehow, lambkin, since I took sick, I don't know how exactly, only I know you're older and different, somehow. It's you that takes care of your mammy now stead of mammy tak- ing care of her little girl. Only you'll never be old and faded and thin — not you. [After a pause.'] No, I don't want no milk, dearie, I ain't thirsty. And I don't want to go to sleep right away for a little while. All I want is just to have my little girl to talk to. I don't see much of my little girl nowadays. She just works so hard all day and when night time comes we're so tired we go to sleep right after supper. Honey [talking as she shuts the doors of the safe, turns up the wick of the lamp and goes over to her mother's bed~\. I could stay up all night talking to my mammy. Woman. Oh, I guess you couldn't keep your pretty blue eyes open. It's kind of hot in here, Honey. S'pose you open the door a little. 75 MORE SHORT PLAYS \_Honey opens the door, peers out into the night, then comes hack to her mother and sits down on the side of the bed.~\ Honey. It's a pretty night. There's a big moon, round and blue-white, and lots of stars, specially around the edge — speckling the sky. Woman. It would be pretty up in the moun- tains tonight. Honey [clasping her mother's hand and smil- ing delightedly^. Oh, wouldn't it be pretty! Woman. I guess the moon would be hanging up in the east over the Black Face Ridge and all across the valley it would be so bright you couldn't scarcely see the lights in the houses. Honey. And then in the north Great Stormy would be humping hisself, big and still and white. Woman. And in the south Bald Face would be frowning, all black because he would be be- twixt us and the moon. Honey. And Round Knob would be below us all white instead of green, and so still and smooth and looking so far away. Woman. And all the big trees would stand strong and quiet and the leaves of the bushes would all shine in the moonlight and all the air would smell of laurel. Our cabin is setting there strange and lonesome. No honey-child to come and lift the latch and open the door and come out to sniff the night breeze and make birds and beasts out of the stars. Our cabin must be setting there wishful-like. Honey. And all the birds would be gone to sleep. Mammy, where would that little hum- ming-bird sleep? The little green one that used 76 HONEY to come for the honey-suckle on the porch of our cabin? Woman. Oh, I guess he's asleep In the woods. Maybe up In a big cottonwood tree. Honey. A cottonwood leaf would be big enough for him to wrap hisself up in round and round and round. Woman. It would be awful pleasant to be asleep off In the woods. Wouldn't it, Honey? And if a person was a-going to die, it would be nice to die up in the mountains and be buried where you could hear the wind singing In the tops of the trees and the grassy branch on its way down through the ravine to the valley. Honey. But, mammy, what makes you talk that way? You ain't going to die. [She turns and searches the JV avian's face earnestly.^ Woman. Oh, no, I ain't a-going to die, Honey, child. I was just pretending if a person was a-going to. It would be so nice to be where you could just hear the singing of the wind and water 'stead of the factory whistle and all the clatter on the pavement and street-cars banging and engines and all the racket of town. Honey. Does it hurt you, mammy? Woman. Oh, no, only maybe sometimes just a little it makes me fret. If a person was a-going to die, it would be nice to be up in the moun- tains. Honey. But you ain't going to. I wouldn't let you. I'd take care of you. I am taking care of you. [She takes her mother's hand and caresses f/.] I don't just know what I'd do with- out you. 77 MORE SHORT PLAYS Woman. I guess you'd take care of your pappy, wouldn't you, Honey? Honey [hesitating for a time and stiffly^. I guess so. Woman. Honey, child, you don't seem to be toward your pappy the way you used to was. What's the matter? [There is no answer.^ What makes you different? W^hat's the matter? Honey. Nothing, mammy. Woman. Yes, there is. You love your mammy, don't you, dear? Honey. Oh, you know I do ! [ Turning to her adoringly. 1 Woman. Then what's the matter? Honey. Well, pappy don't — well, he don't work none, does he ? He don't — well, he don't take much care of — well, of us, does he? Woman. You mustn't notice things so, dearie. Some things can't be helped. And so you just mustn't notice. You have to make yourself think that. If I shouldn't stay with you I want you should promise me something. Honey, child, you promise me you'll take care of your pappy long as he needs you. Honey. Oh, mammy! Woman. Won't you? Honey [very hesitatingly and sighing^. Oh, yes, mammy, I'd promise you anything. So I promise. [After a pause.'] That would mean I couldn't get married, but I don't want to. The mill girls get married so as not to have to give their wages to their paps, but the Teacher don't want them to do that — not to get married so young. Oh, mammy, I wisht you could have 78 HONEY seen the Teacher. I guess it was like a angel's visit. Woman. I wisht I could. I never saw a angel. Honey. But I got you, mammy. I don't want nothing else. \_Kissing her.] But I wisht — ! If you could have whatever you wisht for, mammy, what would you wish? Woman. Just one thing? Honey. Yes, just one thing. Woman. To have always? Honey. Yes, to have always. Woman. That's a awful important wish. Honey. Yes, it ought to take right smart of thinking. Woman. Give me a little time. Honey. All right. Woman [after a brief pause']. I'm ready. Honey. All right. Well, what do you wish for most of every thing in the whole world to have always? Woman. A tombstone. Honey [disappointed and starting]. Why, I thought you'd say me! I thought that you'd wish to have me most of all to have all the rest of your life! Woman. I guess I got you. Honey, for the rest of my life. I don't have to wish for that. I'm so tired it wouldn't seem worth while to wish for nothing else in this world but a tombstone and it would be so nice to have one after a per- son was gone. Well, what do you wish for most? Honey. Well, I was a-going to wish to have 79 MORE SHORT PLAYS you, mammy, but if that ain't in the wishing, why, then, next I would wish for a eddication. Woman. Oh, my, oh ! I guess that's as hard to come by as a tombstone. Seems as if you was further away from it working down here in the mills in town than you was up in the mountains. I guess you and me ain't neither of us ever going to get our wish, you pore little lamb. Honey. Oh, we will, mammy, we shorely will. I feel as if I must get mine, mammy. I must. Only I do wish you wouldn't never need yours. Don't you feel better tonight, dear? Don't you, please? Woman. Oh, yes, I'm feeling better and bet- ter every day. And I feel so tired now as if maybe I could go right to sleep. Honey. Do you, dear ? I am mighty sleepy, myself. Woman. Are you, you pore little lamb? You just lay down here now and rest by your mammy, you little lamb — you dear little lamb- kin. \^The Woman pulls the child down to her breast and in her mother's arms Honey falls asleep. Curtain to the second act.^ ACT III [It is a Saturday afternoon in autumn. The cabin looks just the same as before. Sum- mer is over and it is beginning to be chill to- wards sunset. The windows and door are 80 HONEY closed and a poor fire is struggling in the old cook-stove. The Man sits as before in the rocking-chair, smoking. He is somewhat spruced up. He sits gazing impatiently through the window. After a moment or two he gets up, goes to the door, opens it, and stands leaning against the jamb, looking out. Mill children are seen going by, most of them pale, listless bits of humanity. The Man calls to some of them.~\ Man. hi, there, you come In here. [Two little white-faced girls obey him and come to the door.~\ Have you seen my girl? Mill-Child. No, sir, we ain't. Man. Go long with you, then. \^They go and he still stands watching. He calls to two others, a boy and a girl, little worn-out things, brother and sister. They come in and look cur- iously around.^ Have you seen my girl this aft- ernoon? Mill-Child. No, I ain't seen her. Man. Was she at the mill today? Mill-Child. Oh, yes, sir. Man. Did she start home? Mill-Child. I don't know. I ain't seen her. Man. Oh, all right. Go long with you. \^These go, too, and he stands watching a few minutes longer, then calls to two others, a boy and a girl. They come in, too.^ Did you see my girl today. Mill-Child. Yes, sir. Man. Was she at the mill today? 8i MORE SHORT PLAYS Mill-Child. Yes, sir. Man. Was you all working at the mill today same as usual? From early morning on? Mill-Child. Yes, sir. Man. Working all afternoon? Mill-Child. Yes. Man. Did you get paid your wages same as usual? Mill-Child. Yes, sir. Man. Did my girl get paid and start home? Mill-Child. I don't know. I ain't seen her lately. Man. Oh, go long with you. [With impa- tient gesture he pushes them out, shuts the door with a hang and goes to sit down in the rocking- chair again. After a short time Honey opens the door quietly and comes in. She wears an old black cotton dress that has evidently been cut down to fit her in some sort but very inadequately fulfills the intention. She is thinner and paler and there has come into her face a great wistful- ness and sadness with a patient determination. She carries a bundle done up in an old newspaper. The Man does not look at her but speaks an- grily.'] Man. Where you been? You don't come straight home from the mill. Honey. No, sir, I didn't come straight home. \She takes off her hat and hangs it up on a nail after first carefully placing the bundle on her lit- tle bed which is there as before.] Man. You got your nerve to tell me you didn't. You're plumb ornery. Since your mammy died you got to acting just as you please. 82 HONEY Not that you didn't do it afore, too, she spilt you so. I like to know what you mean by galivanting so. Honey. I wasn't long, pappy. I ain't much late and I'll get your supper for you right away. Man. I don't want my supper yet, I ain't hungry. You want to make me eat whenever it suits you whether I be hungry or not, so as to get it over and off your hands. What I like to know is what you mean by galivanting about so and where you been? Honey. I just stopped at the preacher's on my way home. Man. What did you do that for ? Honey. They said as how there was a mis- sionary box there and they was distributing of the things. So I stopped. Man [with some interest^. Did they give you anything? Honey. They give me what I ast for. Man. What did you ast for? Honey. Nothing much. Man [thundering angrily at her~\. You tell me what you ast for. Honey. Nothing much. Man. You tell me ! Honey. Nothing much, pappy. Just what's in that bundle. [She is frightened but not cring- ing.'] Man. You let me see it ! Honey. You wouldn't care nothing about it. [The Man gets up, laying his pipe on the table, strides over to the bed, picks up the bundle 83 MORE SHORT PLAYS and carries it over to the table where he opens it awkwardly and slowly. Honey drops to her bed and sits there watching him as in the first act but with apprehension, dis- like, and a brave fear in her eyes.'\ Man [holding up the contents of the bun- dle which proves to be a large, white lid of an old soup tureen], Where's the other part? Honey. There wasn't no other part. Man. Wasn't none ? Honey. No. I guess the folks that sent it forgot to put in the other part — or something — I don't know what. Man. You mean that folks with sense in their heads would put in a missionary box just the lid of an old thing like this? It ain't no good, no- how, it's cracked. Wouldn't they give you noth- ing else? Honey. I didn't ast for nothing else. Man. Well you be a plumb idjit. Why didn't you ast for something else? What did you want with this? [Honey sits hugging her knees and looking earnestly at the lid. She does not answer. After a pause the Man says again.~\ Did you hear me? What are you going to do with this? Honey. I ain't a-going to tell you, pappy. Man \_furiously'\. You ain't, ain't you? Well, I guess you be ! Honey. No, I ain't, pappy. It don't con- cern you one way or tother. Man. You darst to spite me! I'll throw your old piece of crockery out and smash it to smithereens. 84 HONEY Honey [jumping to the table and catching up his pipe]. If you do, pappy, I'll bust your pipe and throw it in the fire. Man. Don't you do that! You give me that pipe I Honey. Then you give me my stone. Man. You got some secret and you're lying to me. Honey. No, it ain't just to say a secret, and you know I never lied to you in my life, pappy. You can't say that about me. And, oh, pappy [entreatingly] the white stone ain't worth noth- ing to you, nohow, and what's the use just muss- ing up the yard with it? Man [slowly laying down the lid on the ta- ble and taking the pipe from her~\. Well, I guess you're cracked same as this old thing. You need another mammy to keep you straight. You've got so you argufy with me — you to have the face to argufy with your pappy! You're growing up and changing, getting worse and worse, hard and mean and ornery. Honey. I can't never have no other mammy but my own mammy. And she's gone. [After a pause.l Don't you wish we could buy her a tombstone ? Man. No. Tombstones is for rich people. Honey. Her grave is sinking down so if there ain't something to mark it I won't be able pretty soon to tell where it is. It's nice and green, the rains have kept the grass nice but they've sunk the earth so it's getting pretty nigh level. I wisht we could buy a tombstone for her. Man. It ain't right to waste money on the 85 MORE SHORT PLAYS dead. Money's for the living. I'm going up street a little to buy me some tobacco. You can get supper ready gainst I come back. I ain't going to be gone long. So you be spry. Where's your wages? {^Hoyiey pulls out an envelope from her dress and hands it to him. He takes it and opens it, counts over the money and puts it into his pocket.^ Man. Is this all? Ain't you never going to get a raise? Honey. I reckon I v/ill some time. Man. You make up the fire and have supper ready gainst I get back. That old stove don't draw good, you'd ought to have fixed it — I told you afore to fix it. Now be spry. \_He takes his hat down from the nail and goes out. When he is well out of the room, Honey dips water from the bucket into a basin and carefully washes the lid, dries it and wraps it up again in the newspaper, when the door opens rather noisily and the Neigh- bor walks into the room and looks about, scowling at the girL~\ Neighbor. Where's your pap? Honey. He just went out. Neighbor. Where'd he go to? Honey. Down street to get some tobacco. Neighbor. Well, I want to see him. You tell him to come over as soon as he gets home? Do you hear? [Noticing the bundle.^ What you got there? Honey. Oh, just an old plaything. Neighbor. You're too big to have play- 86 HONEY things. You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself. Now don't you forget to tell him. [She starts out, meeting the Mill-Woman at the door. The Mill-Woman has a doleful cheerfulness in her ** Howdy." The Neighbor goes out, and the Mill-JVoman comes in.'] Mill-Woman. Howdy, Honey. Fm so tired, I liked to drop. \^She does drop into a chair.] I come to see if you'd like I should help you cut down that other dress of your mam's. This one we fixed fits you beautiful, don't it? \_She admires Honey^s unspeakable costume.] Honey. I'd like to help but I'm awful tired nights now and I'm maybe going to be busy about something else. Mill-Woman. How are you making out? Honey. Oh, I work as hard as I can. Mill-Woman [shaking her head dolefully]. We're all forlorn critters in the hands of the Lord. I'm going to take my second kid to work Monday morning. She's nothing but a baby and can't do much. Do you miss your mammy much? [Honey looks dumbly at her, with tears welling into her eyes.] I reckon you do miss her. It's lonesome like when you come home at night by yourself and nobody here, ain't it? And when you get awake in the morning I reckon it's mortal lonesome. [Honey gazes at her with eyes big with tears as if begging her to be quiet, but says nothing.] You ain't had sup- per, have you? Honey. No, ma'am. Thank you for being so good to me. [She tries to smile at the Mill- Woman.] But there's only one thing in the 87 MORE SHORT PLAYS whole world I want now. You see I got to get it some day, somehow. Mill- Woman. Get what? Honey. Larnlng. My heart's just as set on it as ever. Somehow I'm going to get it. Mill-Woman. Well I don't know. I don't know much about such things. Good-by. \_She looks as if the subject were quite beyond her, and goes. Honey pokes up the stove, fills the kettle and puts it on when there is another knock at the door. She calls out " Come in " and the Mill- Girl enter s.^^ Mill-Girl. I just come to help you wash up the dishes and clear up but you ain't had supper yet, have you? Seems as if I always was too early or too late or something — never just on time. Never was in just the right time, never had no luck, nohow. [Honey proceeds with her preparations for supper, getting out knives, forks, plates, etc., while the Mill-Girl goes on talking.'] I always was the unluckiest critter. Nothing I ever did come out right. I wisht I hadn't got married. A person plans to get married and save all her wages and not have to give them to her pap, but instead you'll be having babies and be sick and miserable. I wisht I hadn't never tried to do nothing. I'm always unlucky. Honey [^tenderly]. I'm awful sorry for you. Mill-Girl. Things don't turn out good for them as plans and plans and thinks they're going to be so smart. My back aches so when I'm working in the mill seems as if I'd die. I can't 88 HONEY hardly stand and I have to stand all day long. I wisht I'd listened to the Teacher. Honey. How did you know about the Teacher? Mill-Girl. Oh, I heard about the school and was out there once on an errand for some summer folks at a cottage and one of the teachers got hold of me and tried to teach me reading and writing. Then, when I was a-going to get mar- ried, it got noised round and so the Teacher came and hunted me up and tried to make me promise I wouldn't. And I promised — like I told you — just to get rid of them. You can't go way from home, nohow. It's — you can't do nothing, no- how. Honey. I don't see how you could lie — not to the Teacher. Mill-Girl. You bet I could. I wisht I hadn't. But you got to lie sometimes. They got a school away out where people get eddicated, and larn to teach and do all kind of things. Maybe I could a-worked there. Honey. I know. I been hearing about it. I been asking about it. How far away is it? Mill-Girl. Oh, it's awful far away — away the other side of town and then out the road apiece up the mountain. Oh, dear, [as she risesi I am so tired. I aches so. Don't you never think you are going to better yourself by getting married. You ain't. You're going to worse it. You ain't a-going to help nothing by planning. It's just better to leave things go. Honey. I guess folks has got to do what 89 MORE SHORT PLAYS they want to do. Seems as if something forces them. They got to. [The Mill-Girl looks at her wonderingly.^ Man. [Entering.^ Ain't you got supper ready yet? [He scowls at the Mill-Girl who goes out and the father and daughter are left alone together and remain silent for a few mo- ments, he taking his customary rocking-chair, she hurrying her supper preparations.^ Honey. I didn't know you was in a hurry, pappy. But it won't be but a few minutes now. Just as soon as the kettle boils. You said you wasn't hungry. Man. I ain't, but I want to get through. I'm going out, I got business to attend to. [He looks important. Honey glances at him surprised hut says nothing. He gets up, goes to the broken mir- ror and carefully combs his hair and whiskers. After a little while Honey speaks. '\ Honey. The Neighbor lady next door was here and said as how she wanted you to come over. Man. Umph. [Then after a pause. '\ I may as well tell you tonight, cause it's going to happen soon. I'm going to get married. Honey. [Stopping stock still and gazing at him.'\ But you are married. Man. No, I ain't — not by a coffinfull. When a man's wife dies he ain't married in the eyes of the law or of the Lord. Your mam's dead and buried. She's as dead as she'll ever be. And me and the woman next door is going to hitch up. Honey. Oh, pappy, not her! 90 HONEY Man. Yes, of course, her. Why not? It's the best thing. Then we can all live in one house and not have to pay rent on two. And you and her children can all work together and there'll be more wages. Honey. Pappy, I can't live along of her I Man. Oh, yes, you can. You got to. Honey. No, pappy, no. I don't. I tell you how it is. I promised mammy afore she died that I'd take care of you long as you needed me, but if you get married you won't need me no longer. And if you get married to her, I won't stay with you. Man \_half rising as if to strike her~\. You — you darst to say that to me? You little var- mint. Honey. If you do, pappy, if you get married, I'm going away. [With a great calm and deter- mination.^ Man [laughing derisively^. You go way! What good would it do you? You ain't got no money. You couldn't go nowhere where I couldn't get you. Honey [talking as if to herself and in deep thought^. I could run away and if you got me back again I could run away again and keep it up again and again and again till you got tired of it and let me go. I could get somebody — some- body good and kind — maybe there is one some- where in the big world — to give me money to go far enough so you wouldn't never find me. Man. You little varmint! [He gets up and makes for her but she eludes him. He is slow and lumbersome, she light and lissome, and as 91 MORE SHORT PLAYS he follows her, she keeps the tables and chairs he- tween them. They talk as he chases her abouL He is very angry and knocks down the furniture in his effort to catch her. Breathing heavily , he makes a violent scene.^ You little snake to talk that way to me! I'll teach you I You ain't go- ing to get away from me ! Honey. Yes, I am. I won't stay with you now. I'd get married afore I'd stay with you. Man. You wild-cat ! Honey. I'm going to get my eddication at last. Man. You devil ! I'll get you yet ! Honey. If you get me, I'll kill myself. Do you hear — do you hear? I'll kill myself. Man. No, you won't. You wouldn't do that. Honey. Yes, I would. You know I always do what I say I will. You know I don't never lie. Man. You shut your mouth. You're going to stay right here with me and pay your wages regu- lar every Saturday night. Honey. No, no, I ain't. Never. Never. Not after this. You might as well give up. My mind's made up. I'm going to run away from you. Man. You can't do it ! You can't ! You lit- tle snake! Honey. If I'm a snake, then I can wriggle out. And I'm going to right now. I'm going out to my mammy's grave and talk to her alone in the big moonlight. It'll come to me there. Some- thing'll come to me there to tell me what to do. While I'm fixing her tombstone. For I'm going to take her her tombstone. She's going to have 92 HONEY a tombstone at last. This Is her tombstone. I'm going to give her her wish. [She catches up the lid in its newspaper wrapping from of the table adroitly and makes for the door.^ Man. You come back — you I Honey. [As she passes out through the door,'\ Maybe I'll come back — but not now. [Curtain to Act III.] ACT IV [// is Sunday morning of the next day. The room is dishevelled, the bed unmade, A coffee-pot stands on the stove, a coffee-cup, plate with bacon rinds, and other dirty dishes are on the table. The Man, as before, sits in the rocking-chair smoking. He sits there for a few mo7nents before the door opens slowly and Honey comes in with a small bundle in a news- paper and a thin newspaper parcel. She looks very tired and worn, as if she could scarcely walk, is pale, weary, depressed. She goes to her low bed, drops down on it, casting her bun- dle and the little parcel from her to the bed by her side. The Man looks around at her.'\ Man. Well, you come back. I knowed you would. You come back last night after your tan- trum — I heard you come in and go to bed and it was terrible late — most morning. And then you'd gone again this morning afore I got awake. But you come back [smiling^ — I knowed you would. I was waiting for you. I was expecting 93 MORE SHORT PLAYS of you. I reckon now you've come back this time to stay and settle down. Honey [wearily]. No — no — I ain't. Man [turning his chair round suddenly so that he faces her, and speaking angrily]. What? You going to try running away again ? You going to try to outface me again? Well I guess you ain't. And I guess you'll get tired of that game. [Pounding the table roughly with his fist.] You stay right here along of me. Where was you last night ? Honey. With mammy. [Quietly.] Man [with a sudden start]. What you mean? You been — you been [rather tremblingly] you been seeing ghosts? Honey. I don't know. I was with my mammy out in the graveyard. Man. Was she there? [Wholly fright- ened.] Honey. She's always there when I go out. Man [in a terrified whisper]. Did you see her? Honey. I can always see my mammy. And I talk to her and tell her all about everything. Man. Does j/?^ talk? Honey. No, she don't just exactly talk, but I know she hears and understands everything and so I tell her about things. I tell her, *' Mammy, another of the girls in the mill has got cotton in her lungs like you did and is going to die, and another girl got married and been sick ever since, and one of the boys has got his fingers mashed in a machine." And I tell her about every new baby being born because she always loved little 94 HONEY babies, and I tell her when anybody dies because she was always sorry, and I tell her every scrap of news so she won't feel forgotten. And then I tell her about the things out there. Last night there was a big round moon, like the one the night she died, and lots of stars, and it wasn't cold at all — it was warm on the ground and soft in the thick grass. I fixed her tombstone for her. It ain't a very nice one but it's the best I could do. Man. Is that what you wanted that crockery dish-lid for? Honey. Yes, I don't care if you know now, because you won't bother to go out there to break it. Mammy always wanted a tombstone and now she's got one. I wisht it was nicer but it is the best I can do — yet. And I fixed it pretty in the grass and told her about it all, and as how I was going to plant her grave with violets as soon as I had time so as they would bloom next spring. And I told her about the night being so pretty, so soft and warm and bright. Man. [^Trying to reinstate his aplomb. '\ I guess you're just making all this up. Your mam was always making up things and you're like her only worse. I guess you didn't actually talk to her. Honey [quite sincerelyl. Oh, yes, I did. Man. Was you there all the time? Honey. Yes, I stayed with my mammy. I wasn't hungry. I stayed with her and talked to her till I didn't feel so bad. I told her all about what I was going to do, because it came to me there out on my mammy's grave what I should do — that I wasn't going to stay home no more. 95 MORE SHORT PLAYS But I didn't tell her what you was fixing to do, for I thought it would make her feel too sad. Man \uneasily~\ . Where did you go this morn- ing? Honey. I went to the Teacher that's got the school. It's away the other side of town and out the road up the mountain. I started afore sunup and walked all the way — oh, it was so far. And when I got to the place the Teacher wasn't there. Man. Serve you right. Now you'll stay to home. And understand after this home's next door. I'm going to get married today and we're going to move right in there and I'm going to sell all this furniture. [JVaving his hand around to the poor sticks of things.