w K) K) K) B3 K) ftp Co &) AMES' Series of STANDARD AND MINOR DRAMA, Ho. «3. » *■ » Three Glasses a Day, Or The Broken Home. A Grand Moral and Temperance Drama, p S k 5 5* IN TO0 ACTS ' AUTHOR OF Eock Allen, the Orphan, Fun by the Bushel, etc. WITH CAST OF CHARACTERS, ENTRANCES AND EXITS, RELATIVE POSITIONS OF THE PERFORMERS ON THE STAGE, DE- SCRIPTION OF COSTUME, AND THE WHOLE OF THE STAGE BUSINESS, AS PERFORM- ED AT THE PRINCIPAL AMER- ICAN AND ENGLISH THEATRES. -o- CLYDE, OHIO. A. D AMES, PUBLISHED, To Amateurs. The following articles will be of grent aid to you in placing upon the stage, your Plays. All articles are of the best quality, made ex- pressly for our trade, and will not fail to give entire satisfaction. COLORED FIRES. We have Red, Green, Blue, Violet, Lilac and Pink. These are per- fectly harmless, and are sold for 25 cents, each color, by mail postage prepaid. The same in one-half pound cans at $1,00, by express only. PREPARED BURNT CORK. For Negro Minstrels. This article is invaluable, as ii can be taken off as easily as put on, in which it differs from all others manufactur- ed. In tin boxes, enough for 25 performances, per box, 40 cents. One-half pound, by express only, $1,00. FLESH PAINTS. A necessary article for making the wig join the forehead so that it cannot be seen — also for lining the face. In boxes by mail 75 cents. MAGNESIUM TABLEAU LIGHTS. A metal capable of being ignited by a common match, and burning with great brilliancy, producing a light that can be seen thirty miles. Unequalled in beruty and brilliancy. It is so intense that it oauses a gas-light to cast a shadow. Price each, 25 cents, by mail. AMATEUR COMPANIES wishing the assistance of Mr. Ames in producing Plays, or in directing rehearsals, will [deaae enclose a stamp for particulars. Terms very reasonable. Will go to any part of th«» United States. Long experience renders him perfectly competant to direct rehearsals to the satisfaction of all. As an actor the public may judge for themselves. We take pleasure in submitting a few notices received. The following is from the Appleton City, [Mo.] Pilot. "On Thursday night last, Mr. Ames made his first appearance be- fore an Appleton City audience, and iT we may judge from the hearty reception that met him, in the course of his character of Farmer Allen in the beautiful play of 'Dora,' he has made himself a favorite with our citizens, and formed a long list of personal friends who will remember him and watch his career as an actor and instructor with interest. His rendition of Allen was acknowledged by all, as superior work. The tear came unbidden to the eye at different times, while watching the many and devious passages in which Farmer Allen, the man wliose will was law, were delivered in the most natural and effective manner." From the same paper we have the following: "Mr. A. D. Ames was cast in that most difficult role of Joe Morgan in Ten Nights in a Bar-Room. The universal verdict of the audience was that his rendition of the same was perfect." The following is from the Bloom ville [0.] Banner: . "Of the acting of Mr. Ames we can speak in the highest praise. The character of Dal ton was written expressly for him, and that he acts it true to nature, noone will deny. We could not help noticing the ex- pression of countenance so plainly marked, even without a word being said. His cry at the death of Willie, where he exclaims, '0, Willie, how can 1 give you up !' will not soon be forgotten." p§~ Address A. D. AMES, Dramatic Publisher, Clyde, Ohio. THREE GLASSES A DAY, OR THE BROKEN HOME, A Moral and Temperance Drama, IN THREE ACTS, BY W. HENRI WILKINS, AUTHOR OP Rock Allen the Orphan- Fun by the Bushel, etc. "With Cast of Characters, Costumes, Entrances and Exits, and the whole of the Stage Directions. Cf/f CLYDE, OHM : A. D. AMES, Publishes. /T1 L nS7i THREE GLASSES A DAY. ^3 LJ Cast of Characters as first performed at the Green Mountain Perkin8 Acad- emy, South Woodstock, Vermont, November 15th 1871. Ralph Aubrey A. E. Cudwortu Harry montford F. W. Shattuck Zeke Wintergreen W. Henri Wilki ns Mrs. Ralph Aubrey Ada C. Taylor Clara Aubrey Clara Sherwin Julia Lovegrove Angelia A. Averill As performed by the Union Dramatic Club, of Felchville, Vermont, Feb- ruary 2nd and 16th 1S72. Ralph Aubrey E. H. Cartel Harrie Montford F. W. Shattuck Zeke Wintergreen W. Henri Wilkins Mrs. Ralph Aubrey Mary J. Wardner Clara Aubrey Lettie C. Elgar Julia Lovegrove Clara L. Anderson Time in representation — One hour. Five vears are supposed to elapse, between act 1st and 2nd, COSTUMES MODERN Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878 by A. D. AMES, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Three Glasses a Day, Or The Broken Home* ACT I. Scene I. — Ralph Aubrey's private parlor, richly furnished — Ralph R. with newspaper on his knee — Mrs. Aubrey l. at piano, sings and plays as the Cur- tain slowly rises. Mrs. A. [Singing.] "Backward, turn backward, oh time in your flight; Make me a child again, just for to-night. Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore — Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair- Over my slumbers, your loving watch keep — Rock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep." Ralph. Ah, Mary that's a sweet voice o f yours, and how many, many times I have listened with pleasure to those beautiful strains, as they pour- ed forth from your Lps. But to-night 1 am feeling sad and disheartened. It seems as if there was a dark cloud gathering, which would soon burst over our heads. 1 presume it js a foolish whim, but nevertheless I cannot drive it from my mind. Mrs. A. And Ralph, I too, have my fears, and you shall know them now. Once more I beseech you to quit the wine cup, for I am sure evilwill result from it, if you keep on in the course you have marked out. Ralph. Pshaw! Mary do yen fesr to trust me? Three glasses a day is my rule, and a good one it is too; just enough to make a man feel lively, without upsetting him in the least. No danger of Ralph Aubrey being seen reeling in the street. Mrs. A. "But we have such fearful examples before us, there is but one course for us to pursue. Ralph. Nonsense, Mary. To be sure there was a time when I stood in a fair way to become a drunkard, but that was when I was a wild thought- less boy, careing nothing for the future, only thinking of the present. But soon I began to see my tolly, and till within the last twelve months I have not tasted a drop for twenty years, and surely you can have no fears now ? Mrs. A . But Ralph why not leave off this foolish habit entirely ? Ralph. Once more Mary, I ask, are you afraid to trust me ? Mrs. A. No, Ralph 1 am not afraid to trust you, and yet I would rather you would resolve never to taste another drop of liquor. Come, make me a present of the three glasses a day. Ralph. Indeed I will not my dear, for I could not get along without an occasional drop. If you wish a present, you must think of something else. Mrs. A. {Smiling.] Nothing else will do Ralph. Raftph. It shall never be said that I treated myself better than I did my wife, and therefore 1 promise to allow you the three glasses a day, as long as 1 take them myself, and every evening I will hand you the price of three 4 THREE GLASSES A DAY. glasses, and you may eat, drink or wear it just a3 you choose, and to com- mence with, here are thirty cents the amount I've spent to-day. [Gives money.] Mrs. A. No Ealph — yes I will take it. [Takes money.] Itwillcomein use sometime, and mmd Ralph, you must not forget It. Ralph. I will not; every night you shall have the price of what I drink during the day. [Exit Mrs. Aubrey L.J Has it already come to this ? [Rises and paces the floor.] Can it be possible that my moderate allowance has so soon shaken my wife's trust in me? And yet it must be so, for I have notic- ed of late, ins ead of the old bright, beaming, happy look, one of pain and sadness, and often has she looked at me with an anxious, inquiring gaze, as if some hidden sorrow was gnawing at her heart. [Looks at his watch.] But it is now past 6 o'clock and I promised to meet Montford at his rooms at that time! Ah! it is well that my wife knows not of the heavy loss which I sustained last night. [Knock heard r.j Who can that be? Come in! Enter Montford r. Montford. Ah, Aubrey, glad to see you ! glad to see you ! Pleasant eve- ning this. You have a splendid place here, one of the finest dwellings in the country, and how quiet and cozy this room looks ! Surely, Aubrey, you must be a happy dog, I almost envy you your position. Ralph. And so Montford you could not wait for me, I suppose you want to try that little game of last night over again ? Mont. By no means sir, I consented to play to-night and give you a chance to win back the sum you lost last evening. So come, let us go, for it's getting late. Ralph Montford, I will not play with you ; I want no chance to win back what I have lost. Mont. Very well, if you will not play with me, I wish you would imme- diately hand over your check for five thousand dollars, payable to H. H. Montford. Ralph. Indeed, Montford. you know that at present, I am unable to do that. Mont. Take your choice, do that or play with me to-night. Ralph. Well, since you will have it so, I