^ She's got plenty. We won't be paying rent here. And you will be giv- ing your wages to me or to her every Saturday night same as usual. Honey. I won't never pay my wages to her and I won't never pay them to you again. It ain't right. Man. Course it's right. Everybody does it. Honey. I don't care, it ain't right. Mammy told me there was things we couldn't help and so we mustn't notice them. She said I mustn't no- tice and I tried not to, but I guess she didn't know. For it ain't true — leastways, it ain't true for me. Man. Oh, shut up your argufying ! Honey. It ain't right for you to be fooling yourself. That house over there ain't my home and I ain't going to stay. Man. What be you going to do ? Honey. I don't know. 96 HONEY Man. I guess you don't. Well, / do! You're going to stay right here. Honey. No, I won't never do that. I said I could kill myself. And I can do that if' there ain't nothing else. I can do that and I will. Then I'll go lie down out there by my mammy. Man [getting up with a jerk^, I wisht you'd stop talking about her. Honey. I can't stop thinking about her. Man. You can stop talking about her — you got to. [Combing his hair.] You clear up in here now. I'm going next door. Honey. This is the last time I'm going to clear up for you, pappy. Man. You varmint! [He throws down the brush in sudden anger and tries to strike her but she adroitly puts the table between them.] You spitfire ! You snake ! [He lunges at her but she evades him. He picks up the poker and tries to strike her over the head but she dodges him.] You wild cat ! I'll get you yet ! Honey [making a feint in one direction, then suddenly she opens the door and speaks as she goes out]. No, you won't, not now, pappy. Not never again. [She bangs the door behind her. The Man stops sullenly, looks chagrined and furious, but finally with a disdainful glance about the room and frowning angrily and with low growls, he puts on his hat and goes out. Almost immediately Honey slips back in again, holts the door carefully and noiselessly behind her, goes to the bucket and takes a drink, then begins clearing away the dirty dishes. Soon there is a knock at the door.] 97 MORE SHORT PLAYS Honey [calling low]. Who's there? [She listens with keen excitement and then with a look of wild hope on her face she unbolts the door and opens it watchfully, starts hack and her tired blue eyes widen to sudden joy.~\ Oh! The Teacher I — Oh, yes, I did go out to try to find you but you wasn't there. — Now you've come to find me and help me ? — No, I didn't run away from home. I ain't going to have no home no more. My pappy's going to marry the woman next door and live there and I can't live with her — she was mean to my mammy. — Oh, yes, I know he is still my pappy, but it ain't the same. — I promised my mammy afore she died I'd take care of him long as he needed me, but now he won't need me no more, and he beats me when he can catch me, and he's going to marry her and I can't live along of her. — Oh, I got to get my larning, I got to. — If you won't have me I'll run away somewheres else — he won't care. — I can't stay here, if he gets me again I'll kill myself. — Oh, yes I will — I ain't af eared to. — Larning? — Oh, yes, I know it costs. And I'm pore. I ain't got a thing, not a thing to offer you 'cept myself. But I'll give you myself — my whole self. I'll work. I'll do any- thing. I'll work day and night. I'll wash and cook and sweep and scrub — I'll work at anything day and night. I'll give you every bit of my life. I'll give you all of me. Oh, please, won't you let me come ? — Oh ! You'll take me ? — You'll take me? [She stretches out her arms for a mo- ment j then runs back into the room, opens the thin newspaper parcel from which she takes a faded dried rose, pins it carefully to the front of her 98 HONEY queer little old black dress, gathers up her old hat and the newspaper bundle and goes out, leaving the door open behind her. Curtain to Act IV and to the play.l 99 THE DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET This play is more or less a little bit of history appliqued and embroidered somewhat, as history always is, in the telling. The action takes place in the late nineties of the last century. The char- acters dress in shirt-waists with stiff linen collars, sailor hats, belts, and so on of that day. They are giving the play of Hamlet for the benefit of the Social Settlement, the charity they are supporting. CHARACTERS : Susan, in the part of Hamlet, Martha, as Ophelia, Matilda, as the Queen. Clementine, as Horatio, Ethel, as Laertes, Beatrice, as the Player King, Fortinhras, and any one else, Barbara, as the Ghost, Julia, as Rosencranz and Gildenstern, Charlotte, as Polonius, Maria, as herself and the president of the Club, [The stage represents the hare dressing- room of a modest little theater that is used more frequently for lectures and concerts than for real plays. There are some plain chairs, a deal table, a very small defective mirror on the wall, a heap of stage prgperlies in the corner, 100 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET and a trunk containing costumes. Clementine sits in a corner quietly looking over some papers and a bank-book. Martha comes in carrying a suit-case J drops it on the floor and begins dis- tractedly to take off her gloves and coat.^ Martha [panting and with a dramatic em- phasis on every other word or 5o]. Has no- body come yet? Am I the first? I left every- thing — Father and Ruth are at Atlantic City, Letitla has the tooth-ache, Gertrude a spranied ankle, and Helen the pink-eye, and we're house- cleaning, and the stove-pipe above the kitchen range came down and covered everything with bushels of soot — even the beefsteak, and the men were coming to paper the library, and the cook fell off the step-ladder and upset a bucket of dirty soap-suds into the piano, and the cat was having kittens — and I left it all and nearly broke my neck to get here on time so that they wouldn't be kept waiting, and here there's not a soul come yet ! [In the utmost despair.^ I'm always the first! [She drops into a chair and fans herself with an old newspaper she picks up from the table. ^ Clementine. I suppose some one has got to be first. Martha [with determination']. Yes, but it's not going to be 7ne any longer — it's going to be some one else. I'm tired of wasting time. I'm going to turn over a new leaf. This is the case of where the first shall be last. Julia [coming in, out of breath, tall and wil- lowy and graceful, carrying a suit-case and a spear]. Hello.. MORE SHORT PLAYS Martha. Hello, Julia. Julia [opening an old and worn prompt'book'\. Haven't they all come yet? Martha. Allf '* I'm the bosun tight and the midshipmite and the crew of the Captain's gig-" Julia. Barbara has suddenly decided to go to Greece again. Martha. Oh, law ! And left us with all the greasy work to do. Julia. I only hope she isn't drowned. Martha. Well, I suppose those that are meant for the hangman's noose don't get drowned, but the thought of Barb coasting airily round the isles of Greece in that sail-boat gives me the creeps. Julia [still with her prompt-book in her hand}. She asked me to conduct this dress rehearsal for her. She'll try to get here later. Clementine. Is this the dress rehearsal? Martha. It Is the very last rehearsal we are going to have. Hamlet will be produced tomor- row afternoon and evening and without any more rehearsing in between. Julia. Barbara thought we could persuade them to come for another rehearsal tomorrow morning and then just sit around in their costumes till afternoon with pieces of bread and butter. Martha. Pieces of eight, pieces of eight, pieces to ate you mean. Julia. Oh, Martha! Martha. Oh, I know I'm dippy. I always become as dippy as Mr. Rochester's maniac wife when I am about to be executed in one of the Col- lege Club plays. 102 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET Julia [sighing], Barbara said she really didn't see how we could go through it without re- hearsing in the morning. We don't know our parts. Martha [beginning to unfasten her shirt- waist^. We never know our parts. Isn't it hot today! I'm thankful I don't have to put on padded velvet trousers like Susan. That's usually my fate. Whenever the thermometer is at ninety-five degrees in the shade and you dream of a silk tissue dress, it's then always the College Club has a play and I have to clothe my person in doublet and hose or else in chain armor and a beard. I don't know how I escaped this time and had the blessing of the filmy part of Ophelia be- stowed upon me. I suppose they thought an in- sane part suited me. Delicate irony on the part of the committee. Julia [with soothing dejection^. I was just saying this morning that it seemed to me any one of us might be nearly fit for the insane asylum. Martha [hunting about for a place to hang her clothes^. This place is the most remarkable example of economy in non-essentials. There isn't even a peg to hang a thought on. Julia. I feel as if there wasn't a peg [sigh- ing'\ to hang anything on. Do you know that limerick called " My Room " ? It expresses pre- cisely my sensations in regard to the College Club. I wish that my room had a floor, I don't so much care for a door, But this walking around 103 MORE SHORT PLAYS Without touching the ground Is getting to be a great bore. Martha. I think I could say that about Bar- bara. The bottom drops out of everything and she takes to a sail-boat. Matilda [comes in panting and frightened, po- lite, and apologetic. She is carrying a suit-case, too, and a gorgeous paper crown~\. Oh, am I late ? It takes so long to get in from home — an hour always — and this morning a coal-wagon broke down on the track, and after that the gates went down for a long freight train to pass — there were fifty-seven cars. When the College Club gives a play I ought to come in to the Burnet House to board. [She shows the crown for all of them to see.'] Will this do? Julia. Oh, splendidly! Matilda. It attracted a good deal of atten- tion on the car coming in. The people seemed to admire it. I hadn't time to wrap it up. [Susan and Charlotte come in carrying suit- cases and bundles.] Susan [speaking very jovially as she drops two very large fat bundles on the floor]. Hello, girls. Isn't it nice we're all on time ! Julia. On time! You're three quarters of an hour late. Susan. Dear me, Julia, how scath-ing. What difference does it make to you? You sound as if you were conducting this rehearsal. You sound like Barbara. Martha. She is Barbara. She's going to take Barbara's place. Barbara is going to Greece. 104 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET Susan. What? Again? Barbara goes over to Greece the way the rest of us go over to Cov- ington. Julia, are you going to take her part of Hamlet's father's ghost, too? Julia. No, she'll do that to-morrow — per- haps she'll get here for the end of this rehearsal. Susan. Then you are still going to be Rosen- stein and Gildenstix? Julia. Yes, I have to be both of them. Martha. Well, if you're going to be a soldier you might as well be the whole army while you're at it and be done with it. Don't forget your wings. By the way, why is an army like an angel? Susan. Because they both have wings. Martha. Not at all. Because they both be- gin with A. Julia. Do be serious, girls. You don't seem to realise this is the dress rehearsal. Martha. We realise it all too well. Permit us our swan-song. Susan. Beck wouldn't send these costumes over immediately so I had to carry them myself. [She begins to undo her two huge bundles.'] Julia. We can start the rehearsal right away now. We're not all here but some of us can read the other parts. We can have the scene of Pol- onius' death. Martha. I suppose it is too late for regrets but I do think it is a pity we didn't choose Othello instead of Hamlet. Susan. Oh, I don't approve of Othello. I don't think it ought to be presented, encouraging, as it does, mixed racial marriages. 105 MORE SHORT PLAYS Julia. Anyhow, who would have been the Moor? Martha. Why, you, Julia, you're just cut out for the part. [Be it remembered that Julia is tall and willowy.^ Susan. King Lear would have been my choice. Inculcating, as it does, the beauty of filial devo- tion. Martha. Why do you care about that, Su- san? You haven't any children yet. Matilda. Why did we choose Hamlet? Martha [sarcastically^. We! Charlotte. Barbara wanted Hamlet. Susan. Which explains everything. Martha. Barbara bosses us round like a kindergarten and we all take it. Hamlet is so tame. We could just as well have given Mac- beth. Macbeth is much better suited to the Col- lege Club, having plenty of action. Then I could have been Lady Macbeth. I adore the sleep- walking scene. Julia [admiringly^. And you would have done it to perfection. Martha. But Hamlet it had to be because it can be so easily cut and Barbara loves to cut. Barbara ought to have been a butcher. Matilda. It really is awfully late. [They scramble to get of their clothes and into their costumes. '\ Julia. We can't wait any longer, girls. Let's have the Polonius scene. Susan. Beck didn't give me the Hamlet cos- tume after all — this is a full Falstaff suit. Martha. Full Falstaff is good. io6 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET Susan. I haven't on my black funereal weeds yet, but odds bodkins, 'tis enough ! [^fVith a ges- ture to her apparel — a negligee — pink silk pet- ticoat, her hair down her back, etc.'] Wait a mo- ment. I'll just get into my old gym trousers — they'll do for the melancholy Dane this time. [She scrambles into her gym trousers and ties about one shoulder an old absurd black velvet basque by way of princely cape, which she hunts out from the costume trunk. She seizes a sword and is ready.] Come on, thou ignominious Po- lonius, that I may slay thee like a rat. Julia. Where is Polonius? Charlotte [singing out in a very feminine voice from a corner]. Here I am! [She comes out with a chemise on, carrying a very bright- colored bath-robe.] Julia. Now, Queen-Mother. Matilda. Yes, I haven't my dress quite on yet. [Fumbling desperately to get the hooks of a black velvet waist fastened.] It is really too tight. Julia. That doesn't matter. Get back here, Polonius, this will do for the arras. [She places a chair flat down on the floor and Polonius, get- ting on her bath-robe, drops on the other side.] Charlotte. It's a good thing to have some- thing she can see through, so she won't put my eyes out with her sword. Julia. Now then, come on, Queen, just let your dress go now. Matilda. It is really so tight I can't fasten It. [Susan and Matilda, with half-fastened waist, parade and act.] 107 MORE SHORT PLAYS Susan. Now, mother, what's the matter with you? You have very badly insulted my father's memory. Matilda. You — you — I — [^she is embar- rassed and utterly lost for her part^. Julia. Oh, Susan, you didn't give her her cue. Susan. Didn't I? Well she ought to be glad I gave her anything. Julia. But don't you see, when you don't give her the right cue, it throws her entire speech out? Susan. Well, I gave her the idea. I don't remember the exact words right there. Let me see the book. Here we are. [Fery dramati- cally.'] " Mother, you have my father much of- fended." Julia. Wait, Susan, for her speech. Go on, Queen-Mother. f< Matilda [embarrassed and all mixed up], I — I — where shall I begin? Susan [with much self-possession]. *' Now, mother, what's the matter?" [Aside.] Get along with you now — go ahead. Matilda. " Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended." Susan. " Mother, you have my father much offended." Matilda. *' Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue." Susan. '' Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue." Matilda. "Why, how now, Hamlet?" Susan. " What's the matter now? " Matilda. "Have you forgot me?" io8 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET Susan. ** No, by the rood, not so : You are the queen, thy husband's brother's wife; And — would it were not so, — you are my mother." Matilda. " Nay, then, I'll set those to you that can speak.'* Julia. Oh, wait, wait! \^They go on rapidly and withut paying any at- tention to her.Ji Susan. "Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the innermost part of you." [Julia frantically tries to stop them.^ Matilda. ** What wilt thou do ? Thou wilt not murder me ? Help, help, ho." Charlotte [behind the arras, i.e. the chair]. " What, ho, help, help, help." Susan. " How, now, a rat. Dead, for a ducat, dead." [Passes her sword through the chair. 1 Charlotte. " Oh, I am slain. [Gives a feminine and very artificial scream and rolls over on the floor. Julia looks utterly hopeless.] Matilda. " Oh me, what hast thou done? Susan. *' Nay, I know not." Julia [at last breaking in violently]. I should think you didn't ! Half of that was cut. Don't you remember? Martha [with a scream]. Shades of Bar- bara I Susan. Oh, yes, I remember now, but this 109 MORE SHORT PLAYS copy isn't cut. That was the trouble. You see it wasn't my fault at all. Let me see your copy. Now, then, we'll go over it again. [Taking the book from Julia.^ \_Beatrice comes in, hot and tired and carrying a suit-case.^ Julia. But, Susan, you ought to know your part. Susan. Julia, I will. [With overwrought earnestness.^ You know you can always depend upon me — I always know my part when the play is given. I promise I'll know it tomorrow. [With a beatific smile.l Martha. Polonius screams like a debutante. Susan. It's more of a groan she ought to give — chesty — you know. Julia. Pitch your voice just as low as you can, Polonius. Charlotte [sitting up on the floor and sing- ing out with sweet cheerfulness^. All right. Julia. Go on, Susan. Susan. *' Now, mother, what's the matter? " Matilda. '' Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended." Susan. " Mother, thou hast my father much offended." Matilda. ''Why, how now, Hamlet? Have you forgot me ? " Susan. *' No, by the rood, not so — you shall not budge." Matilda. " What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho. no DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET Susan [discarding her book'], "How now? A rat. Dead for a dime, dead." \_She passes her sword through the chair even more dramatically than before.] Charlotte. " O, I am slain." \_She speaks in a sepulchral tone and then groans in an even deeper and more dreadful and impossible voice and rolls over on the floor in most awful writh- ing s.] Susan. Let's go through that sword-thrust again. Charlotte. Go through the sword-thrust but don't have the sword-thrust go through me, please. Be careful. Julia. Let's get this chair placed exactly right. [Julia, Susan, Matilda, and Charlotte busy themselves arranging the chair, practising the thrust, Julia saying '^ This way/^ and so on, all of them making up business with an occa- sional remark, while the following conversa- tion takes place swiftly on the other side of the stage, Beatrice, Martha and Clementine standing close together in deep earnestness.] Beatrice. But, Martha, I don't see how any- body could live through it. Martha. It was the worst case of appendi- citis in history. Clementine. A cousin of mine had the worst case of adenoids. Martha. Oh, but this case is going to be written up in all the surgical journals. Clementine. So was this case of adenoids. Ill MORE SHORT PLAYS There was the surgeon and his assistant and the anaesthetizer and five nurses and they were operat- ing an hour and six minutes and removed forty- nine adenoids. Martha. I don't believe it. Beatrice. My uncle's wife's cousin had the worst case of gall-stones ever recorded. They took out seventeen stones ranging from the size of a shirt-button to one as big as a cauliflower. Martha. Think of all that being in your nose. It's a rocky road to Dublin. Beatrice. They weren't adenoids, Martha, they were gall-stones. Martha. John's appendix must have been perforated like a hornet's nest and he never knew about it. He ate a hearty dinner Sunday. Beatrice. Isn't it remarkable that people al- most always eat a hearty meal just before they drop dead? Martha. And in an hour and a half John was on the operating table. The doctor said if it had gone sixteen seconds longer it would have been too late. He is wearing a draining-tube yet. Julia. Girls, do you think this is a dress re- hearsal or a post-mortem? Susan [humming to herself and then negli- gently poking Charlotte with her sword^, " I do repent me but heaven hath pleased it so." I think that went rather well. Only, Charlotte's groans sounded like the subterranean moans of a dying jelly-fish. Charlotte, couldn't you wail and groan differently? Something like this. [Makes sev- eral attempts.'] Julia. Polonius can practise his groans pri- 112 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET vately and we will go on to another scene. Has Laertes come yet ? Well, then if he hasn't, we can have the Hamlet-Ophelia scene. ^ Susan. Just let me have your book, Julia. Of course I know my lines for this scene, but hav- ing the book in my hand gives me a sense of confi- dence. [She strides apart and Martha, shimmer- ingly, diaphanously, from a distant corner, comes absent7nindedly forth.^ " Soft you now, The fair Ophelia. — Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remembered." [Always speaking melodramatically in her part of Hamlet.^ Martha [simpering']. " Good my lord, How does your honor for this many a day? " Susan. "I humbly thank you; well, well, well." Martha. " My lord, I have remembrances of yours. That I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you now receive them." Susan [roughly]. " No, not I ; I never gave you ought." Martha. " My honored lord, I know right well you did And with — " Julia [breaking in]. But that's cut! Cut it. Martha. All right, spirit of Barbara, con- sider it cut. " Their perfume lost Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind." Susan. "Ha, ha, are you honest?" [With a lunge and fierce glare at Martha.] Martha [starting hack]. Oh, jumping cat- fish, Susan, you scare me into sixteen fits. If you 113 MORE SHORT PLAYS do it that way I'll forget all my lines. You make me feel as if I had stolen the pennies off a dead man's eyes. ♦ Julia. Do it over. Give her the cue, Ophelia. Martha. " Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind." [Aside.] I'm almost tired of that line. Susan. " Ha, ha, are you honest? " [Sap- lessly, without any spirit utterly, swinging some- thing, — preferably corsets — by a string.l^ Julia. Oh, Susan, put some life into it. Susan. Well, I did before. Julia. Twenty horse-power, yes. [Ethel, very short and plump, comes in carrying a suit-case and goes and sits down in a corner from where she watches the action.] Susan. I see, you want roast-beef medium — medium honest, like the rest of the world. I sup- pose you know it means a certain particular femin- ine sort of honesty? Martha. Which, by the way, is the only sort of honesty the feminine mind is thought capable of — and that seldom. Julia. Is this a symposium of aphorisms or is it a rehearsal? Susan [going on with her part]. '* Are you fair?" Martha [turning to Julia]. That's too mean a question to ask any one to her face in public. [To Susan.] "What means your lordship?" [Always speaking with simpering affectation.] Susan. " That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty." 114 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET This and what follows seems to me a trifle — er — suggestive, as it were. Do you think the au- dience will understand the meaning and disap- prove ? Martha. Oh, the audience! They won't know enough to understand the meaning. You can always depend on the utter ignorance of au- diences. Julia \_sighing deeply']. There is no use to discuss it — that part was all cut out. Do you suppose Barb would leave it in? You have the wrong book again. [To Susan.] Susan [skirmishing for the right hook and then she goes on with great emotion]. " I loved you once." Martha. '' Indeed, my lord, you made me beheve so." \While the following scene proceeds^ Matilda is at one side mumbling her part, Beatrice strides up and down on the other side more than audibly mumbling her part, and Char- lotte writhes on the floor, trying different va- rieties of groans which may the more appro- priately represent the sufferings of the ex- piring Polonius.] Susan. '* I loved you not." Martha. *' I was the more deceived." Susan. *' Get thee to a nunnery. Ha," — Is that all cut about breeders? Martha. Certainly — it isn't wellbred. Susan. '' I am very proud, revengeful, ambi- tious. — We are arrant knaves all. Believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery." [Suddenly .] *' Where's your father? " 115 MORE SHORT PLAYS Martha [taken by surprise and speaking in her natural voice]. At Atlantic City. [Stam- mering.~\ I mean — [With simpering unction again.] *' At home, my lord." Susan. '' Let the doors be shut upon him that he may play the fool no more but in's own house. Farewell." Martha. " O heavenly powers restore him.'* Susan. " I have heard of your paintings, too, well enough; God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another; you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. — Get thee to a nunnery, go." Martha. *' To have seen what I have seen." Susan. To have heard what I have heard! Good Polonius, won't you be considerate enough to go out and practise dying on the sidewalk? The sounds of your dissolution do somewhat mar my eloquence. Charlotte. I'd like to know how it sounds now. Martha. Sounds like a mortuary chapel. Susan. Oh, it's all right. Just remember you're a doddering old man. Julia. Oh, goodness, no, Charlotte, don't be the customary old man of the stage. Susan. That's safest. That's what she bet- ter try to be. Martha. Oh, no, not the stereotyped shuf- fling stage octogeranium. Charlotte. Well, you're hard to please. First you don't want me to be a debutante and then you criticise me for being an octogeranium. ii6 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET Julia. Now let's have the Hamlet-Laertes scene. Charlotte [dropping dejectedly into a chair~\. When you fuss so, I don't see how you can expect anybody to know what to do. [Ethel comes forth in her ordinary street clothes, with no attempt at costume.'] Julia. Are you Laertes? Ethel. Yes. I should have preferred to play Ophelia. It is better suited to me, but I suppose they needed some one who could manage a sword for the Laertes part. Julia. But you haven't on your armor? Ethel. It's too hot to wear armor today. Julia. But you'll have to wear it tomorrow. Ethel \^with quiet hut completely firm deter- mination]. I'm not going to wear it today. Martha. Sufficient unto the day is the armor thereof. Julia. But I think you ought to wear It at the dress rehearsal in order to become accustomed to it. Ethel. If I wore it every day for a week up and down in the Auburn Avenue car I wouldn't become accustomed to it. Did you ever wear chain armor? Julia. No, I never did. But don't you think It takes away a little from the verisimilitude of the scene not to wear just a little something — just a helmet, for instance? Ethel. I tell you I am not going to put it on today. I can act just as well in these clothes. If you want to have the scene, you'd better begin. I shall not wear armor today. 117 MORE SHORT PLAYS \_Martha and Beatrice have been trying to see themselves in the little mirror.^ Martha. Is this the only mirror we are go- ing to have ? Are we all expected to dress by this thing — about as big as a postage stamp? We have to dress all huddled up in here and with nothing to see ourselves in but this thing. It dis- torts your countenance in the weirdest way. If I looked into it I literally wouldn't have the face to go on the stage afterwards. I don't pretend to be a stage beauty but I know my nose doesn't wan- der over to my left ear the way it does in this thing. Julia [looking carefully at her book']. This scene calls for almost every one on the stage. Oh, who is the King? Martha. Why are we rehearsing in this dressing-room, anyway, instead of on the stage ? Julia. Oh, didn't you know? They are hav- ing a Christian Science lecture as usual on the stage. Who is the King? Chorus. Hester Smith. She isn't here. Julia. Clementine, will you read her part? Clementine. But I am Horatio. Julia. Oh, well, you just read both parts to- day, will you? Martha. Another case of dual personality. We are frequently compelled to assume the role of dual personality in the College Club. Julia. Yes. I am both Rosencranz and Gil- denstern. Martha. Those names sound so Hebraic, Julia. You're a regiment of Jews, is what you ii8 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET are. In your presence I feel almost as if I were in an Avondale car. Julia. And who is Osric? Chorus. Molly Adams is. She is Osric and the Player-queen, too. Julia. I'll just read her parts. The Attend- ants-with-Foils is Alice Kendall and she isn't here. Clementine, will you act as the Attendants-with- Foils for the moment? [Clementine drops all her papers and comes out.] Beatrice. Who is going to make us up ? Charlotte. Maria, I suppose. She always does. Martha. Oh, mercy, when she makes you up, you are warranted to last a year. Not cold cream, nor soap, nor turpentine, nor gasoline, nor any- thing can get the rouge off your face and it makes your skin so sore, too. She uses that awful paste stuff and she is so stubborn she won't get the liquid rouge because it costs more, though I'm willing to pay for it myself. The last time she did it I was ashamed to teach my Sunday-school class the next day. Isn't there anybody else we can get to do it for us? Julia. Yes, there is, of course. But you may as well make up your minds to her. She will do it. She won't let anybody else. Now come on, and have the duel. [They all take their places for the scene. Susan is tall and plump, Ethel short and plump.] Susan [to Ethel]. *' Give me your pardon, sir; I've done you wrong, 119 MORE SHORT PLAYS V But pardon't, as you are a gentleman." Ethel. *' I am satisfied in nature, I do receive your offered love like love, And will not wrong it." Julia. Now the King's speech. Beatrice [fumbling to find the part. Some one shows it to her^. " Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager? " Susan. *' Very well, my lord." Ethel [picking up a sword^, "This is too heavy, let me see another?" Susan. " This likes me well. These foils are all one length? " Ethel. These swords appear to me to be Civil War swords. We oughtn't to use anything but the foils of Shakespeare's time. Julia. Well, we can't help it — we haven't anything else. Ethel. But we ought to have. Julia [almost losing her temper~\. We can't have what we haven't got. Ethel. Some one ought to get the proper foils. The College Club ought not to perpetrate an anachronism. Martha [singing out'\. The College Club is an anachronism. It plays to work. Ethel. Whoever brought these swords ought to be made to take them back and bring foils. Who has charge of the weapons? Julia. Alice Kendall has charge of the weapons. Martha. Try making Alice take back any- thing. Alice and you for it, Ethel. 120 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET Ethel \_paying no attention to Martha]. Then let her be sent for. And let her bring the foils with her. Martha. That sounds simple enough. Susan. Oh, come on with the rehearsal now. You and Alice can settle the weapons between you later. Julia. We are delaying the rehearsal so. Ethel. We must have the foils. Julia. But don't you see? We can't have them. Ethel. We ought to have the foils. [Un- moved.] Julia [at her wifs end]. Can't any one per- suade her to go on? Martha. Oh, Ethel, do have your fight and get it over. My mad scene has to be rehearsed. Ethel. But they are Civil War swords and it is quite wrong to use them. Susan. Come on. General Grant, General Lee awaits you. [With a flourish of her sword.] Ethel. Well, I may fight with it today, but I give you all fair warning I will not fight with a Civil War sword in Hamlet tomorrow. Beatrice. " Come, begin; And you, the judges, bare a wary eye." Susan. '' Come on, sir." Ethel. " Come, my lord." Susan. " One." Ethel. '' No." Susan. " Judgment." [As they fight Susan tries to look at her book, too. The swords are too heavy for them. They plunge about, getting overheated and 121 ^ MORE SHORT PLAYS scant of breath. Be it remembered that they are both ladies, Susan tall and plump, Ethel short and plump, Ethel much in earnest, determined, fiery, finally takes her sword in both hands and goes for her opponent as if with a hall-bat. Susan tries to avoid her. This may continue as long and as violently as desired.'] Ethel. '' A touch, a touch, I do confess.'' Beatrice. " Our son shall win." Julia [prodding Matilda], Go on, Queen, take the cue quickly. Matilda. Oh, dear me. Of course, for the moment I forgot. *' He's fat and scant of breath." ; f Susan. Never was tmer word spoken! * Julia. Susan, don't put in your own remarks — it upsets the girls so. Susan [breathlessly]. Well, Fm upset. Ethel. " My lord, I'll hit him now." Susan. Ethel, would you mind not being quite so bloodthirsty? [They fight again, Ethel making desperate lunges at Susan who evades her with rather terror-stricken difficulty. Barbara slips in and quietly clothes herself in a sheet over her street apparel, the while she watches from her corner the scene enacted.] Susan [with patronizing superiority], "You but dally; I pray you pass with your best violence ; I am afraid you make a wanton of me." Ethel [with great vehemence], "Say you so? Come on." 12Z DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET - Julia [breaking in']. Now you change swords, you know. Don't forget that. Susan. Of course not. \In doing this, each in the most matter-of-fact way lays down her sword on the floor and picks up the sword of the other. They fight again. Hamlet is wounded and falls. ^Laertes is wounded and falls. The Queen " swoons.] Matilda. " The drink, the drink. I am poi- Jsoned." Ethel. " The king's to blame." Susan. *' The point envenomed, too. Then; venom to thy work." \^Kills the King.] [The King, the Queen, Hamlet, and Laertes writhe about with groanings, moanings, shriekings, and in a few moments, as they lie strewn about the floor, Maria enters, strid- ing among and over their dead bodies.] Maria. Are you all through with the re- hearsal? All. Through? [They groan.] Maria. I don't suppose you realize you're making a perfectly awful row in here. Are you aware there is a Christian Science lecture going on just out there on the stage? Martha. Oh, they won't notice. They don't believe In noise. Maria. It's lucky for them they don't. Well, I'm sorry your rehearsal isn't over because I shall have to stop it in order to have a business meet- ing. All. a business meeting? Now? We can't. This is the dress rehearsal. 123 MORE SHORT PLAYS Maria. Well, you've got to stop your re- hearsing long enough to have the business meet- ing. All. What for? Maria. Didn't Clementine tell you? We haven't money enough to pay the rent. Beatrice. We can't stop so important a thing as a rehearsal merely for money. Maria. Dr. Haile will put the Sloyd System out on the sidewalk tomorrow if we haven't a check for him. Susan. Will a check check him? Martha. Of course. That's why they are called checks. Ethel. We can't have a meeting unless it is announced previously and regular notices sent out. It's not parliamentary. Maria. You will find in the by-laws that the president has the power to call a meeting any time at her own discretion. Barbara. But what if she hasn't any discre- tion? Ethel. A meeting called at the discretion of a person who hasn't any discretion would be un- parliamentary and any business transacted thereat would be illegal. Maria [sitting on the edge of the table']. The meeting will please come to order. Martha. Oh, well, if you want to have a meeting, you'll have it whether it suits the rest of us or not. We might as well make up our minds to it. But if Hamlet is a fizzle tomorrow it will all be your fault. Maria. If there are no objections we will 124 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET omit the reading of the minutes of the previous meeting.. Susan. Maria, why do you omit the minutes so often? Martha [aside~\. Because we take no note of time. Maria. Will Miss Hildebrand kindly address the chair in the usual formula of Madam Presi- dent? Susan. What's the matter with you, Maria? Did you forget to take your digestive tablet this morning? Martha. Besides, youVe not on a chair, you're on a table. [To the others.] She ought to be tabled, then we'd be rid of her till we wanted to take her off ourselves. Susan. We sometimes do take off ourselves. Maria [paying no attention to them]. Miss Boland, will you kindly tell them the condition of the treasury? Clementine. There is twenty-three cents in the treasury and the rent is due — sixty dollars — and there are a great many outstanding bills — shall I read them? Martha \_with a groan]. I move we omit the reading of the bills. Clementine. And the residents at the Settle- ment haven't even a penny to buy their provisions with for tomorrow. Martha. Why can't they live exclusively on bananas for a while? The Head-worker says that bananas are so cheap and so nourishing and that they can easily live on them. Why don't you just go and buy them a few dozen bananas? 125 MORE SHORT PLAYS Maria [with very intentional and hiting sterti" ness~\ . Do you wish to put that into the form of a motion, Miss Godfrey? Susan [to Martha'], Now are you sufficiently squelched? Maria. If not, has any one any suggestions to make? Beatrice. Aren't we going to make a lot of money from this play? Martha. Amateurs always make a fortune out of a play. Your friends are helpless. They have to buy tickets. People can pretend to be sick and refuse an invitation to a party, but they have to buy tickets to an amateur performance or else bear the stigma of being poverty-stricken. Maria. We will make money, but you can't count even guinea pigs before they're hatched. Barbara. We made seven hundred dollars from Ralph Roister Doister. Susan. We made sixty dollars from our last valentine sale. Clementine. But that was all eaten up in three days. Martha. At that rate the Settlement people eat up about a hundred valentines a day. Matilda. How much do you count on from Hamlet? Maria. We ought to make a thousand dol- lars. We'll clear a hundred from the programs alone. The advertisements are all in rhyme, cal- culated to keep the audience quietly reading so that they won't fuss if the curtain doesn't go up on time. One old gentleman didn't want his in verse and I told him if he didn't like to be in 126 DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET poetry he could stay out altogether — he signed for a half page. Think of hesitating to adver- tise your safety razors in Clementine's lyric num- bers. Susan. Well, if it's immediate money we must have, my shoes will have to be sacrificed. I have been dreaming of a pair of green shoes to go with my new green evening gown, but here are the greenbacks for the bananas Instead. Barbara. I meant to buy beads for bead- bags In Italy — but here's the money. Martha [pullingi out her purse~\. Here go my coveted silk stockings. Charlotte. I'll send you my check tonight — a week off my summer trip. Beatrice. I'll send you a check tonight — but don't let the Orchestra people know about it. Ethel. I meant to buy foils, but there is the money and I'll fight with a Civil War sword to- morrow If necessary. Barbara. Now don't you think you can get enough pledges without delaying the rehearsal any longer? Clementine can collect them. Maria. Yes. Will some one make a motion to adjourn? Susan. I move we adjourn. You are so par- liamentary, Maria, but we'll do anything to get rid of you. Martha. I second the motion. Maria. All In favor of adjournment, please say " aye." Chorus. Aye. Maria. Contrary, " no." The motion is carried. \_She goesf\ 127 MORE SHORT PLAYS Martha. Well, thank goodness, weVe rid of her till she comes back with her determination and her rouge to make us up. Now let's rehearse my mad scene. Ethel. No, we will practice the fight again. We ought to go over that five or six times. Susan. You haven't heard me give my so- liloquy yet. I'll do that now. Barbara. Oh, no, we must have the ghost scene. Charlotte. I want my death scene again. Beatrice. You haven't rehearsed me at all. Clementine. Nor me, except in other peo- ple's parts. Martha. My mad scene is the most import- ant. I'll do it now. Susan. You must listen to my soliloquy. Ethel [^high-pitched and shrill^. Come on, let's have the fight again. [They all clamor to be heard and make utter confusion of the stage. ^ Julia [In despair and putting on her hat^. I'm going home. [They all exclaim, "What?" " Not yet," " You're not going to leave us? " etc.] My head aches so awfully. The rehearsal is over as far as I am concerned. [She goes. They are all in consternation.^ Martha. Well, I suppose we may as well all go- [Curtain] 128 THE PIONEERS The scene of this play is the first settlement of what is now a great city of the Middle-West. The time is about 1791. In writing the play I have introduced characters and described things as I liked to imagine them. If in the exigencies of presentation some of these seem difficult, alter- ations are easy. For instance, if a larger cast is desired, more pioneers and Indians may be added; if a smaller one, several of the parts may be doubled or omitted entirely. I have made it flexi- ble in that respect purposely. The play has two scenes. The one in the Indian camp may be made possible for amateurs to give by hanging green curtains just inside the other scene. If this seems not to be managed, the act may be made to take place with comparatively little change also inside the pioneer's cabin — that is there need be no change of scene. Naturally I do not expect the brook to be or even to be heard on the stage but have described it for the benefit of the actor's imagination. Additions or changes are altogether permissible. For, in my experience with ama- teur stagecraft, I have found not only that cir- cumstances alter cases but that cases must alter circumstances and that every one alters plays. 129 MORE SHORT PLAYS characters in the order of their appearance : Pioneers Indians Alison Carmichael. White Feather. Abagail Carmichael, her The Beaver. sister-in-law. Grey Cloud. Edward, Sarah, Little Nany,^ the Car- Red Fox. -michael The Eagle. children. Eunice Morton. T ' [the Morton children. Lucy, J Geoffrey Baxter, brother to Eunice. John Morton, her husband. William Carmichael, husband to Abagail, brother to Alison. Mrs. Worthington. Mrs. King. The General. ACT I [/^ is late afternoon on the thirteenth of February. The scene is the interior of a pioneer^s log cabin. On one side of the room — in stage directions the right — there is a big open wood fire-place. At the side of this to- ward the front is the door opening into another room. On the other side of the room is a win- dow towards the front, behind that against the wall a rude bed and near it a baby^s crib. At the back there is a door not quite in the center but nearer the side where the bed stands; at the side of the door and towards the fire-place there is a window. A settee is in the corner between 130 THE PIONEERS the window and the fire-place, a spinning-wheel and chair on the other side of the window rather in front of it. A deal table and some rude chairs compose the rest of the furniture. Some guns, kitchen utensils, and strings of dry- ing herbs — red peppers, hops, and so on — hang on the walls. There are holes — closed now — in the outer door and window shutters for the insertion of guns. Over the door into the inner room a ladder goes up to the loft above. A pretty girl of eighteen or so sits by the wheel and spins, humming a little tune to herself.'] Abagail [from within in a mournful complain- ing voice]. If the spring doesn't come soon the children's bare feet will be upon the snow-covered ground. Alison [smiling and answering in a gay and very sweet voice]. Oh, when their shoes wear out they can wear moccasins. Abagail [coming from the inner room with her knitting of coarse grey yarn in her hand]. It is not so much their shoes as their stockings that are worn out. I've darned and darned till they won't hold the stitches any longer. There is scarcely enough yarn left for another pair and that is the last of the wool. [Sighing, with a glance at the spinning-wheel.] Alison [hopefully], I think the spring will come soon. If it doesn't [laughing] we will have to tie their legs up in hay till they can go barefoot. Abagail. They are not your children, Alison, or you would not jest about it. 131 MORE SHORT PLAYS Alison. Oh, you know I love them, Abagail. Abagail. You take this hard, frontier life as a joke but I am accustomed to the greatest luxuries and all the delicacies of aristocratic society in Trenton. Alison. Oh, sister, I left as many pleasant things in Philadelphia as you did in Trenton, of your beloved Jersey. But I am willing to give them all up for this wonderful new land. It has been a long cold winter but for that very reason I think the spring will be early. There are signs. Yesterday I heard a robin. Abagail [sitting down by the table and knit- ting~\. More like it was an Indian. William says they imitate birds for signals. Maybe they are up to some of their devilish tricks. Alison [smiling and shaking her head^. No, It was no Indian though his breast was red. I saw him. The color was gay against the snowy branch where he sat. Abagail. Yet I do not think he had come for good. William says they fly up from the south and if It be cold they go back and stay. Alison. Will says a great many unpleasant things. This little robin is the advance guard sent by his clan to reconnoiter. He sang to me and said he felt the tingling sweetness of spring in the air despite the snow, and that he would go back to tell the others and they would at once make ready for their journey. Abagail [smiling forlornly~\. I can not feel as you do. I am depressed by this rough life. Sarah [from within']. Mother, we can't do these problems Aunt Alison gave us. 132 THE PIONEERS Alison. Work at them a little longer. Edward \_c07nmg out, followed by Sarahl. But they are too hard. Alison [to Edward]. Read yours over care- fully and you will see how to do it. Edward [reading from his slate. Both chil- dren have slates']. " If it takes an ounce of meal to make a little hoe-cake, and a boy eats six little hoe-cakes for breakfast, dinner, and supper, how long will it take him to eat up a bushel of meal? " It's too hard, and besides no boy would eat noth- ing else but hoe-cakes. Alison. Suppose he had nothing else to eat? Edward \_grinning]. His father would go out and shoot wild turkey. Alison. Suppose his father didn't dare go far enough to get wild turkeys because the Indians were on the war-path? Edward. Then the boy would eat some of his sister's apples. Ask her for her puzzle. Sarah [^reading]. *' If each blossom in the spring means an apple in the fall and there are three trees, one with a thousand pink and white blossoms, one with two thousand, and one with three thousand, how many red apples will there be in October? " I am going out to see if the little new apple trees have any blossoms coming. Edward. I'm going out to play. Abagail. No, no. I am afraid to have you go. [There is a knock at the door^ Ahagail looks frightened, Alison stops her wheel and goes to answer the knock.] Alison [calling out]. Who is there? 133 MORE SHORT PLAYS Eunice [from without}. Oh, it is I, Alison. Open up, I'm not an Indian. [Alison laughs, unbolts the door, swings it wide, and in walks the neighbor, Eunice Morton, a pleasant, jolly soul, with her two children, Arthur and Lucy,} Alison. I didn't think you were an Indian, but sister Abagail is so timid we always ask who's there before opening, to satisfy her. Abagail. It is best to be on the safe side. Alison [laughing}. Of the door. Eunice [to Abagail}. You are so sure of Indians, they will come and get you some day. Alison. Sit here. [She pulls up her chair to the fire, Eunice takes it, Alison herself balances on the edge of the table, for a few moments, grace- fully swinging her foot.} Abagail. I do fully expect them. I would not be surprised nor unprepared. Alison. Oh, dear. I should be surprised and scared out of my wits. Eunice. The ones who think they will be frightened are the ones who will be brave. [To the children who are sidling about, talking to each other, half embarrassed.} You children run out- doors and play. Abagail. No, no. I am afraid to have them outside alone. I fear Indians and snakes and ani- mals. I can't bear to see them out of my sight. Eunice [laughing}. You see too much out of your sight I Don't imagine unpleasant things for fear they'll come. Run along, children. Abagail. For a little, then. But if anything happens, come right in. THE PIONEERS [The children go out.^ Eunice. You'll make them cowardly, Aba- gail. Where are the others? Abagail. Little Alison and the baby are asleep in there. [Pointing to the inner room. She sighs. ~\ Eunice. Abagail, why do you torment your- self so always with the thought of Indians? A mouse doesn't sit down and repine all day about the cat that may eat it up. Perhaps the cat won't come. If it is in my stars to be scalped by In- dians, I shall be scalped and it can't be helped. I am not going to make myself miserable thinking about how it will feel. Sometimes I almost be- lieve fear will bring Indians. Alison. More like the white man's bad treat- ment of them will bring them. Eunice. In either case worry doesn't help. Abagail. Oh, you are very brave, Eunice, but I am not so blessed. The Lord has not made me valiant. Eunice. Well, Abagail, I do think if you didn't leave so much to the Lord and tried to help yourself a little, you would be much more comfort- able. Abagail. But our house is so far away from the rest of the settlement, and there is the creek between. W^illiam preferred this land over here — it wasn't my choice. Alison. The gardens and orchard are start- ing excellent well. Abagail. We could all be scalped over here and the rest of the settlement none the wiser. Es- pecially in winter. 135 MORE SHORT PLAYS Eunice. Well, winter is nearly over. It is getting much warmer, real St. Valentine's weather and thawing fast. The ice in the creek will be gone by morning. Alison. Oh, then the Ice in the river must have broken and the boats from above will be coming soon with supplies. Eunice. We are almost in dire need of sup- plies. I understood a messenger was dispatched from the fort yesterday to Mr. Armatage begging him to hasten them as fast as possible. Abagail [sighing^. I do wish we were not so far from the fort. Eunice. Why don't you wish you were back in Jersey? But I am forgetting my errand. We are going to kill our pigs tomorrow and I came to ask if we might borrow your big kettle? Abagail. Yes, and welcome. I hear your pigs are very fine and fat. Eunice. We fed them on beech and hickory nuts the children gathered in the fall. I must be going. \^She rises, goes to the door and calls the children who all come trooping inS\ Arthur. You have spoiled our game. The boys were just going to scalp the girls. Eunice. It's well I Interrupted them — just in the nick of time to save the girls' lives. I'll send over for the kettle later. Perhaps my brother Geoffrey will like to come to carry it. \_PFith a laughing glance at Alison.^ Alison. Perhaps he would not. Mistress Eu- nice, like to carry a great heavy iron kettle. Eunice. Oh, a light heart makes a light ket- tle. Oh, fie, Mistress Alison Carmichael, I know 136 THE PIONEERS very well why he is always finding an excuse to cross the creek. [Alison makes a little face at her, smiling.^ Come along with me a little way. [To Abagail,^ Abagail. I am afraid. Edward. Can't we go, too? Lucy. Oh, yes, please, can't we? Eunice. Yes, all of you. [They say good-hy and are about to go out.~\ Alison. Come over this evening and I'll have some apples and nuts, maybe popcorn and cider. Eunice. Very well, we'll come. Shall I bring Geoffrey and Geoffrey's fiddle? [Abagail opens the door, the children rush out, Eunice is just going through, when she ex- claims.^ Eunice. Well, well, well, well! Where did you come from? [To Abagail and Alison.'] Here are two visitors. [The two men, John Morton and Geoffrey Baxter, her husband and brother, enter jovially and greet Abagail and Ali- son.] Wasn't there men's work for you two to do without your coming visiting in the afternoon like women? John. No, dear wife, we felt drawn to follow you. Eunice. Keep your compliments, John, for those that will swallow them. John. Well, then, to tell the truth, I came to borrow and bring home the Carmlchaels' big iron kettle and Geoffrey, knowing how weak my arms are, felt he must come along to help me carry it. [With a grin.] Geoffrey [half blushing]. I was just start- 137 MORE SHORT PLAYS ing out to see if I could find a squirrel and thought I might as well come this way with him. Eunice. Well, get along, then. For I am just starting for home. Abagail. The kettle is outside behind the house. John. We'll find it there then. [He starts out.~\ Eunice. I'm glad you came. We'll all go home together. {^She goes out and Abagail fol- lows her, 'I Geoffrey. If I get a squirrel, sweetheart, may I bring it back to you? Alison. If you are in truth after a squirrel, Geof, you'd better be off at once, for the dark will fall fast and it will be grey in the woods. Geoffrey. Then I'll be coming back this way with it. Alison. Oh, you can bring it over tonight, if you like. I think they are all coming over to spend the evening with us. Now be off with you, sir. Geoffrey [^trying to kiss her, hut she evades him}, Good-by, sweetheart. [Alison follows him to the door, stands there a few moments, comes in, leaving the door open, goes to the fire where she warms her hands a little while and then is about to place a log on the fire when a young Indian suddenly and in absolute silence appears at the door. He stands stock-still watching her and Alison as if by intuition turns about and sees him. She is startled into dropping the log of wood but otherwise shows no trepidation,} White Feather. How ! 138 THE PIONEERS Alison. How I White Feather \^they take plenty of time he- tween their speeches, the Indian for lack of nerves and possessing a large mental leisure, Alison be- cause of her unseen kinship to him^. Me come to see Chief Carmichael. Alison. He is not at home. Perhaps he will be back soon. Won't you come in? White Feather. See him. Trade. Alison. Are there others with you? White Feather [^standing perfectly still in the doorway^. No. Alison. Won't you come in? \^The Indian stands silent a few moments, then enters and takes the chair Alison places for him before the fire. She stands. He is tall and handsome, a splendid young brave, and his movements are all quick, adroit, grace- fuL] White Feather. Cold. Alison [closing the door~\. It is. White Feather. Me no cold — young white squaw. [He does not look at her, keeping his eyes on the fire.'\ Alison. Mr. Carmichael will be back any mo- ment, but perhaps I can tell you what you want to know. White Feather. Indians want meal. Trade skins. Alison. Oh, there is so little meal left in the settlement. It has been such a cold, hard winter. Haven't your people felt it? White Feather. Indians hungry. No meal. Alison. No meal at all? 139 MORE SHORT PLAYS White Feather. No meal. Alison. Oh, I am so sorry. White Feather. Indians hunt. Eat game. No meal. Plenty skins. No meal. Indians all hungry — some sick — some dead. Alison \_exclaiming~\. Oh! [taking a step toward him/] I know Mr. Carmlchael will do all he possibly can for you. I am so sorry. I would help you if I could. White Feather [looking at her directly for the first time], Indians no hurt young white squaw. \_The door opens and William and Ahagail Carmichael and their children enter. At sight of the Indian Ahagail gives a scream and hurries the children into the other room.] William [^ raw-honed and severe young pioneer]. How, chief! White Feather. How ! Alison. Brother, he has come to see if he can effect a trade with you. The Indians are greatly in need of meal. He says they have furs they want to give you for meal. William [grimly]. He's brought his pigs to a poor market. White Feather. Indians no meal. Hun- gry. Sick. Starving. Indians have plenty furs. Good furs. Mink, beaver, otter, good furs. William [roughly]. I don't want any of your furs. White Feather [insinuatingly]. Good furs! Fine! William. I can't help it how good they are, I don't want 'em. We've little enough grain. 140 THE PIONEERS We've got to keep it all to last the season through. I can't spare any to you. Alison. Oh, Will, give him some if you pos- sibly can. Some of his people are sick and dying for want of food. William. That's like enough, but it's not my fault. [To the Indian,^ Why didn't you go to the fort to trade? White Feather. No good. Big chief there say " yes " one day, say " no " another day. No keep word with Indians. In summer promise meal, in winter no trade. Chief Carmichael good man. In summer he promise meal to Indians. He keep word. Indians like him. William [uneasily]. Oh, they do, do they? Well, I've always tried to deal fairly with them, but I can't let them have any meal now. White Feather. Last summer Chief Car- michael promise meal. William. I can't help it if I did. There's not enough. Alison. Oh, Willie, give him a little. Give him my share. William. No, I'll not. You go back to your people and tell them what the big chief at the fort said is true and that he is a good chief. Tell them I have no meal for them. Your people better plant enough corn this year to last the winter out. You ought to learn your lesson. \_JVhite Feather rises and walks with dignity to the door. Alison looks much distressed.'^ White Feather. Me tell. Alison. Brother, at least ask him to stay for supper. 141 MORE SHORT PLAYS William [condescendingly~\. Why yes, chief, won't you stay and eat with us? White Feather. No, Indians waiting. Me no stay. Alison [detaining hini]. We would be so glad to have you stay and share our food with us, chief. White Feather. Me go. Alison. Good-by, then. \^She impulsively offers him her hand. He takes it, looking at her intently, and -then with dignity walks out, WiU Ham closes the door after him, holts it and then places his gun which he has kept all the while on his arm, in a corner,~\ William. You can't do anything with those people. They're shiftless. You can't help them. Alison. I think you can. William. They're all a pack of scoundrels. Abagail [coming in with all the children, car' tying the baby, and with little Alison holding to her dress^. The redskins are all like devils. I am so afraid they will come and wreak their ven- geance on us now. Alison, why did you let him in? Why did you allow him to enter? Alison. The door was open and he walked in. I didn't let him. He didn't ask to be al- lowed. [Laughing. ~\ I suppose he never dreamed he wasn't welcome. I think he under- stands we can't spare the meal, but whether he will be able to make the other Indians understand when he tells them of brother WiUiam's refusal — I don't know. William. Oh, don't bother your head about it. He was probably lying all the time. And 142 THE PIONEERS they're always begging. We're well rid of him. I'm as hungry as a bear. How soon will supper be ready? Abagail. In my fright I totally forgot sup- per. Alison [bustling about and taking down a pan]^. It won't take long. [^The curtain falls. End of Act /.] ACT II [// is evening of the same day and in the same room. The family have just had their supper. A roaring fire is burning in the fire- place and candles are lighted. William Car- michael is cleaning his gun, his wife is putting the baby to bed in its crib, Alison is just finish- ing washing the dishes, Edzvard and Sarah wip- ing them for her, and little Alison is playing with a rag-doll on the floor.'] Alison. I can't get those poor Indians out of my mind. I wonder if they are having any supper. William [laughing]. No corn meal! But they'll have game. Trust an Indian always to be able to find plenty of game. I can go out hunting and never see a rabbit, not to mention a wild turkey, much less a deer, but an Indian can scare up a deer most any time the way a robin gets a worm. Alison. Robins can't get worms out of frozen ground in the winter. Birds starve to death in the forest. 143 MORE SHORT PLAYS [There is a knock at the door, William jumps to his feet, strides to the door and calls out.^ William. Who's there? Eunice. It's us! We've come to scalp you! \_JVilliam unbolts the door and John Morton and Eunice, and her brother, Geoffrey Bax- ter, come in. Both men carry guns and Geoffrey a violin. There are greetings.^ Geoffrey [/o Alison']. I've brought you a present. \^He stands his gun against the wall and takes out of his pocket a strand of red beads which he gives her.] I got them from an old sailor at the fort today. Alison [delightedly]. Oh, Geoffrey, they are beautiful ! Geoffrey. Do you know that tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day? Alison. No, in this wilderness I had clean forgotten it. Geoffrey. Will you be my valentine ? Will you say ** yes " at last? [He speaks very low to her and the others are busy and pay no attention to them.] Alison. Oh, Geoffrey! I'll tell you tomor- row. Geoffrey. Well, at least, may I put these on you? [He puts the beads over her head and they drop down about her neck. He leans over and tries to kiss her but she escapes him and runs back to her dishes.] William [as they take off their wraps]. You are welcome, neighbors, but you are the only fam- ily in the settlement that goes out at night. 144 THE PIONEERS Eunice. A lusty heart goes all the day, a timid stops at night. Alison. There are Indians about. Eunice [derisively]. Dear me, I shall have to lock up my chicken coops. Abagail. Eunice, you are foolhardy. Eunice. Abagail, care killed a cat. \_As they take of their heavy garments, John Morton examines William's gun, Geoffrey follows Alison who throws a dish-towel to him and he wipes the last dish, Eunice leans over the crib looking at the baby, and then speaks to little Alison.] Eunice. Up yet? Such a late little girl. Abagail. I must put her to bed. [^She takes little Alison by the hand.] Eunice. I am afraid we got here too early. Abagail. Oh, no, but we were late starting supper. Alison. We had a visitor. Geoffrey [^quickly]. Who? Alison [laughing and shrugging her shoul- ders]. A young Indian. [She hands him a pan, telling him where to hang it on the wall.] Geoffrey. I don't like even an Indian here calling on you. I am jealous of everything. Alison [saucily]. He is a very fine young man. William. I've seen the fellow before. He is a young brave, going to be one of the wise men in the council some day. He has some education, been to school and with the white men a great deal. But I don't trust any of them. He said he 145 MORE SHORT PLAYS came to trade furs for meal but he came to the wrong diggings. John. I reckon he was just nosing around. Alison. Edward, get the apples, and, Sarah, get the elder. \_The boy climbs the ladder to the loft and the girl goes with a pitcher itito the other room. Alison takes down some tin-cups and hands them to Geoffrey to put on the table.~\ William. They've got a lot of curiosity. Eunice [sitting down in a chair and getting out her knitting^. They're human. Abagail [coming out of the other room with her knitting^. The way that child sleeps! The way she falls asleep and the way she keeps on sleeping. Eunice. She's a healthy child. She would sleep through an Indian attack. [Edward lowers a rope with a basket of apples which Geoffrey takes and, setting it on the floor, picks out a large one, red and shining, and begins peeling it. Sarah brings a pitcher of cider which Alison places on the table by the ciips.^ Alison. Now, Edward, dear, the nuts — and, Sarah, the popcorn. Will you have some cider now or later? [To the guests.^ John [laughing']. I'll take some cider now and later. [Alison pours a cup of cider for him and Ed^ ward brings a basket of nuts.~\ Alison. Brother Will, will you crack the nuts? I'm going to roast some apples. 146 THE PIONEERS John. Let me crack the nuts while he finishes with his gun. [Alison gives him a smoothing iron and a hatchet and he goes to work. The women knit. Sarah has brought the 'pop-corn and Edward and she sit on the floor and shell it. Alison is also sitting on the floor selecting apples to roast.^ Geoffrey [just finishing the peeling of his apple~\. Here you are, Alison. [He hands it to her on the point of his knife and then the peeling. '\ It's a whole unbroken rind. Do you want to throw it over your head? Will you name it? Will you name it right? Alison [getting up laughing and taking the rind]. Yes, I'll name it, but I won't tell you who. [She looks at him roguishly, takes the apple rind and standing in the middle of the floor, swings it round her head three times after the old custom and then drops it over her shoulder behind her on the floor.] Geoffrey [leaning over anxiously to examine the apple rind on the floor]. It is a G I Alison [leaning over with him, mischievously]. Indeed, sir, it is nothing of the sort. It is quite another letter. Geoffrey. It is a G. It couldn't be anything else. Alison. It looks much more like an F or a W. Geoffrey. It is a plain G. Alison. If it were a G at all, it ought to be a handsome G. But it isn't a G — it is a true W. [He tries to catch her hand but she eludes him. The others have been paying no attention to 147 MORE SHORT PLAYS them hut following their own occupations and talking to each other. John has taken up the violin and tuning it now calls outS\ John. Take your partners I \^He plays a rollicking old-fashioned tune, William with great flourishes invites Eunice to dance and Geof' frey seizes Alison. The four of them dance old' fashioned figures and the dancing continues gayly for some time. Suddenly there is heard the whis- tle of a red-bird.^ Alison. Listen ! [The whistle is repeated.'\ Alison [5/<^r//^^]. At night! [They start apart and are silent listening. ^^ John [laying down the violini. The red- skins are at their tricks. [They are still listening. Again the whistle is heard louder. ~\ William. It's the red rascals. What are they up to? [There comes the sharp report of a musket^ the sharp crack of a bullet against the door. They all start, the little girl runs to her mother. William grabs his gun and quickly loads it, the other two men seize theirs from the corner where they stand. Other bullets are heard cracking against the house in quick succession.^ Abagail [whimpering^. Oh, dear! Heaven preserve us ! The red-skins have come ! Eunice. You've got what you have been look- ing for so long. Alison. Be quiet. [Abagail is panic-stricken. William goes to 148 THE PIONEERS the door, opens the hole and after peering through cautiously, thrusts in his gun and fires. There is heard a shriek from with- out followed by the wierd cries of the In- dians, Bullets begin to rain against the house.^ John. Haven't you got other guns to load? William. Yes, I have. Son, get the carbine. Edward. Yes, father. \_He climbs up and gets down the gun from the walL~\ William. AHson, the old musket and the pis- tols. There's a hole. [To Geoffrey, indicating the shutter. Geoffrey inserts his gun and fires. There is a yell from without.^ Geoffrey. I do believe that's one less. William. John, go in and fire through the shutter-hole and watch. Edward [with a carbine}. Here, father. Eunice. Oh, I've got to be doing something! [She picks up the carbine.} I'm going to the loft and fire from the loop-hole there. [She climbs the ladder with her gun and soon is heard firing from up there.} Sarah. Oh, mother! Abagail [moaning and holding the little girl}. Oh, my child! Oh, dear. William. Edward. Edward. Yes, father. William. Get me the cutlasses and the knives. They won't get in here [grimly} ^ but we'd best be ready for a hand-to-hand fight. [To the women.} Keep loading the guns and pistols. [Alison loads the guns and pistols, handing them to the men. Abagail tries to assist but 149 MORE SHORT PLAYS gets in the way and runs about moaning and wringing her hands. She goes into the other room and comes out.'] Abagail. Little Alison sleeps through it all. William \^grimly~\. She would sleep through an Indian attack. Eunice [calling from above]. I hit one then, I know I did, I know it. [Abagail goes to the cradle, starts to take the baby out, puts it back, weeps, and becomes more helpless and distracted. The bullets crash against the house and the weird yells of the Indians are heard. Within the men shoot and Alison arms them. Eunice shouts from above and calls to them encouragingly. This continues for some time.] Geoffrey [fires and then quickly extracts his gun, looks through the loop-hole and speaks eX' citedly], I hit one then in the ankle. He fell like a deer. I saw him in the moonlight. [He takes another gun from Alison, thrusts it in the hole and fires again. A bullet hits the window where he stands, he utters an exclamation, re- treats a moment, then returns and fires again. Alison comes near him, touches him on the arm as if to make sure he is all right, then returns and loads another gun.] Indian [from without]. Surrender. William [shouting back]. Never. We have big garrison. Geoffrey. Run while you have the chance, you dogs. We'll be out on top of you in a jiffy. John [coming out of the other room and yell- 150 THE PIONEERS ing loudly^. The whole fort will be on your trail by morning. Eunice [frorn above, imitating a mans voice, and climbing down the ladder enough to show her smiling face]. We've got more soldiers here than at the fort, even. [She climbs back and fires again. There is an answering yell,] I got him in the leg. William [seizes a pistol, peers through the loop-hole, then thrusts in the pistol and fires. There is a prolonged yell and scuffling of feet on the outside.] I hit one that time, I think. [Peers through the hole.] I did. They are carrying him off and another one, too. Eunice did bring down her man, sure enough. [He puts in a gun and fires again as Geoffrey does, too. There are one or two more yells and bullets in answer and then silence.] Geoffrey. They are going away. William [after a pause]. They are gone. Geoffrey [after another anxious, listening silence]. At least several of them were wounded. William [rubbing his hand down the barrel of his gun]. Good work, old lady. Eunice [climbing down the ladder]. It's all over now and we must start for home. Abagail. Oh, you can't go tonight. Eunice. My children are there. William. They are all right. They are within the settlement. Eunice. Oh, they are safe enough, but they will be frightened. I must go to them. The Indians have gone back to their village and the 151 MORE SHORT PLAYS going In the opposite direction will be safe enough back in our settlement. Abagail. Oh, indeed they may be lurking be- hind trees. Eunice. Never fear. It wasn't a large band. I could almost count them in the moon- light and they've all gone to carry home their wounded. John. Eunice thinks right. We must go back to our little fellows. The red-skins won't be back and won't be near for they'd never think of any of us going out again tonight. They won't be back — they've had their night's work. But have a signal ready. In case of need, fire three times in rapid succession and I will come and bring all the men of the settlement over with me. Geoffrey \_to Alison~\. Let me stay with you to guard you. I can't bear to leave you. Alison. Your sister needs more than one man to protect her on the way home. You must go- Geoffrey. But I think I must stay. Alison. No, no, I will not let you. William. We will be safe enough now. But I will fire the gun for signal if necessary. [He unbolts the door and peers out cautiously.^ There is not a sign of them. They've had their dose. I think it is as safe for you to go as if you were walking the streets of Philadelphia. If I didn't I'd make you stay. Eunice. We would have to go even if it were not safe. William. But I know the customs and tricks 152 THE PIONEERS of these varmints pretty well. They'll not be back tonight. John. Some time later, maybe. [They get ready to go.^ Geoffrey [holding Alison's hand]. I can't bear to leave you. No telling what may happen before I may see you again. Alison. You must go now. Aren't you com- ing tomorrow? [She pushes him out after the others, William comes in from without where he has proceeded with the Mortons^ shuts the door and bolts it. The curtain falls. End of Act //.] ACT III [It is after breakfast the next morning in the same room. Abagail has put the baby into its crib. Sarah sits on a low stool sewing. Little Alison plays with her rag-doll on the floor. Alison hangs up some pans and so on after washing the dishes.] Alison. Where was brother Will going this morning? Abagail. To help clear away Cyrus Hallo- way's new field. Edward. It's wet to burn stumps. Abagail. They haven't got the trees cut down yet, let alone burning the stumps. Sarah. Father went away and left us all alone and maybe the Indians will come and get us. Edward. He knew they wouldn't come or he 153 MORE SHORT PLAYS wouldn't have gone away. Father knows all about the ways of savages. Alison. He thinks there is no possibility at all of their coming In the daytime and that they will not come even at night for a long time, if ever, because so many of them were wounded and they haven't a very strong force now and believe we will be prepared for them and they are afraid of the soldiers at the fort. Abagail [sits disconsolately'], I don't think they are afraid of anything. That attack last night was enough to make us all die of shock. I wonder any of us survived. Oh, I wish we had never left Jersey. For all they say this land is so rich rd rather be poor and safe and back in Jersey. And we weren't so poor there, either, but lived like kings and queens compared to this. Alison. In a few years, sister, this land will flow with milk and honey and bloom with peach trees and roses, and you will have forgotten you were ever afraid of an Indian. Edward. I'm not afraid of them now. Sarah. I am — almighty afraid. Abagail. Little maids don't say " almighty " — only rough men say that. Sarah. But I am that. Edward. What? A rough man? [Laugh- ing uproariously.] Sarah. No, but almighty afraid. Alison. I am going down to Mary Hopkins'. I promised to help her this morning with her quilting. Abagail. You're going to leave me all alone? Edward. You aren't alone, mother. 154 THE PIONEERS Alison. If Will hadn't said it is now per- fectly safe, I wouldn't leave you. But you know he truly thinks so. He has gone. Edward. The creek is melted and full of floating ice this morning. Sarah. You can't cross it. Abagail. 'Tis very cruel for you all to go away and leave me when I am so unnerved. Alison. But, Abagail, dear, I promised to go to Mary and you know Will said it is all safe now. [^She is tying on her hood and putting on her shawl.^ I shall not have to cross the creek, I can go down all the way on this side. \_To the children.^ I am going in the opposite direction from the Indian camp. We will all be back for dinner. You know it is St. Valentine's day. I think — perhaps — Geoffrey will be over this afternoon. \_SmiUng and blushing a little,^ Abagail. I don't see why you don't marry him and make him take you back to Philadelphia. Alison. Perhaps I don't want to go back to Philadelphia. \_Alison goes. Abagail sits down with her mending. '\ Abagail. Edward, will you bring in some wood. Don't go further than the wood-pile against the house. Edward. I reckon I will do that, mother. \^He goes out and brings in a log of wood.^ Aren't big log fires fine, mother? In one way it would be nicer to have winter last nearly all sum- mer so as to have the big fires. We have so much wood. Abagail. It is a good thing we have some- ^55 MORE SHORT PLAYS thing. Wood seems to be about the only thing we do have. Edward [after going out and bringing in some more wood^. Aunt Alison is quite out of sight. She runs like a deer. You know, mother, she can run as well as a boy can? [He goes out again but comes in a few moments later without any wood and much frightened.^ Oh, mother, there are Indians out there! The woods are full of them! [He shuts the door and bolts it behind him.'] Abagail. Oh, Edward! Edward. They are creeping up behind the house. They are hiding behind the trees. They are coming from tree to tree. Sarah. Oh, mother! [Running to her mother and crying.] Abagail. They'll scalp us all. They'll break in and murder us all. Edward. Let's try to run for the settlement. Maybe they won't see us with the house between us and them and we can escape. Come on. [Abagail catches up the baby in her arms and takes Sarah by the hand.] Abagail [to Edward]. Bring little Alison. [He catches the child by the handy pulls her up from the floor , she resists, but he drags her along and together they all hurry out, leav- ing the door open. As they go there is heard the whistle of a red-bird, followed by the whistle of a quail or bob-white. In a few moments little Alison comes running in again and sits down on the floor, picks up her rag- doll and begins to play with it. In a few 156 THE PIONEERS moments more an Indian appears at the door, looks cautiously in, and then enters. An- other comes and another till five have en- tered. They are in full war-paint with toma- hawks , guns, and knives. They utter their guttural expressions, then begin dancing about, giving their weird yells. Other In- dians on the outside keep up a din of strange cries. The ones on the inside run in and out, break furniture, throw things down, hunt for the bag of meal which they find and with laughs and cries of satisfaction they play with it. One of them catches sight of the little girl who has been sitting staring at them in fascinated terror, and seizes her.~\ Red Fox. Ugh! Papoose. Kill! Grey Cloud. Scalp little white squaw. White Feather [entering]. No, no, give me. [The others cry "Kill" and "Scalp" and dance about her. One of them, Red Fox, seizes her by the hair and they are about to scalp or kill her outright when White Feather interposes, knocks them away, catches the child, and takes her away in his arms.] White Feather. No, no. Me keep. My prize. Me keep papoose. She mine. [He lifts her to his shoulder. The others yell and dance about, run into the other room and out again, pulling things about and in the general melee White Feather escapes, running. Curtain to Act 157 MORE SHORT PLAYS ACT IV [It is early afternoon of the same day. The scene is in the Indian encampment in the deep woods where the eye travels as far as it can see among great oaks, elms, beeches, and syca- mores, A brook is heard singing among its grasses and pebbles. On one side is an Indian wigwam with others extending of behind it. Two Indians, The Beaver and Grey Cloud sit on the ground near the center, wrapped in blankets and smoking pipes. They sit in silence for a little bit when the young Indian, White Feather, comes running in followed by little Alison, He runs about, followed by her, catches her and lets her go, finally picks her up and dances about with her and then sits down on the ground with her in his lap. The others sit stolidly smoking their pipes without lifting their eyes.'] White Feather. White papoose! Little white squaw! White papoose like Indian? Little Alison. Yes, I like you, but I want to go home. \_Another Indian, Red Fox, comes in, looks at White Feather with the child, shrugs his shoulders, grunts, and sits down on the ground near the other two Indians.] White Feather. Like White Feather? Little Alison. I like you but I don't like them, and I want to go home. \^She is frightened and clings to White Feather 158 THE PIONEERS who continues to play with her, laughing and fondling her.^ White Feather. White papoose ! Little white squaw! Red Fox. White Feather once young buck, now squaw I [With the utmost scorn,'] Play with papoose. He no young buck now, no brave chief. Squaw. [The other two Indians grunt and laugh, White Feather looks very angry. An old Indian chief J The Eagle, comes out and slowly and with dignity seats himself on the ground with the others.] Red Fox [again and derisively]. White Feather no brave Indian, he white squaw. [The old chief grunts low, the other two grunt and laugh. White Feather breaks out into the Indian tongue which may he whatever sounds the actors wish to manufacture and the audience will he none the wiser — whether they are talking Choctaw, Chinese or Chile Sauce, though it is really the tongue of the Miamis whose home was the land of south-western Ohio. Red Fox, Grey Cloud, The Beaver, and White Feather talk excit- edly, the others evidently taunting White Feather till he gets up angrily and walks of with the child. The old chief sits stolidly smoking, the other three grunt, shrug their shoulders, and are amused. They talk to each other in the Indian language for a few moments when Alison appears. She is ter- ribly frightened but resolute, is very pale, and carries a white cloth tied to a wild cherry 159 MORE SHORT PLAYS limb. She stands a moment, while the In- dians silently watch her, and then she ad- vances a few steps.l Alison. I — I — am Alison Carmichael. I have come — in peace. Oh, I am not a spy. I have come in peace. \_She holds out her jlag.~\ I have not come to spy on you, to tell anything, but only for one purpose — only to beg — is this — is this the big chief? \_To the old Indian. He nods and grunts assent.~\ Oh, I beg you — I implore you — to tell me — where is the little child? [As she says "where" she impulsively takes a step towards him, her eyes beseeching him. But the Indians do not answer her questions, re- maining impassive, staring at the ground.^ Oh, won't you tell me something? Anything — about her? You know? Is she living? Is she — is she dead? [The Indians keep absolute silence, paying no more attention to her than if she were a red'bud tree or a stone in the brook.~\ Won't you tell me something? [Looking from one to the other of them.'\ Just one little thing? [A pleading pause. '\ Only that she is alive! Oh, please tell me that she is alive! [Another pause while Alison stands looking very troubled, pale, and lovely, entreating the Indians who do not an- swer nor even notice her. Then she takes an- other tack.'] I have come a long way through the forest alone. My people do not know that I have come. I am very tired and weary. I am very sad and anxious. I love the little white child. I would brave anything for her, to return her safely to her home. I do not fear you, chief. I do not think you will hurt me. Your people 1 60 THE PIONEERS were hungry, some of them were sick and suffer- ing. Some of my people treated you badly, you were disappointed and angry. The Eagle [at last breaking his silence^. Young white squaw no wise. She no see. White braves promise meal. Break promise. Alison. I know they did. Some of them lie and steal and break their words to each other as well as to you. But they had no meal to spare. They ought not to have promised it to you. Red Fox. White squaw fool. Squaws fools, no can counsel. Braves council. Young white squaw go home, cook, work, squaw's work. [He speaks hotly and derisively, while Grey Cloud and The Beaver grunt in laughter.^ Alison [looking quickly from them to the old chief], I have not come to argue, nor to fight. Braves do that, red braves and white braves. I am only a squaw, I have come only to beg for the little child. [White Feather appears, is startled and looks anxiously at Alison.] Alison [turning impulsively towards the young Indian]. Oh, White Feather, help me, help me! You understand. Make them understand that I have come not to spy on them, that I have nothing against them, that I only want the child. Tell me where she is? Is she — is she alive? White Feather [looking interrogatively at The Eagle]. Me tell? The Eagle [nodding assent]. Umph. White Feather. Little child safe. Alison [with great emotion, almost breaking down]. Oh, thank you. I knew I could trust i6i MORE SHORT PLAYS you — that you wouldn't let her be hurt. Where is she? Is she here? \_JVhite Feather is about to reply when Red Fox, leaping to his feet, suddenly and vehe- mently protests in the Indian tongue.^ Grey Cloud. Red Fox right. White Feather fool. Talk too much. Alison. Oh, he has not told me anything that matters, anything that can injure you if I were to tell it, and I shall not tell a thing. Don't you see ? White Feather is only kind to me. Red Fox. White Feather fool. Talk to squaw. The Beaver. Red Fox right. He wise brave. Hold tongue. White Feather talk too much — some fool. Red Fox. White men promise meal, no keep promise. White Feather say can make keep promise, can get meal. White Feather go, talk to white squaw, no get meal, no keep promise. Talk too much. No wise man, no brave — fool. Grey Cloud. Red Fox right. White Feather talk too much to white squaw. Alison. Oh, no, no, no, he isn't a fool. He hasn't told me anything that would hurt you. Red Fox \_who has been stalking about'\. White Feather fool. Umph. [He gives a sort of angry, nasal, guttural growl like that of an animal.'] White squaw fool, white squaw make trouble. Umph. White squaw go home, stay in wigwam, work, no council with braves. Umph. [With great aversion and contempt he advances menacingly towards Alison who starts back. The 162 THE PIONEERS Beaver and Grey Cloud grunt " Umph " with some rising anger. White Feather goes towards Alison.'] White Feather. White squaw no fool, no make trouble. Good. Red Fox. All squaws fool — white squaw much more fool. White man some fool, no keep word, lie, make trouble. All land [extending his arm in a sweeping gesture] all belong to our fathers. White men come, no buy, take. Come, say " brother " — no keep word. Make war, kill Indians. Take land away from Indians, cut trees. Indians have no home, no woods, no hunting-ground. White men take skins, no pay. Take furs — otter, heaven, bear — no pay. Promise — no give — promise — lie. [He has worked himself up into a passion and has also worked upon Grey Cloud and The Beaver till they are greatly excited.] White Feather. White squaw no make trouble. She no lie. Red Fox. White Feather fool, no brave. White Feather squaw. Go home with white squaw, work like squaw, cook. [He begins danc- ing about and pulls out his tomahawk.] White Feather [very angry]. Red Fox make trouble for whole tribe. White men have fort and many soldiers. White men stronger than Indians. Red Fox fool make trouble. Red Fox [tauntingly]. White Feather no get meal. [Appealing to the others and trying to incite them against White Feather.] White Feather no do anything. Only talk. 163 MORE SHORT PLAYS Grey Cloud. Red Fox right. Umph. The Beaver. White Feather no get meal. Umph. Red Fox. White Feather fool. White squaw make trouble. [He gives one of their peculiar yells and dances from the two Indians towards Alison. They jump to their feet, follow him, leaping and uttering queer guttural, unearthly yells. They dance about brandishing their toma- hawks. White Feather watches them closely, keeping between them and Alison who is terrified. The old Eagle is unperturbed. This continues, becoming more and more exciting, dramatic and menacing to Alison, when White Feather begins to talk in the Indian tongue excitedly, evidently expostulating with the others and endeavoring to persuade the old Indian to interfere. Red Fox, The Beaver, and Grey Cloud reply with derisive yells, threats, and closer drawing towards Alison, while The Eagle sits as unmoved as a rock. Sud- denly Red Fox leaps forward, reaching to strike Alison, White Feather instantly lunges like a cat towards him, and The Beaver seizes his chance to make at Alison, White Feather leaps back at him and as he eludes White Feather, jumping away, the latter follows him and Red Fox returns, darts at Alison, clutches her in his arms, she screaming, and is about to throttle her, when the old Indian rises to his feet exclaiming in a loud deep tone in the Indian tongue. Red Fox, how- ever, does not relax his hold on Alison and White Feather leaps back from the other Indian to him, grapples and chokes him, he still holding Alison, when, amid the yelling and scuffle, The Eagle 164 THE PIONEERS speaks again, louder and more commandingly. Red Fox lets go his victim^ White Feather loosens Red Fox, the others stop and they all stand sud- denly silent and motionless, Alison breathing heavily and trying to recover herself. The Eagle speaks to them in the Miami tongue and then turns to Alison.^ The Eagle. Young white squaw go home ! [Majestically raising his right arm and pointing in the direction from which she has come.~\ Young white squaw no come back. Young white squaw go home. [He speaks very slowly as though unaccustomed to English and measuring his words. Red Fox, Grey Cloud, and The Beaver look angry and sullen. Alison turns to go.] White Feather. Me go with white squaw to end of woods. [He watches the three Indians scornfully, then, as if in challenge and with a final contemptuous look at them, he throws hack his head and turns away from them and towards Ali- son. She goes, he following her closely. The old Eagle sits down again, his back towards the retreating figures of Alison and White Feather. The other three Indians stand watching them with ugly anger and hatred in their faces.~\ Red Fox. White child! Where find white child? White child alive? [He laughs, jeers, yells after Alison and White Feather as they dis- appear.'] Scalp little white papoose now! Grey Cloud. White Feather come back soon. [Red Fox laughs, yells, leaps in the air, and runs screaming in the direction Alison and White Feather have taken. The other two 165 MORE SHORT PLAYS sneak of in the opposite direction, muttering^ as if bent on mischief. Curtain to act IV. ~\ ACT V [// is late afternoon of the same day, the fourteenth of February, twenty-four hours after the beginning of the play. Abagail is sitting disconsolately in the center of the room, doing nothing, looking woe-begone. The baby lies in its crib, Eunice sits near the spinning wheel by the window and every now and then looks out as if watching for some one to come. Abagail weeps, covers her eyes with a handkerchief. The children, Edward and Sarah, sit watching their mother and whenever she weeps, Sarah cries, too,~\ Abagail. Oh, dear! \_She moans and sobs into her handkerchief.^ Eunice. Abagail, dear, don't cry so. Abagail. Oh, it's very well for you to say, '* don't cry," but it's not your child that's stolen by the Indians. Eunice. There, there, Abagail, I didn't mean to hurt you. But it's too hard on the rest of us when you cry so. You see you have other chil- dren. Come here, my little bird. [To Sarah, who goes to her.^ Do not be so disconsolate. The little sister is not lost forever. She must be safe and will come back to us — oh, she will be here sooner than the flowers and the birds ! Have you seen a bluebird yet, Sarah? Sarah [wiping her eyes']. No. i66 THE PIONEERS Edward. Robins come before bluebirds. Eunice. No, I think bluebirds are supposed to come the very first of all. Edward. But robins do come first, for they have come. Aunt Alison and I saw them yester- day and again today and heard them, too. Eunice. Then spring is not far away, for he is the sure harbinger of April hopes. And after him come all the flowers. Sarah [looking up with interest and a smile^, Violets? Eunice. And what else, Edward? Edward. Spring beauties. Eunice [to Sarah']. And then? Sarah. Squirrel-corn. Eunice [to Edward']. And then? Edward. Adder's-tongue. [Eunice looks from one to the other and they answer as if antiphonally .] Sarah. Dutchman's-breeches. Edward. Blood-root. Sarah. Jack-in-the-pulpit. Edward. Wild-carrot. Sarah. Dandelions. Edward. Dog-tooth violets. Sarah. Anem — anem — Eunice. Anemones. Yes, all springing up In gay little groups out of the dead leaves in differ- ent parts of the woods like actors in a grand old- fashioned carnival — the carnival of the coming of summer. Abagail. I don't see how you can talk and be so flippant and heartless at such a time. Eunice. Abagail, dear, don't think I'm heart- 167 MORE SHORT PLAYS less, but it is wiser to keep people cheerful — especially little people. \_She looks out of the window, smiles, and says gayly.'] Ah, there come my little rascals. [^She goes to the door and opens it to her hoy and girl, Arthur and Lucy.^ But I thought I told you to stay at home and mind the house and see that the fire didn't go out. Lucy. We washed the dishes and tidied up everything and carried in wood and made porridge for supper and then we came over — Arthur. To fetch home our little mother. Eunice. You little beggars! But I can't go just yet. Take Edward and Sarah out to play, but don't go far from the house. Stay close where I can see you and call you when I want you. Lucy. All right, mother. Arthur. Dear little mother ! Eunice \_to the children]. Now, run along, lambkins, and have a good time. [The children all go out, she follows them to the door, and throws kisses after them, then turns and watches Ahagail, who is silently weeping and mopping her eyes and nose. Eunice goes to her, puts her arms round her, stroking her hair tenderly, and talking to her in a low and tender voice.] I know it is very hard for thee, poor thing. Do not think I do not sympathize. I love thy little child, and Alison Carmichael is as dear to my heart as a sis- ter could be. Abagail. But you let her go to those Indians. Eunice. She would go. I had no choice. [There is a knock at the door and Eunice, an- swering it, admits two ladies of the settle- ment, Mrs. King and Mrs. Worthington.~\ i68 THE PIONEERS Mrs. King. We came to express our sympa- thy and to learn if there is any good news. Abagail [weeping]. No, no, no! No good news nor ever will be again. Mrs. Worthington. Don't give up hope, neighbor. They stole the child because they liked her, to adopt her, depend upon it. And in that case they will take good care of her and we will get her back, never fear. Abagail. But Alison's gone, too. Mrs. Worthington. Alison? Abagail [to Eunice, weeping^. Tell her. Eunice. Alison was in an agony about the child and reproached herself that if she hadn't been away from home this morning the dreadful thing some way or another would not have chanced. And she hoped that a woman could do more with the Indians than guns — Abagail [breaking iw]. What could she do with those savage butchers? Mrs. Worthington. Alison didn't go to them? Eunice. Yes. Mrs. Worthington. Oh, mercy ! oh, mercy ! Mrs. King. Heaven preserve us ! Eunice. She has confidence in that young In- dian, White Feather. She didn't tell her plan to any one but me and at first I tried to dissuade her, but somehow she overpersuaded me. I have such confidence in her. Anyhow I couldn't dissuade her from her intention — I could only have told and then she would have escaped and run off some- how, for she was determined and she has a will of her own. So I kept still about it till afterwards 169 MORE SHORT PLAYS as she asked me to do. She set out early this aft- ernoon and she has had time to get back by now — more than time — to get back. Mrs. King. I put no trust in red-skins. Mrs. Worthington. Nor I. Abagail. She will never be back ! Oh, dear ! Oh, dear! Eunice. The garrison is taking the matter up. The general is on his way here now to ask Abagail definitely about everything. The rumor is that a scouting party is forming. Mrs. King [looking out of the window~\. The General is coming. \_Abagail is much flurried, Eunice goes to the door and opens it to the General, a red-faced, stout, pompous old fellow in full Revolution- ary regimentals. Following him are Wil- Ham, John, and Geoffrey, all looking very nervous and anxious.^ General. Ah, good afternoon, ladies! [Bowing low to Abagail.^ Good afternoon, Mrs. Carmichael, and ladies ! \_The people dispose themselves about the room, the General seated in the center, Abagail near the baby's crib, the men at the back on one side, the women rather on the other. The children have crept in after the General, and, fascinated, are watching him.'] General. We are planning to send out a scouting party at once to be headed by our ablest soldier, Captain Hunter, who is much liked by the Indians and has treated with them a great deal. And I am come to ask you for the details of your attack and see if we can find out what Indians com- 170 THE PIONEERS mitted the deed. Was White Feather among them? Abagail. Yes, oh, yes, he was one of the prime movers. Eunice. Oh, Abagail, you told me that you never looked back, but ran as hard as you could — then how could you tell that White Feather was among them? Abagail. Well, he must have been. General. Now, Mrs. Carmichael, try to be exact. It will help very much. Try to tell me just what happened. Abagail. Well, White Feather came about this time yesterday afternoon to steal a bag of meal. Eunice. Oh, Abagail! Abagail. I am perfectly sure he came to steal It, but we were all at home, so he decided to beg instead. Eunice. Alison said he didn't beg — he wanted to pay for It with valuable skins. William. Of course I couldn't let him have the meal. General. Was he angry? Abagail. Oh, he pretended to be good-na- tured but he went away and brought back a horde of them to attack the house at night. Eunice. There wasn't a horde. There could have been only a few of them for they gave up the attack so easily. Abagail. Well, they did come, and It seemed like a horde. General. Yes, yes, I know all that. [Impa- tiently. He is an irascible old person and drums 171 MORE SHORT PLAYS with his finders.'] But what about the child's cap- ture? Abagail. This morning when my husband said we were perfectly safe — and I don't think any one is perfectly safe with Indians within a thousand miles of you — you're never perfectly safe, General, you know you never are ! General [very impatient and puffy and hored~\. Oh, yes, yes, yes ! Go on, go on ! Abagail. Well, this morning when I was left all alone here with the children Edward went out to bring in wood and saw Indians — Edward. They were dodging and hiding and slipping from tree to tree. General \_with great severity, pouncing on Ed- ward'], Children should be seen and not heard! Allow your mother to tell her story. Abagail. I felt that I could not defend the house against them. General. I should think likely not. Abagail. So I caught the baby in my arms, seized little Sarah by the hand, commanded Ed- ward to bring little Alison, and we started to run. We had gone some distance when I found the child had escaped from Edward and gone back, as I suppose, to get her doll. We would all have been slaughtered if we had gone back, so, trusting that the child's tender age might save her in the hearts of the savages, we ran on, plunging into the Icy waters of the creek full of floating ice, and finally arrived more dead than alive at the Mortons* house. General. You weren't close to any of them, then? Didn't look one in the face? 172 THE PIONEERS Abagail. Look a savage In the face ? Mercy sakes, I'd die right there looking one in the face ! General. And you didn't turn and look back as you ran? Abagail. Gracious me, no. It's all I can do to run at all. General. When the men came over from the settlement, they found the house topsy-turvy and the child gone and the meal? And you didn't see an Indian closely? Very well, madam, that is all. I will send out a company. l^There is a slight noise at the door, it is opened and Alison comes in extremely pale and tired- looking, her hair rumpled from the tussle with Red Fox. They all exclaim and are much excited.~\ Eunice \_running to Alison^. Oh, my dear, my dear, thank God! [Geoffrey, pale and excited, rushes to Alison but gives place to the General who rises and advances to her. With enormous ceremony he bows to her, takes her by the hand and leads her to his own chair. Alison drops into it with a sigh of extreme weariness.^ General. Now, my dear young lady, will you tell us exactly what you discovered at the Indian camp and all about your expedition? Shed all the light you can on the mystery. \_They all range themselves about her in an in- terested group. Geoffrey edges as close to her as possible."] Alison. Oh, I am so tired! [Closing her eyes.} There Isn't anything to tell except that little Alison is alive and safe. 173 MORE SHORT PLAYS Abagail. Oh I [They all exclaim and WiU Ham puts his arm round his wife.~\ General. But — but! What about the ex- pedition? What did you discover? Tell us all about that. Alison. There isn't anything to tell. I went to the Indian encampment — a walk through the woods. [She opens her eyes and her face lightens into a rather teasing smile.'] You all know what a walk through the woods about here is like. It isn't exactly like a walk along the streets of the town of Philadelphia. The virgin forests are quite different. In the woods there are tangles, briars, underbrush, and at this time of year no birds to make it merry. I found it altogether wearisome. [She closes her lips and eyes as if that were all she had to say,] General. Yes, yes, my dear young lady. We all know the troubles that would beset your steps in the wilderness. You need not go into de- tails concerning that. But what about the Indians? Alison. Oh, the Indians? I found their camp at last. General. Yes, yes. Alison. I met a number of the Indians. Some of them were polite and [with a twisted funny smile of recollection] some of them were dis- tinctly rude. General. Yes, yes. Well? Alison. That's all. General. What? What? Have you noth- ing more to say? Alison. Truly there isn't any more to tell worth the telling. 174 THE PIONEERS General. Very well, I will organize the com- pany at once and send it out immediately. Alison [eyin^ him and thinking^. Oh, yes, and they told me that the child is safe. General. That is really nothing. The com- pany will start at once. Alison \_hurriedly^. Then they advised me to go home and one of them escorted me to the clear- ing. General [rising]. Ladies, good afternoon! I will go at once and give the orders. Alison. Indeed it would be best not to anger the Indians any further. General. I think it necessary to take steps. It unfortunately may mean a bloody war but — Alison [rising and going to him]. Oh, will you please not start your soldiers right away? General. I believe it best to deal with the savages sternly and precipitately. Alison. Oh, will you please, sir, give me your word not to do anything before tomorrow morn- ing? General [hesitating]. Well, upon my soul! Why? Alison [pleading earnestly]. I can't tell you exactly yet, but you will promise. General, won't you, please? [Very coaxingly and fetchingly.] General [giving in to her]. Well, well, well, though I declare I can't for the life of me see what you are up to, I will wait till tomorrow. And now I must be going. Ladies, good afternoon! [With great gallantry.] John. I will go with you. General. Are you going now? [To his wife.] 175 MORE SHORT PLAYS Mrs. Worthington. We may as well all be going. Eunice [to Geoffrey^. Are you coming? Geoffrey. In a moment. \_They all say good-hy and follow the General out, John, Eunice, Mrs. King, Mrs, Worth- ington, the two children, and Geoffrey goes with them, then comes hack and hangs about the door. Ahagail goes into the other room. Alison, who has risen at their departure, drops to the settle.^ William \_to Alison^. Are you quite sure the child is safe? Alison. Quite. WiLLiAMo What are you planning? This waiting is terrible. Alison [smiling sadly"]. Yes, brother, terrible. Can't you do something to divert her? [With a gesture in the direction of Ahagail in the other room. William. I will try. Abagail! [Calling.] Could you come and help me with the new calf? Sarah. I want to see the little new calf. William. All right. Come along. [William, Ahagail, Edward, Sarah go out. Geoffrey stands and looks at Alison with won- der, almost with reverence in his eyes.] Geoffrey. Alison ! Alison. Yes, Geoffrey. Geoffrey. Are you truly safe and unhurt? Alison. Yes, truly safe and unhurt. Geoffrey. You don't know what you put me through. 176 THE PIONEERS Alison. Not half what I put myself through. Scratchings and chokings and clawings by briars and brambles and Indians. \_She rubs her neck and arms.^ Geoffrey. Did they dare touch you? Did they dare? Alison. Oh, did they not? Now, Geoffrey, keep your curiosity to yourself. Some day I'll maybe tell you all about it — when we are a hun- dred. Not now. Not till this episode is safely over, as I hope it will be soon. It isn't yet. Geoffrey. Alison, marry me and we'll go back to Philadelphia to live. \_He seizes her hand.^ Alison. Oh, Geoffrey, dear, if you only had a little more of the hero in you — a little more of the Indian brave. Geoffrey. Alison, I am In earnest. Alison. Geoffrey, so am I. Geoffrey. Will you do what I propose, then? Alison. I may promise to marry you, but I'll never go back to Philadelphia. With all its hard- ships I like this free life of the West. Geoffrey. But promise me you'll never again undertake an expedition alone to an Indian camp. Alison. Oh, yes, I can promise that. You see I wasn't exactly welcome. [5wi/iw^.] Now, will you go, please? I am so tired. Geoffrey. Poor little girl. But may I come over tonight? You know it is St. Valentine's? Alison. I suppose you may come whenever you like now. [Smiling a little wanly. 1 But I am so very tired — I must rest a little. [He 177 MORE SHORT PLAYS kisses her and goes. She follows him, throws him a kiss as he departs, then comes in, leaving the door open, looks about at the empty and rather disheveled room and throws herself down wearily into the low chair in front of the fire. She sighs aloud and sits there a few moments when White Feather appears in the doorway with little Alison in his arms.^ Little Alison. Oh! [Holding out her arms.l Alison [starting up with a cry of joy]. Oh, my precious baby! [The child runs to her and she catches and hugs and kisses it. Then she speaks to White Feather.^ I knew you would bring her back. I was waiting for you. White Feather. Today — morning — me take baby to save her. Indians scalp her — me save her for you. Me do anything for young white squaw. Alison. Yes, I know. You are good. Little Alison. Mother? Alison. Mother and father are out at the stable, looking at the little new calf. Run out to them and give them the nicest surprise they ever had in their whole lives. [Little Alison runs out. Alison turns to White Feather. 1 Won^t you come in now and have supper with us? White Feather. No, me go back. Alison. But they will want to thank you. White Feather. You thank. Nough. Alison. Oh, I do thank you — you will never know how much. I had faith in you. You are good and very brave. You have much influence 178 THE PIONEERS with the old chief. You will be a big chief in the council some day. White Feather. Me no like Chief Car- michael. No keep word. Alison. He'd give you all the meal he has now. White Feather. Indians angry. Red Fox make trouble. Me no could help attack. Me do anything to save — you. Alison. The great chief at the fort was go- ing to send out his soldiers to attack your people for the child. I persuaded him to wait till to- morrow, hoping you could bring her back before then. White Feather. Young white squaw very good, very wise. Mc go. Alison. There must be no more trouble be- tween your people and my people. White Feather. No more war — peace. Alison. Oh, yes, peace. White Feather. My people no stay here much longer. Go west. Go far. Me go far away. No see young white squaw no more. Alison \_with feeling']. Oh, are you going away? White Feather. My people go soon — very soon. No hunting-grounds here no more. Our land all gone from us. My people must go away. Me go with my people. Me go far away. Alison. Oh, won't I ever see you again? White Feather [with great dignity and sad- ness]. No. Never no more. Me go far away. Alison [impulsively and with much emotion]. 179 MORE SHORT PLAYS Will you let me give you something to thank you for your kindness — something to remember me by? [She looks about for a second, then quickly takes off the red beads, Geoffrey's present, which White Feather's eyes have been admiring, and gives them to him. He takes them and as she of' fers him her hand, he takes it slowly, holds it long and tenderly, with a lingering look at her.^ White Feather. Me go far away to the west — me never forget — good-by. Alison [with much feeling and tears in her eyes~\. Good-by. [He goes out and as she stands looking after him, the curtain falls. End of Act V and of the play.'] i8o IN MENDELESIA *' In Mendelesia " Parts I and II form an ex- periment in treating the same theme differently. Part I is a study in mysticism and symbolism, while Part II is purely a little play of modern realism. The two are intended to be presented to- gether. Part I characters : The Queen. Princess Modrehard. Princess Agravaine. Princess Illacette. A Scullion. [It is early ^norning before daybreak in early spring. The light is dim and grey so that things are only half seen. Dark objects are blacky the others colorless. And the air is cold. It is a room in a moldering old castle. Draper- ies in dull faded shades of purple and green and blue hang from the walls, and one large piece of moth-eaten tapestry and some rusty armor. To the right a heavy door opens into a passage leading to the great hall. To the left are doors, one leading to the sleeping apartments and the other to the kitchens. A window at the back looks down into the court below. In the center of the room a carved black table stands prepared i8i MORE SHORT PLAYS for the morning meal with silver and pewter plates and cups. Four heavy carved chairs are placed by it, two behind, one at either end. A footstool stands at one corner of the table near one of the chairs. Three unlighted candles in blackened old silver candlesticks are on the table. A very tall brass candlestick with a thick candle in it stands on the floor near the window. It, too, is unlighted. In the chill room it is bleak and still. Even later when there is more light the sinister silence and dark decay prevail. A lean old woman with a crown on her head enters from the door leading to the sleeping apart- ments. Though not feeble she walks with a heavy stick. She is tall and her hair is white and her eyes black. Her gown of embroidered purple velvet is old and worn and torn and her crown is tarnished. She goes to the window and looks out.^ The Queen [speaking aways monotonously^. It is not yet day. Every morning we arise before daybreak. We arise before it is yet light, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. It is our custom. [She goes about the room tapping with her stick and feeling here and there. ^ It is dark within, it is not yet day without. They should have lighted the can- dles. [She repeats the thought slowly, complain- ingly.l They should have made a light. [She goes to the table and peers at ?V.] They have not yet placed the food upon the table. They should have had the meal ready. They are slack and lazy. [A servant enters. He is young and stU' 182 IN MENDELESIA pid'looking, sloppy, unkempt, down at the heel in his attire, tall and lank and awkward. He bows low to her. She speaks to him scoldingly hut with- out emphasis.^ Thou lazy scullion! There is no food upon the table and the candles are not yet lighted. Must we tell thee again and again and thrice over what thou shouldst do? Thy father was a good servant, obedient and humble. Why art not thou what thy father was? \_She waves her stick at him as if about to strike him but does not do so. He cringes and cowers.^ Go. Go. At once. Bring us our breakfast. But stay. Where is the seneschal? Why is he not here to repeat to us what news he has gathered for our morning's entertainment? Thou and the others perchance have detained him in the kitchens to listen to his idle gossip. Where is he? Scullion [drawling and speaking through his nose^. Your majesty, he is with the Princess Modrehard in the hall, relating to her the latest news. The Queen. Ah I Ah ! She has forestalled us. She forestalls us or baits us time and again. She forestalls us again and again and again. Go. [The Scullion bows low and departs. The old Queen goes tapping about again.~\ Our daughter knows our customs, yet she would confound us. We had always reverence for the customs of our father, the King. [She sighs and goes to the win- dow again and looks out.'] It is not yet day. The light is grey and uncertain. [The Princess Modrehard enters from the paS' sage to the great hall. She is thin and dark, hearing some resemblance to her mother, the 183 MORE SHORT PLAYS queeUy hut is smaller and has no distinction. She wears an ugly dark gown designed more for utility than beauty, and her thin hair is brushed back till it is quite smooth and tight on her skulLI Princess Modrehard. It Is not yet day, mother. The Queen. It is never yet day when we as- semble for our morning food. That is our custom as it was the custom of our father, the King, thy grandfather, and of his father, the King, our grandfather, thy great-grandfather. The candles should have been lighted. Princess Modrehard. I will light them. Bring me a taper. [She speaks to the Scullion who has entered with a flatter of meat which he places upon the table. He bows to the Princess and goes out.^ The Queen. The dawn is grey. The day may be stormy. Princess Modrehard. Whether the day be stormy or fair, it is well to be prepared. [The Scullion returns with a taper, which she takes from him and goes about lighting the three candles on the table and the one tall thick one by the window, while the Queen and the Scullion watch her as she moves deliber- ately, methodically. '\ The Queen. It is better. Princess Modrehard. Now we have light. The Queen. It is lighter. [She surveys the candles and then goes to the window again and looks out.'} It Is lighter within but not yet light without. That Is as It should be for the morning 184 IN MENDELESIA meal. [She returns and looks about and at the table.] It is all as it was in the time of our father, the King, when we were the princess. But no, no, no, [she moans] it is not as it was then. Princess Modrehard. Mother, it can not be as it was then. The Queen. Why, why? Thy sister, Agra- vaine, hears strange sounds, she looks in her glass and sees visions and smiles, she dreams in her sleep of what is to come. She makes us tremble. We would we were a little maid in the time of our father, the King. We were rich. We were happy. Our habits should not change. Life should not change. And now we are poor and Agravaine sees strange things. Princess Modrehard. Hist! Thou shouldst not speak so before the servants. [As the Scul- lion enters again hearing a loaf of bread and a tankard.] We have much land — much. [After a pause, when the scullion goes out.] If we part with some of it for a goodly ransom we can the better tend what is left. The Queen [seating herself with dignity at the hack of the table where the two chairs are]. We will part with none of our estates. No, not with one woodland, not with one wheatfield, not with one corner of a meadow big enough only for a lark's nest. Our broad fields and rich forests were the hunting-grounds of our noble father, the King. We will part with none of it. Princess Modrehard [petulantly]. He hunted always and gave banquets. The Queen [nodding] . For that is the life of a king. 185 MORE SHORT PLAYS Princess Modrehard. Oh, it is the cause of our circumstances now. The Queen. The life of a king is to hunt, hold feasts at arms, give banquets, wage wars. It is seemly. Princess Modrehard. Thy father did not wage wars. He only hunted and banqueted. [She takes her seat at the end of the table towards the sleeping apartments. ~\ The Queen. He was noble, he lived as a king may'live, and we, the little princess, were his pride, his delight. We were very beautiful with shining black eyes and shining golden hair and he would laugh and sing to us and call us his little princeling. Having no sons, we were his sole delight. In the dewy morning in the springtime when the fields were gay with daisies and the hawthorns blithe with birdsong, he would ride forth with us in front of him on the saddle. And in the evening when he drank his ale he still kept us with him. Even at his banquets when neighboring kings were his visitors at the table, he would set us upon his knee to hear the tales and the songs his harper sang. Those days are gone. We have no harper now. Princess Modrehard. Because there was nothing but banqueting then. Thy father let gold slip through his fingers. The Queen. He was noble as was the Prince, thy father, who came to woo us. \_The second princess , Agravaine^ enters from the passage leading to the bed-chambers. She is tall and slender and fairer, with a pale skin and tender lips. She is graceful, wear- ing a beautiful gown of silk in soft tints of l86 IN MENDELESIA lavender and green, and she leads her little hound by a silver chain. Gliding behind the Queen and past her, she takes the chair at the other side of the table opposite the Princess Modrehard, pulling the chair away from the table and placing her feet on the footstool. She leans back languidly and pays little heed to the others. Just as she enters Modre- hard is saying.^ Princess Modrehard. The Prince, my father, was killed in a drunken brawl. The Queen. Hush! Hush! Princess Modrehard. But had he lived, he would have spent all our gold and parted with all our estates. It is perhaps well he died young — at least we have the land left. The Queen. Hush! Hush! Princess Agravaine. The Prince, my father, was gay and fair and handsome. His eyes laughed. If he had lived perchance these walls would be fraught with light. Princess Modrehard [sneeringly]. Thou knowest his death was upon his own head. Princess Agravaine. Better a short life where pleasure is than length of days and bitter- ness therewith. Princess Modrehard \_s till petulantly^. Oh, thou knowest he was drunken most of the time and thou knowest, mother, that he had many loves. The Queen. Hush! Hush! Peace be with his soul ! \_She crosses herself. ~\ Princess Modrehard. He was always either drunken or making love to some wench, or both at the same time. He had a sweetheart under 187 MORE SHORT PLAYS every bush. Heaven knows how many of his children — brothers and sisters to us — are serv- ants in neighboring kingdoms. The Queen. Oh, say not so. Peace be to his soul! Princess Agravaine. His soul is happy. [She looks straight ahead of her as if seeing a vision, and stares with open, smiling lips. The Queen looks at her uneasily.^ Princess Modrehard [to her sister^. The Queen refuses again to part with any of our lands. Princess Agravaine. Mother, thou shouldst be more world-wise — but then thou wouldst not be a queen. [Smiling.^ The Queen. Oh, if your brother, the Prince, had lived, you would not dare to ask us to part with our estates. Princess Agravaine. I am not asking thee. The Queen. If your little brother, the Prince, had lived, all would be well. Princess Modrehard. Our brother, the Prince, was little more than half-witted. It is well he did not live. The Queen. Oh, Modrehard, shame upon thee ! Thou dost cast insult upon thy grandfather and upon thy father and upon thy brother. Princess Modrehard. I insult no one. They are dead. They are not here. Princess Agravaine. Art thou so sure? Princess Modrehard. Why talk of the dead? The scorching suns of summers past and the blighting frosts of winters are over and gone. Let us talk of the living. i88 IN MENDELESIA Princess Agravaine. Why talk of the liv- ing? Why talk at all? Why not sing? Will not the scorching suns of summers come again just as before and the freezing winters? Princess Modrehard. It is well to be pre- pared. Princess Agravaine. How mayst thou pre- pare against death? Thou mayst prepare thy soul, mayhap, but not thy body. Death comes whether thou hast thy shoes on or off. Princess Modrehard. It is not death I think of. Princess Agravaine \_laughing^. No, thou thinkest of lands. But is not everything death? The scorching and the freezing thou talkest of — are they not death? Prepare all thou canst, rains fall and destroy thy grain, insects devour it, rust comes, thunderbolts strike down thy trees, winds blow down thy trees and houses, flooded rivers drown thy cattle, scorching suns blight and bitter freezings kill, and it is all death. Princess Modrehard. Thou talkest as a silly old decrepit fool might, Agravaine. I wish to consider our little sister, Illacette and talk of her. Princess Agravaine. Why not talk of our little brother, Leomontaigne? Princess Modrehard. How foolish thou art, Agravaine. He is dead and gone. Princess Agravaine. Is he dead? But he went with his companion just as she will go with hers. Princess Modrehard. She? Who? Princess Agravaine. Our sister, Illacette. 189 MORE SHORT PLAYS Princess Modrehard. She will go with him if we do not prevent it. But we must prevent it. Princess Agravaine. Thou canst not pre- vent it. \_Laughing.'\ How foolish thou art, Modrehard. Thou canst not separate us from our own familiars. \^She gazes straight out again as if she saw a vision,^ Leomontaigne has quite gone away with his. The Queen. The little Prince, our son, had no companion but ourselves. We never saw any one with him, he went away with no one. Princess Agravaine. Did he not? Didst thou never see any one with him? The Queen. No, no. Princess Agravaine. Yet Leomontaigne went with his familiar as we all will do. He was dressed strangely in garments of sinister stripes in different shades of blood. Princess Modrehard. Agravaine, thou art jesting? Princess Agravaine. I never jest with thee, sister. Thy wise thunderbolts would curdle the cream of a jest. It is quite true that Leomon- taigne played with him in the shadows. Princess Modrehard. If I had known It I should have had the fellow beaten soundly and chased away or else slain outright. Princess Agravaine. Oh, thou canst not have such a creature slain. The Queen. If we had known of it, we should have prayed against him at the time of the new moon and burned him in candles three nights running. Princess Agravaine. Prayers would have no 190 IN MENDELESIA power over the companion of the little Leomon- taigne. The Queen. Cat's claws, feathers of the tawny owl, fangs of three snakes all dipped in the dew of moleswort on the Hallowe'en are a potent charm. We would have put them into the pillow of our little Prince to guard him from all evil spirits and wicked men. Princess Agravaine. It was not at the time of Hallowe'en, but in the dewy fragrant spring when all things of evil portent come. Nor is there a charm potent enough to have protected the little Leomontaigne from his own familiar. Princess Modrehard. There is no such man. I did not see him ever nor hear him. [She rises and begins to carve the meat. The Scullion en- ters with a pitcher of milk which he places on the table. He goes out again. The Queen pours out milk into a goblet and sets it on the end of the table nearest to the Princess Agravaine.'] Princess Agravaine. Thou dost not see be- cause thine eyes are too full of their own plans. Thou dost not hear because thine ears are too full of the voice of thine own wishes. Princess Modrehard. Pooh, pooh! Silly girl. Princess Agravaine. The night Leomon- taigne died I heard a tapping at the door. [^She pauses as if listening.] Didst thou not hear it? [To the Queen.] The Queen [intensely and forgetting her majesty]. Oh, we do not know, we do not know! Princess Agravaine. I heard it and then I saw the familiar enter — 191 MORE SHORT PLAYS Princess Modrehard [in the most practical tone of voice^, I heard no one and saw no one. Therefore there was no one. There was no one. The door was shut. Princess Agravaine. I saw him enter and play with the boy as I have so often seen him play with him. Princess Modrehard. There was no one. Princess Agravaine. Art thou so sure? Didst thou never see him playing with Leomon- taigne in the sunlight and shadows among the beech trees and running after him down the garden paths? The Queen [tremhlin^l. Oh, do not talk of these things. Drink thy milk. Princess Agravaine. I do not want my milk. I can not drink it. My familiar will not let me drink it. [Laughing.'] The Queen [starting]. Oh, what dost thou mean? Princess Agravaine [laughing]. My famil- iar will not let me drink the milk. He is holding me back. His arms are about me. The Queen [trembling]. We see nothing. [Catching the arm of Modrehard.] Oh, Modre- hard, we see no one. Do we see any one? Dost thou see any one? Princess Modrehard. Surely not. Not I. There Is no one. The Queen [with a resumption of her dig- nity]. We, the Queen, see no one. Princess Agravaine [indiferently]. It is not light enough for thee. Nevertheless he is here holding me. He holds me tight in his arms as the 192 IN MENDELESIA little Leomontaigne's familiar held him, as Illa- cette's will hold her. He does not let me drink the milk, he will finally not let me eat and drink at all. But what difference is there? We pass into the beyond in one way or in another and the beyond is here with us before and after. If it had been the seneschal who strangled the little Leo- montaigne in his bed, it would have been the same. Princess Modrehard. The seneschal would never do that. He is an honest man, worthy to be trusted. Princess Agravaine. Surely not. Thou art so imaginative and amusing, my sister, Modre- hard. Princess Modrehard [seating herself again]. Let us talk of lUacette. Princess Agravaine. Thou wilt talk only of what thou dost wish to talk. Yet, sweet sister, we have talked of Leomontaigne of whom thou didst not wish to talk. \_She smiles and plays with her little hound.] Princess Modrehard. It will be well to have thy little hound killed. For if it should become sick again, thou wouldst send for the stable-boy to come back to cure it. Princess Agravaine. I will not have my lit- tle hound killed. It was given to me by my first lover many years ago. As one grows older one has fewer lovers and the gifts of the early lovers are pleasant to keep about to remind one of the time when one was fair and had firm breasts and a smooth skin. Princess Modrehard. Then I will have the dog killed so that thou wilt not be again tempted 193 MORE SHORT PLAYS to send for the stable-boy. [She breaks the loaf of bread into pieces. ~\ Princess Agravaine. I will not suffer thee to touch my dog. My dog sees with me the things I see. His eyes are keener than the stupid eyes of men. But I will never again send for the stable-boy. Princess Modrehard [scornfully]. Oh, thou say est so! Princess Agravaine. Though he was an ex- cellent stable-boy. The Queen. He was an excellent stable-boy, a capable trainer of horses and dogs, the most obedient and humble servant we have ever had. Princess Modrehard. It was not humble in him to wish to wed our sister, the Princess Illa- cette. Princess Agravaine. She, too, wished to wed him. The Queen. She was too young to know that a princess may not wed a stable-boy. Princess Modrehard. A princess is never too young to know that she may not wed a stable- boy. It was something else. Princess Agravaine. It was her familiar, her companion, who wished her to wed him, who persuaded her to. Her familiar lay with Illa- cette in the night and whispered dreams to her. [The Queen and Modrehard stare at Agra- vaine.'] Princess Modrehard. Illacette has been in a convent, carefully watched and guarded. The Queen. Most carefully watched and guarded always in the convent. 194 IN MENDELESIA Princess Modrehard. And here In the castle before thou broughtest the stable-boy there was no one she spoke to. She always slept alone. Princess Agravaine [smiling]. Neverthe- less, her familiar lay with her and talked to her of the stable-boy, telling her how young and straight and tall and slim and manly he was. Princess Modrehard. Thou talkest foolish- ness, as ever, Agravaine. Illacette had no com- panion. The Queen [nervously']. She had no com- panion. Say, again, Modrehard, that she had no companion. Princess Modrehard. It Is true, she had no companion. Princess Agravaine [rising and touching the Queen on the shoulder]. Art thou so very sure, mother, that thou didst never see any one with her? [She stands away from the Queen and on one side, first with lowered head and then raising her head slowly and looking straight in front of her as if she saw a vision. The Queen gazes at her raptly.] Didst thou never hear any one whis- pering to her among the bushes? Never down along the walk among the furze? Didst thou never hear steps going after her In the tower? Didst thou never see her dancing with some one In the moonlight over the grassy court? The Queen [trembling and violently moved]. Oh, I think I might have — a shadow — Oh, I do not know — Oh, Modrehard, I do not know? Princess Modrehard. Thou didst hear and see nothing, for there was nothing. Nothing but 195 MORE SHORT PLAYS the stable-boy and him I sent away at once into the kingdom of Metchnikofia. Princess Agravaine [taking her chair again and staring at the floor with a smile on her face~\. And so the Princess Illacette went mad because he was the only young man here about. The Queen. She could not be permitted to wed a stable-boy. Princess Agravaine. She will wed some one. Listen! I hear the galloping of horses over a field! [The Queen gazes at Agravaine^ frightened.^ Princess Modrehard. Thou couldst not hear such a noise so far away. We were speaking of Illacette. She is no longer mad. She has re- gained her wits and come home from the convent. She must be watched lest this stable-boy returns. Princess Agravaine. Canst thou control the rays of the sun or the waves of the sea? Neither canst thou watch over one who has a secret ally. The stable-boy will come back, as the moons come. Princess Modrehard. Then thy hound must be killed. Princess Agravaine. It Is not my dog that will bring them together but Illacette's companion. Princess Modrehard. Then, if there be a companion, she must be intercepted and caught and thrown into a dungeon. Princess Agravaine. But this creature is too crafty. Canst thou catch the wind? Canst thou tell why a robin is hatched out of a robin's egg? Princess Modrehard. Because robins pro- duce robins, as snakes produce snakes. Princess Agravaine. Ah, yes, but why do 196 IN MENDELESIA they? Why do they not produce other kinds of birds or animals? Thou canst only say that it is so. And thou canst never lay hands upon lUa- cette's familiar. Listen! I hear horses' hoofs trotting on the road down below ! Princess Modrehard. I hear no horses. Who would be coming here to our castle? Princess Agravaine. Nevertheless, I hear them. Princess Modrehard. Since thou hast seen Illacette's familiar so plainly thou must catch her for us. Princess Agravaine [smiling and shaking her head]. That I can never do. My own dear fa- miliar will not let me. He holds me fast. The Queen [excitedly]. She is talking of her familiar again. What is it? She makes us cold — we tremble. She may make us see what she sees ! Oh, Modrehard, perhaps there is some one near her? Canst thou hear or see any one? Princess Modrehard. No, I can see no one. There is no one. She was always strange. She is not one to heed. Princess Agravaine. Those who are strange see the truth. Princess Modrehard [with scornful sar- casm]. Perhaps thou wilt wed with thy famil- iar. Princess Agravaine. No, I will not wed him. We do not wed our familiars. Besides, it is pleasanter to have lovers than husbands who will kill the lovers. No, I shall not wed, I shall ride and train dogs and — The Queen [severely]. It would be more 197 MORE SHORT PLAYS seemly if thou wouldst do fine sewing and em- broidery as other maidens do. Princess Modrehard. Mother is right. If thou wouldst but sew and embroider and spin and weave and cook, thou wouldst have no time for seeing strange things and thou wouldst get over thy foolish imaginings. Princess AgravainE. I shall ride and train dogs and love, perchance, and sleep till soon I go hence with my companion. But thou, Modrehard, thou wilt wed a lusty yeoman, much younger than thyself and handsomer, of unmitigated and com- mon yeoman strain, and thou wilt bear lusty chil- dren and retrieve thy fallen fortunes after the rest of us have gone hence. Yet it will be a tiresome, simple, yeoman's life thou wilt lead, Modrehard, with none of the huntings and jousts and feasts, none of the sweet music and merriment, none of the dear life of kings. The Queen. Who has foretold this to thee? For my children must always lead the life of kings as their fathers have and none of them must wed with yeomen. Princess Agravaine. Nevertheless, what I have said will come to pass, for my familiar has told it to me. Listen! I hear the sound of horses' galloping! I hear their neighs. There are two of them. Princess Modrehard. All this is idle. Let us talk of how we may prevent Illacette from wed- ding the stable-boy. Princess Agravaine. Canst thou prevent water from falling down a precipice? I have said 198 IN MENDELESIA It. Thou canst not prevent Illacette from wed- ding, for her familiar wills it so. Princess Modrehard. Then, if thou talkest this way and thou wilt not have thy little hound killed, thou must fare away into a distant kingdom with Illacette where there will be no fear from the stable-boy. The Queen. Not Metchnikofia, for the stable-boy is there. Princess Agravaine [smiling and shaking her head]. Thou art swift to send other folk into distant lands. Dost thou think one does not take one's shadow into the sunlight of Metchnikofia or even Freudland? I think our father, the Prince, had some of his pleasurings in Metchnikofia and in Freudland, as well. But I shall not go. I am employed with my own familiar, let Illacette be with hers. The Queen. We desire the presence of Illa- cette at once, here at the table now. We never kept our father, the King, waiting. Princess Agavaine. Listen! I hear the noise of some one in the outer hall! Princess Modrehard. Surely there are noises in the castle. It might be the seneschal or the scullion. But there is no noise. I hear noth- ing. Princess Agravaine. It is not the seneschal or the scullion. It is Illacette's familiar. I hear her familiar laughing. Listen ! [The Queen looks terrified.] Princess Modrehard. It Is nothing. Princess Agravaine. But hear It ! 199 MORE SHORT PLAYS Princess Modrehard. There is no one. Tomorrow I shall have more locks and bolts put upon the doors. And tonight Illacette shall sleep with me. \_The Princess Illacette enters. She is a young girl, small and slight yet fully developed^ with prominent yellowish eyes. She seems greatly excited and stands looking at them slyly.'\ The Queen. Oh, Illacette, thou art so very late. Princess Illacette. I am a little late. The Queen. It was never our way to keep the King, our father, waiting. Princess Illacette. Oh, mother, thou hast said that so many times before. And it is evident I have not kept you waiting. \_She looks furtively from one to the other.~\ The Queen. Why didst thou not come to thy morning meal with us? Princess Illacette [with a strange little laug]i\. Oh, I did not desire food. The Queen. Didst thou only now arise from thy lazy bed? Princess Illacette {laughing^. Oh, no. I was up betimes. Princess Modrehard [sternly'\. Child, where hast thou been? Princess Illacette. I have been with the Holy Father. Princess Agravaine [teasingly]. What? Didst thou have to confess thy many sins so early, Illacette? Princess Illacette. No, no, I did not go merely to confess sins. Sins? Oh, what are 200 IN MENDELESIA they? One does not arise early in the morning to confess sins. I had a more important and urgent errand. Princess Modrehard. Illacette, be plain. Princess Illacette. Oh, I may as well tell you. I went to the Holy Father to be wed. Princess Modrehard. To be wed? Princess Illacette [laughing]. Yes, I am a married woman now, I am a wife, which neither of you are. The Holy Father pronounced me a wife not one-half hour ago. The Queen [crossing herself]. Oh, Holy Mother, help us ! [She groans and continues to sit swaying and moaning.] Princess Modrehard. Child, thou art but jesting? Princess Illacette. Not I. But did I not steal a march on you? By St. Joseph, did I not? [Laughing ripplingly, gayly.] Princess Modrehard [fiercely, turning to Agravaine]. This is thy doing. Thou knewest of this stable-boy's return. Princess Agravaine. No, I did not. But ask her familiar for the cause. Princess Modrehard. Where is he, this stable-boy? Princess Illacette [opening her eyes wide and innocently]. What stable-boy? Princess Modrehard. This low lout, this groom of horses whom thou hast wed. Princess Illacette. Oh, oh, oh, I remem- ber — but I had quite forgot him. No, no, no, I have not wed him. I would never wed him. Princess Modrehard. But only a few 201 MORE SHORT PLAYS months ago it was thy ardent desire to wed him. Princess Illacette. I had forgotten. Princess Modrehard [in great excitement^. Who is it, then? Oh, Illacette, Illacette, speak! Princess Illacette [throwing hack her head proudly^. My husband is the clown at the court of the kingdom of Freudland. The Queen [screaming]. Oh, heaven, that our daughter, the daughter of kings, should wed a clown ! Princess Illacette. Oh, but he is a man of infinite jest. Princess Agravaine. Her familiar is merci- less. This jester is touched by the King's Evil, he is not strong of limb, and he has a hump. Princess Illacette. Oh, but he is young and gay. Princess Modrehard. The Holy Father — how could he permit it? Princess Illacette [laughing again]. Oh, oh, oh, he did not know. Princess Agravaine. There was perhaps not light enough. Princess Illacette. We are wed, we are wed, I am wed ! And we will not stay here in this worm-eaten old dungeon where there is nothing but law and gloom and *' thou must nots." We are going away, far away to the south, to the king- dom of Metchnikofia where everything is sunny and all is gay. Princess Modrehard. But thou hast no gold. Thou art poor. Princess Illacette. Oh, my jester will find a way and thou shalt send gold after us. He has 202 IN MENDELESIA stolen some horses and awaits me even now at the end of the wood. The Queen [weeping and groaning^. Oh, my daughter ! My daughter ! Princess Modrehard. I command thee to stay ! Thou canst not go ! Princess Illacette. Oh, can I not? For I am wed, I am wed! I am free of thee. Listen! [// hunting-horn is heard.^ There, I hear his horn now — the hunting-horn that he stole so adroitly from your sleeping seneschal. He is im- patient. I must not make him wait. The Queen. Oh, our daughter, our daugh- ter, our little princess, do not leave us. Princess Modrehard. Thou shalt not go ! Princess Illacette. I go! [She laughs and goes. The Queen shrieks and faints^ the Princess Modrehard rushes to her mother's assist- ance, the Princess Agravaine sits unmoved^. Princess Modrehard. Agravaine, do not let her go. Hold her, detain her. Princess Agravaine [smiling, unmoved]. But my own dear familiar holds me. [Curtain] 203 IN MENDELESIA Part II characters Madame Worthington. Katherine, Ethel, Iher daughters, Grace, Julia, a maid, [The stage represents the dining-room of a handsome apartment in an eastern city of these United States. Bright sunlight floods the room. Doors open on either side. On the left there is one to the bed-rooms, another to the butler's pantry; on the right, one to the library and drawing-room, another to the hall. At the back two large windows look down on the street, A canary bird in a large gilt cage hangs by one window, a large glass bowl of gold fish stands on a table by the other, A screen is in front of the door to the pantry. Gay, flowered paper with cockatoos and birds of paradise on it covers the wall, the furniture is red mahogany pol- ished. In the center of the room is a table laid for breakfast for four, with chairs drawn up. There are lace doilies and dainty china. A low bowl of flowers is in the center, a shining silver 204 IN MENDELESIA basket of fruit at one end, a shining silver per- colator coffee pot stands at the other. The whole room seems to shine. An old lady en- ters from the hed-rooms and goes to the table examining the things on it with her lorgnette. She is in no way an exceptional old lady, grey- haired, good-looking, well-preserved, she is the representative of a once virile, still rich, but de- caying, blue-blooded family. She has distinc- tion, poise, the selfishness of her birth, and a front that hides brains or the lack of them. She is dressed in a very pretty, gay, lavender morning gown and wears a little lace cap with a lavender bow over the bald spot on her head. She scans the things on the table through her lorgnette and converses with herself.^ Madame Worthington. There, she's used that little blue pitcher again. It will surely get broken, if she keeps on putting it on the table for every day wear. I've told her again and again not to use it. I suppose she thinks it is a cheap little thing and of course it wasn't expensive, but my brother William brought it to me from Stock- holm. [Slight pause. ~\ With the war going on, it is doubtful if we ever get any more china from abroad. American china is so yellow and coarse. Oh, this dreadful war! [Slight pause.~\ I won- der where the morning paper is? [She looks hopelessly on the table and chairs as one who is not accustomed to being able to find things for herself.^ She never leaves it where I can find it. I believe she takes it to the kitchen for them to read. I'll have to speak to her about it. [Enter 205 MORE SHORT PLAYS a very pretty^ rosy-cheeked, immaculate maid.'\ Good morning, Julia. Julia. Good morning, ma'am. Will you have your breakfast now, ma'am? Madame \_in a very much injured tone^. Have it now? Why, certainly, Julia. I've been wait- ing for it till I'm quite faint. I should think you might have heard me moving about in here. I've been here for a half hour. Julia. Oh, dear me, ma'am, you didn't ring the bell. Madame. You oughtn't to expect me to ring. Cook ought to have the breakfast ready and you ought to be watching for me to come in. You know I'm always prompt. Where have you put the morning paper? Julia. I think Miss Katherine has it in the library. Madame. Oh, she's up, then. [Julia goes out behind the screen to the butler* s pantry.^ Madame [talking to herself again~\. Kath- erine has taken the paper and I wanted to read the war news. I wonder if the Germans are in Paris yet or if the English have entered Berlin. Dear me, there will be no more French china nor Dres- den shepherdesses brought over. Dear me, this war! [Slight pause.'] Julia is a neat maid, but I do wish she wouldn't wear her cap on one side of her head. It gives her a fast look. I shall have to speak to her about it. [Katherine, the eldest daughter, comes in from the library. She is a young woman of thirty, has been to college, is nervously striving to 206 IN MENDELESIA retrieve the oozing brains and fortunes of the family, and as a result she follows the tail- feathers of every scientific fad that comes along. She is fully dressed for the day in a neat shirt-waist and tailored skirt and wears large tortoise-shell glasses.^ Katherine. Good morning, mother. Madame. Good morning, Katherine. [Madame is about to seat herself by the coffee- pot and pour herself out a cup of the steam- ing beverage, but Katherine carefully steers her off and places her in another chair at the side of the table, herself taking her place at the side of the coffee-pot to which she gives her attention.^ Madame. I do wish the girls would come to their meals more promptly. Katherine. I approve of Grace^s sleeping late. It is good for her to get as much sleep as possible. \^The maid brings in a plate of buttered toast, also a platter with an ample supply of bacon and eggs and a dish of hashed brown pota- toes, places them in front of Madame Worth- ington, and goes out again.^ Katherine [helping herself to a banana}. Mother, I wish you would eat some sort of fruit for breakfast in the morning. Madame. I have never eaten fruit for break- fast in my life and I am not going to begin now. Katherine. But, mother, it would be so good for you. Fruit is nature's own medicine. Surely you could not object to an orange or half a grape- fruit. 207 MORE SHORT PLAYS Madame. I do object to them — I always have. Besides, what you really want me to eat is a banana — I know. And bananas throw many people into fits. [Ethel comes in from the left through the door to the bed-rooms. She is the second daugh- ter, about twenty-seven years old, tall, slen- der, willowy, sallow, in delicate health al- ways and always with an acrimonious temper and tongue, but also with a certain discon- certing fascination. She wears a most elab- orate morning-gown and carries a little white flufy, newly washed poodle dog in her arms. The others greet her.^ Ethel. Morning ! Madame. Ethel, I do wish you would try to get down a little earlier to your breakfast. It puts the whole day back. Ethel [drawling in a soft musical voice^. Well, why shouldn't it put it back? What dif- ference does it make? What difference on earth does it make? [She pulls the chair opposite to her sister far back from the table and sits down.^ There isn't a single thing any of us have to do. Katherine. It would be very much better for us if there were. Ethel. But distinctly unpleasant. I loathe keeping up this defunct custom of breakfasting to- gether. There isn't another family I know that does it. It's absurd. Madame. I have been accustomed all my life to my family assembling for breakfast together. Ethel. Well, then, it would seem almost time to give it up. 208 IN MENDELESIA Katherine. I wonder if there is anything the matter with Grace? Ethel [playing with her dog^s ears and laugh- ing~\. That's such a funny question for you to ask when you know there is something the matter with her. [The maid enters with a dish of cereal.^ Katherine [with a glance at the maid and looking crossly at Ethel']. Oh, do hush! Madame. Ethel, hush! [Both look alarmed."] Katherine [hastily]. I — I — didn't mean that — I meant — anything to keep her from breakfast. [Katherine and Madame both busy themselves self-consciously with breakfast de- tails, Katherine frowning across the table at Ethel] Ethel [still laughing]. Why, she's always late to breakfast, you know that. Madame [hastily to Ethel]. My dear, won't you have a banana? Ethel. No, mother darling, I may skate to my death on the outside of one, but that won't be my crime. [The maid goes out.] Katherine. Ethel, you are so tactless before the servants. Ethel. You brought it on yourself by asking in that idiotically innocent way if there could be anything the matter with Grace when you know perfectly well — Katherine [interrupting]. Sh! Ethel. When you know perfectly well that she is insane. Madame. Oh, my dear, don't call it that! 209 MORE SHORT PLAYS Ethel. Well, It is that, isn't it? I don't talk about it at teas and dinners, telling people that my sister has lost her mind about a dog-doctor, though Heaven knows I might as well, for every- body knows it, but there is no use begging the question In the family. Katherine. If it hadn't been for you and your silly little dog, that odious man would never have entered our house. Ethel [her voice is always soft and sweet and drawUng'\. Well, by Jove, am I to be blamed because my silly little sister falls in love with an utterly gauche young veterinarian who comes to administer worm-pills to my puppy? Poor Fifi! You know very well that was the mere accident. And that Grace is the sort of girl who will fall in love with iow^body, w^hoever happens to turn up. Katherine. Do hush! Don't talk so loud, Julia w^IU hear you. Ethel. Well, good heavens, why shouldn't she? All the servants know. They couldn't pos- sibly live for six months in a house with two trained nurses and ever so many nerve specialists every few minutes and a person as wild as Grace and not know all about it. They've got enormous w^ages on account of it — they haven't missed no- ticing that. Katherine. Ethel, you talk so foolishly sometimes I think you are almost as bad as Grace. Ethel. Probably I am. In all likelihood, I'm insane, too. You say you have discovered a taint in the family, but It strikes me these scien- tific days it is easier to find a taint in a family than to find a family without one. 210 IN MENDELESIA Madame. Oh, I do wish you girls wouldn't quarrel so at the table I All your quarreling up- sets my digestion. I do like to have my meals in peace. Ethel. Why breakfast together, then? Katherine. Mother dear, you need more strength of will, more self-control, more poise, so that any discussion would not disturb you. If you would lead the physical life I advise, all your processes would become normal and unimpaired. You need more stamina. Ethel [laughing']. Stamina? Good heav- ens, she has more stamina now than all of us put together. Katherine. She would be a hundred per cent, better if she followed my advice and adopted a diet of nuts and took that course in spinal develop- ing dancing, and slept every night out on the sleep- ing-porch. Madame. Nuts get under my plate. Katherine. Oh, well, that makes no differ- ence — Julia always clears the table nicely. Madame. I don't mean my china plate from which I eat, but my gold plate — the gold plate of my lower teeth. Nuts get under it. Ethel. A diet of nuts makes you feel like a squirrel, anyway. Madame. And In my day it would have been considered indecent for an elderly lady to take dancing lessons. And as for sleeping out of doors, people never used to sleep with their win- dows open at all and they were much healthier than people are nowadays. You've made me give up my grandmother's mahogany bedstead for 211 MORE SHORT PLAYS sterilized brass and I will go no further. Besides, I dislike to get awake in the morning and find my nostrils black with soot. Ethel. Katherine, do you mind giving me a cup of coffee? Madame \_sighing~\. Ethel, I do wish you would eat some breakfast. Katherine. She ate a box of chocolates just before going to bed at midnight last night, so it isn't much wonder she has no appetite for her breakfast. Ethel. If you didn't insist upon my coming to the table, you wouldn't know whether I eat any breakfast or not and it wouldn't worry you. I don't see why your scientific mind fusses over me anyway, Katherine. I am not going to have babies. Katherine. I am not so sure. Mother was nearly forty when she was married. Ethel. I suppose that explains why you were born middle-aged and never got over it. Katherine. It may explain more than you think, you ignoramus. Ethel. Poor little Grace, coming twelve years later, entered immediately upon an exist- ence of second childhood. That's it. That's what's the matter with her — one of those peculiar cases of heredity. Why don't you write to your deity you call Freud about it? Katherine [smiling sarcastically^. In your utterly fatuous way you are much nearer the truth than you have any idea of. We are a family of four. Ethel. Why count Reginald? He wasn't a 2X2 IN MENDELESIA full-sized anything. You might say we are a fam- ily of three and a half — even that is being gen- erous to Reginald. Why count him at all? Katherine. Of course, Reginald, being the weakest, died in infancy. Madame [pulling out a lace handkerchief and weeping]. Oh, I cannot bear you to speak of your little brother! Oh! If he had lived all would have been different. Katherine. Why, mother, you like to talk about him yourself. Madame. Oh, yes, but that is quite different from having him brought up so unexpectedly at the breakfast table ! [She dabs her eyes and takes a bite of breakfast bacon. All through she eats heartily y while Ethel eats nothing at ally and Katherine partakes of grapes and a cereal. Also, all the way through Madame bestows reproving or shocked glances to right or left on either daugh- ter, as the case may be, and exclaims, " Oh, my dear!'^ or "Oh, Katherine!" "Ethel," etc., in an extremity of helpless dismay.] Katherine. I was going to say, though I don't suppose I shall be understood, that we are a family of four, counting Reginald — Ethel [interrupting and grinning]. Kath- erine in the role of the Tittle cottage girl. You know it always seemed to me Wordsworth's little cottage girl — she'd be a little bungalow girl to- day, wouldn't she? There isn't a cottage left any- where — that she was very stupid and obstinate. I never sympathized with her in the least. " I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old she said^ — that 213 MORE SHORT PLAYS was keen of Wordsworth because he knew that girls never tell their right ages — " Her hair was red — ah, very red," — no, that isn't exactly it. I've forgotten the next line. Her hair couldn't have been red or she would have been smarter. But she was young — Kath- erine, you are more than eight — you couldn't even make it eighteen and carry it off. And it is pure stubbornness in you to insist on Reginald. Katherine. If you have stopped your maun- derings I will go on to explain. Reginald would have to be counted, for he lived a year, though perhaps mentally and physically subnormal — which, however, only proves the rule. You see, there are four of us, and I am the only perfectly normal one. The law is really so strange and beautiful. [She relapses for a moment into a heatijic contemplation of the law.'\ Ethel. Ah? I could tell that without going to college. Normal people are so dumb. You'll never come to a bad end, Katherine, you're too normal and dumb. Katherine \_angrily recovering from her beati- fic contemplation']. Ethel, you are so silly some- times it is difficult to have patience with you. Ethel. You want to throw a plate at me? Well, do it. It would make you livelier and more interesting. Madame. Oh, I do wish you wouldn't wran- gle so. Katherine. Wrangle? / never wrangle. Mother, will you ring for a finger-bowl for me? Julia forgot to place one at my plate. 214 IN MENDELESIA Ethel. She gave me one. I suppose she thought it was all I needed. Take it. \_She sips her CO fee and plays with her dog.~\ Katherine. I think Grace must have de- cided not to get up for breakfast. It is just as well. She needs the sleep. Ethel. Oh, don't worry. She'll come in any minute. Katherine. And now that we are all to- gether and she Is absent, we will discuss the situ- ation. Ethel. Oh, joy! Madame. Why do you always bring up un- pleasant subjects at the table? Katherine. Well, we must talk about it while we are all together. Ethel. Together? We are always together. That is the terrible part of it. Madame [leaning back dejectedly]. If you discuss Grace now and her illness while I am eat- ing my breakfast it will give me an indigestion. It always does every time you do it. I don't want to have an indigestion this morning. Katherine. I am very sorry, mother, but we must discuss the situation and decide upon a course of action. We have come to a crisis. Ethel. Oh, we are always coming to a crisis. We get a crisis the way other people get a punc- ture. Katherine. Please try to be serious. We must come to a conclusion. Grace may appear at any moment. Ethel. What of it? She has come in often 215 MORE SHORT PLAYS and found us talking about her. Indeed we are quite in the habit of discussing her right before her face. Katherine. But can't you see? She is im- proving now, nearly well, and we must make plans for her future. Ethel. Oh, I don't know. If she is improv- ing, why shouldn't she perhaps decide it for her- self? Why shouldn't people be allowed to hang themselves in their own way, anyhow? Madame. She is a mere child. Katherine. She will never be anything else mentally. Ethel. Oh, I am not so sure. Sometimes I won- der if she ever was insane at all or just bedeviled. {_The maid enters with a plate of rolls. Madame helps herself to them.~\ Katherine. Sh ! Madame [iw a totally different and polite so- ciety voice]. As I was saying, I want the car this afternoon to go down town and buy that wedding present for your cousin John's niece, and after that I may make some calls. Katherine [in a totally different and polite so- ciety voice] . Mother, dear, I will go with you and we will get that call made at the Spragues' and then see about the framing of Aunt Belle's picture. Ethel [imitating them mischievously]. And, dears, I will go with you if you will kindly drop me at the Country Club, where I promised to meet Eddy Wilmot for tea. [The maid goes out and Ethel relapses into her former tone.] Oh, %i6 IN MENDELESIA mother, but you and your eldest offspring are the diplomats ! Katherine [dis^ustedly'\. Ethel, you are positively impossible. Do try now to use what little mentality you have. Ethel \_shriigging her shoulders^. There you are! [Pushing back her chair. ~\ I know I am not bright, but then the majority of people are not bright. What is the use in rubbing in my limitations all the time? You've studied psychol- ogy and Freud and all that stuff and then you pick on your family tree like — er — using it like a laboratory — till you think we've all got the dry rot. Madame. Oh, my dear ! Katherine. You mix your metaphors. Ethel. I don't give a whoop if I do. I'll mix them as much as I like. Metaphors don't have babies, do they? You have us all bluffed. You treat mother as If she needed a wet nurse and me as if I ought to be in an imbecile asylum and Grace as if she belonged in a strong ward. And Grace is a pretty girl. Katherine. Well, what has that got to do with it? Ethel. Only that this perfectly awful young man fell in love with her and others will. Oh, I grant he Is green enough to be a vegetarian In- stead of a veterinarian, that he is perfectly im- possible and I don't want him for a brother-in- law, but the fact is they were engaged and you and mother stood up on your hind legs and clawed the air — 217 MORE SHORT PLAYS Madame [utterly scandalized'], Ethel, my dear! Katherine \_in complete irritation and dis- gust']. Oh, do stop ! Ethel. — And had spasms — mother espe- cially threw fit after fit on account of the family — great-grandfather Morton and great-grandmother Hamilton and grandfather Livermore and great- grandaunt Ellis and Uncle Jeremiah Gates and the Fitzgerald and Randolph branches of the fam- ily and all the rest of them, till poor Grace broke down and had nervous prostration. And then you say she is insane and must never marry any- body at all because it would be criminal — Madame. Oh, my dear, please ! Ethel. — to generate little insane babies, be- cause great-grand-uncle Hannibal committed sui- cide — when you know perfectly well he was gloriously drunk when he did it and didn't in the least realize what he was about and wouldn't have killed himself for the world if he had known. [The maid, Julia, enters with the mail, placing it on the corner of the table between Madame and Ethel, and goes out.] Katherine. Have you finished? Ethel. I am never sure I have. Katherine. Because I should like to say that in the present crisis — Ethel. Crisis, oh, fudge! Katherine [looking around at the retreating form of the maid to he sure she is out of ear-shot, then proceeding], Grace is vastly improved. She is convalescent. Ethel. She is perfectly all right, if she ever 218 IN MENDELESIA did have anything the matter with her head. Katiierine. Oh, you don't either of you seem to realize the enormity of the situation. We must make plans and settle everything for Grace — or, rather, I must, and you've got to agree to it. Ethel. I hope Fate's next incarnation won't be in my family. With Fate for a sister I become totally hopeless and Greek in my attitude to life. Katherine. Grace is recovered and that young man has probably been waiting round and will be coming back. Ethel. You know he had really remarkable shoulders. He would look splendid in the saddle. Katherine. Grace will be wanting to see him again. Madame. Oh, she must not be allowed to I Ethel. She'll probably do it sub-rosa. She's clever enough to trick you. Madame. Oh, but we must prevent her from entangling herself with that dreadful young per- son. We must direct her future. Katherine. We must not oppose her too much for fear of bringing on a brain storm. So I've thought of a plan to get her safely out of the way. You, Ethel, can take her for a trip to Cali- fornia. I, of course, can not leave mother and the business and everything. But you can. Ethel. I? A happy thought for others — how like you! But I happen to loathe California and detest taking care of people. California is impossible — full of Chicago millionaires and so far away. If one could travel in Italy now — but, no, not even Italy would tempt me. [She leans over and picks up the mail which her mother 219 MORE SHORT PLAYS has paid no attention to, and opens one letter^ starts in surprise and keeps the enclosure in her hand from this on to the end.^ Of course, one can't travel in Italy now because of this detestable war, but not even Italy would tempt me under such circumstances. Katherine. Well, would you consider Pan- ama? Ethel. I understand they're not showing them this season. Katherine. Ethel, you understand what I mean well enough. I don't mean hats. Ethel. But why go to Panama if one can't buy hats? No, I wouldn't consider anything. I don't want to go away from Mendelesia, that dear city of brotherly sin. Why should I just as it is getting pleasant at the Country Club? Anyhow, Grace seems perfectly happy. I never saw her so cheerful and larky as she has been this last week. Why, she has been just full of spirits. Katherine. A very bad sign indeed. Ethel \_a slight noise is heard^. Listen. Some one is coming. Katherine. One of the maids in the hall. [A door is closed. They listen. Steps are heard. In a few moments Grace enters dressed for the street. She is a very pretty girl of eighteen, shorter than Ethel, slenderer than Katherine, smil- ing, excited, and jumpy. '\ Madame. Why, my dear, are you going out? Grace [smiling and shaking her head'\. Oh, no, I've been. [She goes to the window and looks out.'] Madame. What, so early? 220 IN MENDELESIA Grace. Yes. Ethel. What came over the spirit of your dream? You don't usually delight to roam abroad in the spring dawn. Grace. Oh, even you would for once. Ethel. One can do anything once. Grace. Oh I [She waves delightedly to some one in the street below.^ Katherine. Grace, you didn't go without your breakfast? Grace. I wasn't hungry. It was all right. Madame. Your nurse oughtn't to let you go without your breakfast. Katherine. Where have you been? Grace. To early church. [She waves again. '\ Katherine. Did your nurse take you? Grace [giggling and shaking her head]. No. Katherine. Did you go alone? Grace [still giggling and again shaking her head]. No. Katherine. Then who was with you? Grace [turning from the window and facing them. She is smiling, gay, excited, with a bright light in her eyes]. My husband. I'm married! [She jumps up and down, waving her hands and laughing as if she had a great joke on them.] Madame [screaming]. Oh! My child! Katherine [jumping to her feet], Grace! Ethel [lazily]. Well, by Jove! Grace. Yes, I'm married. I'm of age, you know. And we thought we wouldn't upset you all — you see I remember perfectly the tremen- dous fuss you made the last time — so he got the 221 MORE SHORT PLAYS license and everything on Saturday and we were married just now at the Little Church of the Angels. Ethel. Devils! Madame [swaying and groaning violently as if she were going to faint or have a fit]. Oh, my child! My child! Grace. Now don't carry on this time because it's no use. It's done. And he's the funniest boy in the world. He'll amuse you no end. You don't have to buy a phonograph or go to the vaudeville if you've got him. Katherine. Whom are you talking about? Grace. My husband. We're on our way to Atlantic City to spend our honeymoon at the Marlborough-Blenheim. I just dropped in to tell you because I hate writing letters. There. I al- most forgot to give you my new name so you will know our address. It is Mrs. Arthur Hart, the Marlborough-Blenheim, Atlantic City, New Jer- sey. \_Slowly and with much emphasis and unc- tion.] Katherine. Arthur Hart. But that isn't the name of the veterinarian? Grace [laughing]. Of course not. Did you imagine I was still caring for that idiot? Oh, I got quite over him long ago. Ethel. Apparently he got over it, too, for here are his wedding-cards that just came in the mail. [She shows the paper she has had in her hand since she opened the mail.] Grace. How awfully funny ! Ethel. Horrid, printed things — sent to us for spite probably. 222 IN MENDELESIA \_Madame continues to moan and weep slightly at intervals, looking from one to the other of her daughters and exclaiming every now and then, " Oh, my dear! "] Katherine \_who has not taken her eyes from her youngest sister^. But, Grace, who is this man? Grace. Well, his name Is Arthur Hart, he^s twenty-one and he's an Englishman. He used to do songs and dances in London music halls. They call him Harty Art — English cockney, you know. [^Laughing uproariously.^ He's so ludi- crous. He was one of the entertainers, doing funny songs and dances and all kinds of stunts, at the Rochester Fields' very outre party a week ago, and it was there I saw him and fell in love with him and — well, we've been meeting in the park ever since. Madame [hoarsely^. Where was your nurse? Grace. Oh, we tipped her to keep her out of the way. She left for California this morn- ing. Ethel. Another reason for staying away from California. Madame. Traitress ! Grace. You'll have to send us a lot of money to the Marlborough-Blenheim, for of course Arthur will have to give up his work in the caba- rets now — you wouldn't want your son to keep on there — and he's so awfully gay and jolly and free with money. He'll need heaps and heaps of It to keep him going. And besides, he's got a little touch of tuberculosis. Katherine [groaning]. Oh I 223 MORE SHORT PLAYS Ethel. This is a million times worse than the other. Grace. I am not going to kiss you good-by. You would just make a scene. \_An automobile is heard honking in the street below.^ There is Arthur's horn now. [She starts to go.^ Katherine. Grace! Wait! You mustn't do this thing! Grace. But I have done it. [Grace goes^ Katherine rushes to her, pulling her hack from the door and they have a little tussle. Madame screams^ moans, shakes, and seems to he fainting or collapsing in a hysterical fit, so Katherine relinquishes her hold on Grace and hastens to her mother's assistance. Ethel sits calmly through it all, nursing Fifi.'] Grace. Let go of me ! Katherine. Ethel, do something! Catch her, hold her, keep her from going. Do some- thing! Grace. She can't. Ethel. But I never do anything. What is the use? [The honk of the automobile horn is heard again. Grace rushes out, Katherine supports her mother, who leans against her groaning, and Ethel sits unmoved in her chair. Cur- tain.] 224 THE DRYAD characters The Dryad. The Peddler. Jen. [The scene is an open square in a city. An ancient market-house which originally occupied the space, was some half century ago transuh' stantiated into a huge bronze fountain and its setting. The square is all heavily paved in stone, three high stone steps up from the street level, extends the distance of the city block and is perhaps a half block wide. Solid fronts of buildings face it with their glass windows as if with spectacled eyes watching for what unto- ward gambols may occur on this possible stage. At one end of the square a great building stands, a clock in its high tower watching, too, from its eerie position. The fountain consists mainly of heavy female figures and heavy boys on the high central pedestal and on the massive stone rim, all pouring streams of water into the great basin from their massive mouths or hair or fingers. A few old sycamore trees, stunted, gnarled, and blackened — city trees — have been left, relics of a time earlier than the 7narket-hoiise even. It is the first of November and the branches of 225 MORE SHORT PLAYS the sycamore trees wave and shiver and knock together in the vigor of a wind that leaps down the street or of one, particularly athletic, that springs from an alley opposite like a Merry Andrew. One tree has suffered more than the others at the hands of the elements and of men, but at the same time it is more beautiful in its picturesque gnarls and curves and twists, the manifestation of its strong striving to live. The cry of the wind is in it like a wild thing, seeming to he the tree's own cry, for it is just opposite the alley, and its branches beat madly, A workman comes up with two axes and a rope. He looks at the trees, gives the old one a hack with his ax, then throws down his tools and goes away. At once a cloudy figure slips out of the tree from behind. She is in filmy draperies — what would be called chiffon in a Fifth Avenue shop — not of green as might be supposed, but of shades of rose and gray. She is tall and young and slender and light with long graceful limbs and long fingers. Her brown hair is drawn in nearly a straight line across her forehead parallel to her level brows which gives her face almost a childish contour, and her eyes are blue. She stands quiet, shiver- ing a little, lays her hand gently on the tree and when she speaks her voice has the rich resonance of a finely tempered golden bowl.'} Dryad. Old tree ! IThe tree bends and creaks and quivers and she looks at it kindly up into its branches,} 226 THE DRYAD Dryad. Old tree ! I am thy soul. I come to thee and out of thee. I heard thy call, thy prayer, And from the uttermost forests I would come to thee, But I was here within. For long and long ago I was thy soul and wandered all about Until that crafty Indian sunk his tomahawk into thy bark — Dost thou remember, tree? — And I was charmed and held in sleep within Till now the charm is broken by that woodman's ax And I may come to thee. Old tree, thou art my chosen one, For thy desire of life has been the keenest. Thy struggle for joy the strongest, I love thee best, old tree, For the gay life in thee That they could not suppress. But, by Bacchus, it is a strange place That thou hast called me to I Where is the grass? I know that it is drear November, But down in the little valley The grass is tangled and thick and not yet dried. Not brave and brilliant as it is in spring, Yet emerald still from its green veins, and soft. 227 MORE SHORT PLAYS But here — where is my grass ? {^She demands passionately.'] Bare, stark little stems of grace, straight risen from the sod Which mingle their roots with thine — ah, no! \_She cries out like the cry of the wind.] I have forgot. This is not That darling valley of love Where on the hillside above Rose bushes are green and red, Gnome dusted and firefly fed. Dear little Christmas trees of the Hallowe'en. \^She smiles at the thought of them and then, hear- ing something, she stands listen- ing.'] I hear — I hear the splashing of the brook. It must be somewhere near, old tree, This stony place must end somewhere in grass, And there the ripples pass Beneath. [^She looks about in the square that has now become lighted with electricity, of course, and then behind her she spies the fountain.] Was it this I heard? Is this my brook? My poor, imprisoned, accursed little brook? And what are these? Ah, naiads, perchance? \^She goes 228 THE DRYAD to the nearest massive bronze figure and stands respectfully near i^] All hail ! [She waits expectantly a moment and then reiterates more politely still.~\ All hail I [Receiving no response she looks bewildered, then amazed, cautiously watches the figure as an animal might, and at last goes to it and touches it furtively, withdrawing quickly,'] Cold! Some god has frozen her to stone. The others, too? [She glides about the fountain touching a number of the figures and saying after each experiment^ " Ah, cold ! " Cold, too! " She goes back to the tree.] Some god has cursed them all, old tree. This is a deterrent place for thee and me to live. The stone ground chills my feet, [She stands first on one then on the other,] And I am frightened by those strange straight cliffs With queer, square lanterns hanging on their sides. [Pointing to the big buildings,] Are there caves within? Are they the haunts ^2() MORE SHORT PLAYS Of the Cyclops, of Fafner, or Of Conor mac Nessa? I am afraid, my tree ! I fear Those balls of fire that hang in spaced mid-air. There is no soft and jocund life, A bane lies on the place, It is cold and dead. \^She shivers, draws her filmy veils up close round her shoulders, and leans against the tree.^ But I, old tree, and thee are one. We live or die together. [She stares out beyond the immediate lights and into the farther lights of the street where automobiles are passing, and the sidewalk where cold people hurry along.^ But these? Surely these are crea- tures. They move. They are men or gods, Trojans, Fianna, or Greeks, At least they are alive, praise be to Pan! [She starts impulsively towards the street and right at the edge of the esplanade her at- tention is attracted by a young fellow who has just come up with a push-cart. He is a curly- haired, dreamy-eyed, plump, and prosperous young Greek. On his cart is an assortment of candy, pea-nuts, cracker-jack, 230 THE DRYAD chewing-gum, all-day suckers, and so on. Interest and delight take fire in the dryad's eyes and she approaches him.'\ All hail! \^The Peddler looks at her in abso- lute astonishment, drops his mouth wide open, rubs his eyes as if rubbing them awake, then gazes at her again. She smiles, hows in what a mythological person might mean for a cour- tesy, waves her arms, and throws him a kiss.'\ Joy be with thee ! For the love o' God. Which God? There ain't but one. rowing back her head with laughter^. Oh, thou funny creature, is there not? Art thou a Greek? Yes. From Lesbos? My father was. He got me in New York. I do not know New York. It's a great place. You journey there by sea? Well, that depends. From here you take a train, Or hoof It. Oh! Thou art, perchance, a faun? Hast pointed ears? Well, I should worry. 231 Peddler. Dryad. Peddler. Dryad \_th Peddler. Dryad. Peddler. Dryad. Peddler. Dryad. Peddler. Dryad. Peddler. MORE SHORT PLAYS l^She examines his ears carefully, pushing back his cap and lifting his curls. He grins delightedly at her touch.^ Dryad. Thou hast the ears of men. Peddler. Well, sure. Why not? Dryad. Thy feet — are hoofs? [She asks expectantly, with sweetly smiling eyes.] Peddler. I ain't no horse. What are you giv- ing me ? \_She leans over and examines his feety pulling up his ill-fitting and haggy trousers the better to see his shoes.] Dryad. Thou hast not hoofs — and yet Thy sandals are a strange unholy sight. \_She looks at them sadly, disgustedly.] Peddler [lifting his foot with its disreputable shoe high into the air and wav- ing it and laughing]. Me? In winter? You bet you not. I'd catch a cold and croak or if I didn't, The boys would run me out. Say, you, you can't fool me, this is a play. [They stand apart and each drops away several paces.] Dryad [solemnly]. Thou art a man. Peddler [grinning]. You bet I am. You are a movie girl. Dryad. Thou art a man and I a dryad but 232 THE DRYAD I love thee. [Her expression of al- , most unhappy earnestness dawns into a blessed smile. The Ped- dler jumps and straightens him- self up in gravity.^ Peddler. I've got a girl. Dryad. I love thee. Peddler. She's got a temper. Dryad. I love thee. Peddler. She won't let you. Dryad. I love thee. \_As she speaks, she ap- proaches him, smiling in her joy and admiration of him. He braces himself rather stiffly, looking at her with apprehension at first, then surlily gazing straight ahead.~\ Peddler. Go way! [She touches him, sliding her hand down his arm and about his shoulders, passing it about his neck, as it were sniffing him with her fingers, getting acquainted.^ Go way! ery low]. I love thee. [She feels his hair, his ears, eyes and eye-brows, nose, mouth, chin. Grace is all of each ges- ture and each gesture a caress. As she touches him here and there she speaks.^ Dryad. I love thy hair — I love thine ears — and eyes — and brows, Thy mouth, thy chin. 233 Peddler. Dryad [v MORE SHORT PLAYS \_When she had first touched his hair, he had repeated, " Go way!" but under the influence of her fingers his dogged resist- ance melts slowly until a satis- fied grin spreads over his coun- tenance and he turns his pleased eyes upon her.~\ Peddler. Gee, but you are some kid ! Dryad. No, no, a dryad I. \_Shaking her head.'] Peddler. By golly, you're a peach! \^Siill more admiringly.] Dryad. Fruit of the tree, nay, but the tree it- self. [Shrugging her shoul- ders.] Peddler. You give me funny talk, but, gee. You ain't so slow ! Dryad. Love is always quick, it is alive. Only the dead are slow. Whatever is slow, is not love. Peddler. L guess that's right. Jen, she was slow A-making up her mind, Jen — that's my girl — she had an- other guy And she was going to see which saved the most And which got drunk. I balled him out — but now — Gee, but you're slick! Dryad. I love thee. Peddler. You don't care if I drink? 234 THE DRYAD Dryad. I love thee, dear. The dewy drops of water From Conla's well or the Fons Ban- dusium Will bless thy lips the sweeter for my kisses. Peddler. Aw, what's your guff ? I ain't a-talk- ing none About just water. I like the suds, But Jen's so damn particler. Dryad. I love thee. Peddler. You're the stuff! \_She looks at him enchantingly and he beams at her in glad satisfac- tion. He takes her in his arms and kisses her, when a girl rushes up the steps to them and screams at themJ\ Jen. You! \_The Peddler lets go the Dryad and stands apart, half sheepish, half defiant. ~\ Peddler. Hello, Jen. Jen. Who's that? Peddler. It's just a movie girl. Jen. Well, you ain't no actor. Peddler. No. Sometimes I wisht I was. Jen. Look here, you stop your guff and come along with me. Peddler. I can^t leave the cart and can't move it just now, There's trade a-coming sure, It always comes this time o' evening, 235 MORE SHORT PLAYS I've got to stick right here. You run along. I'll see you later. See? S'long. Jen. You bet I see. And I don't stir From this here spot till you go mit, Or send this girl sky-high — You got your choice. Peddler. Now, Jen, you see just how it is — I can't go now — I got to scrape the dough. You run along. Don't be so con- trary. Jen. Contrary? Mef Peddler. Don't be so onery. Jen. Me onery? You tell me who she is. Peddler. I told you once — she's just a movie girl. Jen \^to Dryad]. What's your name? Dryad. A dryad I, Spirit and god of trees. I love this man. [She says it very simply and with a divine smile. Jen gives her a look of hatred, yells and makes for her. The dryad, rather sur- prised, stands still, looking at her with wide eyes, but the Ped- dler catches Jen and holds her hack.] Peddler. No, you don't. You leave her be. Jen [to Peddler]. Oh, you fool. You let me I'll teach her what she is. [ To Dryad.] You — you ugly scarecrow, you 1 236 THE DRYAD Dryad. Jen. Dryad. Jen. Dryad. Dryad. a loud Don't you see? He is my man, He's going to marry me. Marry? What is marry? I reckon every girl knows that — even the movie folks. He makes the coin for me, just me and no one else. We'll rent a room and buy some fur- niture. He's mine, ^ I love the man, You love him not, you only love What he has done for you. You will not let him drink Water from flowing springs. Water? Him? \_She gives laugh.^ But I should love him still Even if he drank strange vintages that drove him mad. \^Jen with a sudden jerk escapes from the Peddler, and with a yell leaps upon the Dryad. The boy seizes her and after a sharp struggle, pulls her away. The dryad, amazed, gazes with her wide blue eyes at Jen and shakes back her beautiful disheveled hair.l Thou art a half-tamed mountain cat, Thy softness in thy fur alone, thy cul- ture in thy vesture. I wear it not. This man — he is my mate — thou 237 MORE SHORT PLAYS wouldst take from me, Merely to do thee service. But I hold him dear. I give myself to him For that he loves me — not because he brings me food — And that he'll never do. [To the boy.^ Oh, my love. Thine eyes are like two blue-white iris flowers In April, or like two stars, Aldebaran and Leda in the month When Scorpio trails the treetops of the south. Peddler [to Jerf\, Git back. [He releases her and they both stand in amaze- ment staring at the Dryad, who glows in the beauty of her love.l^ Dryad. Thy hair is like the fair foamed roll- ing wave That tosses lovingly upon The opalescent sand at moon-dawn in the full. Thy neck is strong and soft and warm as where A lioness would desire to lay her young. And when thy lips touch mine — ah, then, 'Tis beauty stark and swift as when a fire Touches a pine cone. I am the soul, I am the god of trees, 238 THE DRYAD I am a part of beauty, of poetry, of life, I am my share of all the loveliness Of all the lovely world. Of seas and hills and star-stilled sum- mer nights. I know all gods and trolls and lepre- chauns, The fairy folk, the genii, the half- gods. Apollo, Siegfried, and Angus Og have been my lovers. Now to this man I bring delight. And he has need of me As lemon flowers need the joy of light. [The Peddler has become more and more fascinated by her ap- pealing beauty and love, has stretched out his arms to her and now goes to her and takes her hands.^ Jen. You dog-goned slut, you make a fool of him. Dryad. I only ask his love. Peddler. And that's the whole damned thing. Jen. Can you cook and wash for him? Dryad. I will bring him purple grapes and plums and blackberries, And yellow honey gathered by the bees From April's blossomed locust trees And pink May clover fields. I will lead him through the woods 239 MORE SHORT PLAYS Jen. Dryad. Jen. To that still pool where grapevines hang And he may swing far out and drop through soft cool air To the cooler water underneath. My gawd, she's nutty! {^She catches the Peddler by the arm and tries to pull him away. Then to the Dry ad. ^ Say, you ain't no real movie girl? A dryad I, a living part Of all the living beauty of the world. Don't you see? [To the Peddler.^ She's nutty, bughouse, crazy as a flea ! First thing you know a cop will pull her In, Then where'U you be? I will bring thee hazel nuts, but better still ^ I will bring thee rainbows and the dawn of stars. You see she's crazy — she'll maybe murder you. You ain't safe here — you come along with me. \_The Peddler s bewilderment and final fear grow until he allows Jen to pull him away.'\ I love thee. She'll kill you. I'll give thee stars. You come along. She ain't for such as us. 240 Dryad. Jen. Dryad. Jen. Dryad. Jen. THE DRYAD Dryad. Jen. I'll bring thee little fauns to do thy bidding. She's crazy as can be. They'll lock her in a cell. Come, hurry up, let's get away from here Before she gets you hooked and to the station-house. {^As she speaks she draws the Ped- dler away, he looking hack at the Dryad. They go down the steps and with his cart they hurry away. The Dryad is left staring wistfully after them. She turns back to the tree and lays her hand upon it and her forehead upon her hand.^ Dryad. Old tree, he did not see, he did not know, he did not understand. He will work for her and think he is content. But in his dreams he will follow, fol- low, follow. Hunting the memory of me through the world. \_Two men appear and the Dryad, seeing them, drops back. They do not notice her. They go to the tree and pick up the axes.~\ Man. This is the tree that's got to come down. Other Man. It's the best one of the bunch. Man. That's the way. 241 MORE SHORT PLAYS They want to put an electric light right here. A tree's got to make room for some- thing practical. l^They begin chopping and as they go on with their work, the Dryad looks frightened, pained, ill. Every blow to the tree is a stab to her till finally it totters, she wavers, too, and when it drops to the ground, she falls under one of the huge bronze female figures of the fountain and there she dies. The two men shoul- der their axes and walk away. [Curtain] 242 A SELECTED LIST OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE PUBLISHED BY STEWART & KIDD COMPANY CINCINNATI DRAMATIC LITERATURE The Truth About The Theater Anonymous Precisely what the title indicates — facts as they are, plain and unmistakable without veneer of any sort. It goes directly to the heart of the whole matter. Behind the writer of it — who is one of the best known theatrical men in New York — are long years of experience. He recites what he knows, what he has seen, and his quiet, calm, authoritative account of conditions as they are is without adornment, excuse or exaggeration. It is in- tended to be helpful to those who want the facts, and for them it will prove of immeasurable value. "The Truth About the Theater," in brief, lifts the curtain on the American stage. It leaves no phase of the subject untouched. To those who are ambitious to serve the theater, either as players or as playwrights, or, again, in some managerial capacity, the book is invaluable. To those, too, who would know more about the theater that they may come to some fair estimate of the worth of the innumerable theories nowadays advanced, the book will again prove its value. New York Herald: Whether the book is too severe or not, it is refresh- ing to read about the stage, not through the customary glamor or through the tawdry exaggeration of the press agent, but in the light of common day. Louisville Courier= Journal: The author shatters cherished illusions unmerci- fully. Such a book is helpful. It should be uni- versally read and believed. i2mo. silk cloth. Gilt top Net $l.oo STEWART & KIDD COMPANY Fot/r Plays of the Free Theater Francois de Curel's The Fossils Jean Jullien's The Serenade Georges de Porto-Riche's Francois e' LucJk Georges Ancey's The Dupe Translated nvith an introduction on Antoine and Theatre Libre by BARRETT H. CLARK. Preface by BRIEUX, of the French Academy, and a Sonnet by EDMOND ROSTAND. The Ileview of Reviews says: "A lengthy introduction, which is a gem of con- densed information." H. L. Mencken (in the Smart Set) says: "Here we have, not only skilful playwriting, but also sound literature." Brander Matthews says: 'The book is welcome to all students of the modern stage. It contains the fullest account of the activities of Antoine's Free Theater to be found anywhere — even in French." The Chicago Tribune says: "Mr. Clark's translations, with their accurate and comprehensive prefaces, are necessary to anyone in- terested in modern drama ... If the American reader will forget Yankee notions of morality ... if the reader will assume the French point of view, this book will prove a rarely valuable experience. Mr. Clark has done this important task excellently." Handsomely Bound. i2mo. Cloth Net, $i.so DRAMATIC LITERATURE Contemporary French Dramatists By BARRETT H. CLARK In "Contemporary Trench Dramatists'* Mr» Barrett H. 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Boston Transcript: " Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the Playwrights selected is simple and helpful. * * * As a manual for reference or story, 'Contemporary French Dramatists,' with its added bibliographical material, will serve well its purpose." Uniform vuith FOUR PLAYS. Handsomely bound. Cloth Net, $1.50 Y^ Maroon Turkey Morocco Net, $5.00 STEWART & KIDD COMPANY Plays and Players Leaves from a Critic's Scrapbook BY WALTER PRICHARD EATON PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on act- ing, play-making, and other dramatic problems, by Wal- ter Prichard Eaton, dramatic critic, and author of ** The American Stage of To-day," " At the New Theater and Others," " Idyl of the Twin Fires," etc. The new volume begins with plays produced as far back as 1910, and brings the record down to the current year. One sec- tion is devoted to American plays, one to foreign plays acted on our stage, one to various revivals of Shakes- peare. These sections form a record of the important activities of the American theater for the past six years, and constitute about half of the volume. The remainder of the book is given over to various discussions of the actor's art, of play construction, of the new stage craft, of new movements in our theater, such as the Washington Square Players, and several lighter essays in the satiric vein which characterized the author's work when he was the dramatic critic of the New York Suti. Unlike most volumes of criticisms, this one is illustrated, the pictures of the productions described in the text furnishing an ad- ditional historical record. At a time when the drama is regaining its lost position of literary dignity it is partic- ularly fitting that dignified and intelligent criticism and discussion should also find accompanying publication. Toronto Saturday Night: Mr. Eaton writes well and with dignity and inde- pendence. His book should find favor with the more serious students of the Drama of the Day. Detroit Free Press: This is one of the most interesting and also valu- able books on the modern drama that we have encountered in that period popularly referred to as " a dog's age." Mr. Eaton is a competent and well- esteemed critic. The book is a record of the activ- ities of the American stage since 1910, down to the present. Mr. Eaton succinctly restores the play to the memory, revisualizes the actors, and puts the kernel of it into a nutshell for us to ponder over and by which to correct our impressions. Large i2mo. About 420 pages, 10 full-page illustra- tions on Cameo Paper and End Papers Net $2.00 Gilt top. ^ Maroon Turkey Morocco Net 6.50 DRAMATIC LITERATURE The Antigone of Sophocles By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY An acting version of this most perfect of all dramas. A scholarly ivork in readable English. Especiallly adaptable for Colleges, Dramatic Societies, etc. Post Express, Rochester: "He has done his work well." "Professor Harry has translated with a virile force that is almost Shake- spearean." "The difficult task of rendering the choruses into English lyrical verse has been very cred- itably accomplished." Argonaut, San Francisco: "Professor Harry Is a competent translator not only because of his classical knowledge, but also be- cause of a certain enthusiastic sympathy that shows itself in an unfailing choice of words and expression." North American, Philadelphia: "Professor Harry, teacher of Greek in the Cincin- nati University, has written a new metrical transla- tion of the Antigone of Sophocles. The translation is of fine dramatic quality." Oregonian, Portland: "A splendidly executed translation of the celebrated Greek tragedy." 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