will play to-night, but remem- ber Montford, this shall be the last. Enter Julia l. Julia. If you please sir, Mrs. Aubrey and Clara desired me to tell you that they would like to see you in the drawing-room. Ralph. Please tell them it will be inconvenient for me to see them for an hour or so, as 1 have an engagement. Come Montford, let us go. (Ralph and Montford exit r. Julia. An engagement ! pretty engagement for Ralph Aubrey to chose the inside of a gambling saloon, in preference to the company of his own family. Ah ! Ralph, Julia Lovegrove isn't blind ; she knows where you go in company with that villain I Enter Mrs. Aubrey and Clara l. Julia. Oh ! Mrs. Aubrey, they've gone, Mr. Aubrey said he would see you in an hour or so. Mrs. A. They ! for heaven's sake who was with him Julia? Julia. Harry Montford, if you please ma'am. Clara. That man ? Can it be that my father prefers the society of Mont- ford, to the society of his own home ? Oh ! mother think of it, Harry Mont- ford is a bad man. Mrs. A. Well, child, let us go back and patiently wait your father's re- tarn, and trust in heaven to guide him in the right path, and he may yet be saved from the awful abyss which is now opening before him. Clara, Stay here Julia, and when my father returns, come to me imme- diately. {Exit Clara and Mrs. Aubrey l THREE GLASSES A DAY. 5 Julia. Ah ! the clouds are lowering, things are growing darker, for Ralph Aubrey is fast walking the path that leads to utter ruin ; but we can only wait and hope, trusting for a brighter future. (Zeke Wintergreen raps outside.) Come in. Enter Zeke R. with carpet bag. Julia. "Why Zeke Wintergreen, where've you been? Zeke.' Me ! why I've been takin' a little excursion on my own hook. Julia. Zeke, what do you mean ? Zeke. No I ain't mean, any way you can fix it. I've been takin' a little ride on the keers, and by beeswax, I never had such a time in all my life. Julia. Why, 1 thought you never saw the cars and was afraid to ride on them, but come, tell me all about it. Zeke. Well, I will if you'll let me set down side on ye. {Draws up chair. Julia. If you don't behave yourself I'll leave the room. Zeke. Oh I get out, you're makin' all that. Julia. Come, why don't you go on with your story. Zeke. Well I will. Yer see when I got down to the dipo, I thought I'd go round and git a look at the iron hoss. Thunderation ! it want no more like a hoss, than it was like a meetin house. I'll be darned Julia, if it didn't look like a regular he devil, 6nortin' fire and brimstone out his nos- trills, and pan tin' and heavin' and swellin' and chawin' up red hot coals, as if they's good. A feller stood in a little house-like, feedin' him all the time; but the more he fed him the more he blowed and snorted. Arter a while the feller catched bim by the tail, and great Jericho ! he set up a yell that split the ground for more'n a mile and a half. Julia. Zeke Wintergreen, you're crazy ! Zeke.% Oh no, I ain't nor I wan't skeered, but I had three chills and a stroke of palsy in less than five minutes, and my face had a curious, brown- ish-yellow, green-bluish color in it, which was perfectly unaccountable. Well, says I "comment is superflous." And then I took a seat in the near- est wagon or car as they call it, a consarned long steamboat lookin' thing with a string of pews down each side, big enough to hold about a man and a half. Just as I sot down, the boss hollered twice and started off like a streak o' greased ligbtnin' ; pitchin me hed fust at the stomarch of a big Irish woman, and she gave a tremendous grunt and then kit^hed me by the head and crammed, me under the seat. When I got out and staggered to another seat, the cars was a jumpin' and tearin' along, nigh onto forty thousand mile3 an hour. Julia. Ob, Pshaw ! stop your fooling and tell your story. Zeke. Well I will. Well yer see, by that time every body was bobbin* up and down like a saw-mill, and every wretch of 'em had his mouth wide open, like as if they's laffin' but I couldn't hear nothin', the cars kept up such a darned rackit. Bimeby they stopped all to once, and then such an- other laff busted out of them passengers as I never beam before. Laffin at me too, that's what made me mad as thunder. I riz (rises) right up and shakin' my fist at 'em, says I, "Ladies and gentlemen, look a here, I'm a peaceable stranger" and away the dern train went, like as if smallpox was in town, jirkin, me down with a whack, like I'd been thrown from the moon; and then their darned mouths flapped open, and the fellers went to bobbin up and down agin. I put on an air of magnanimous contempt like, and took no more notice of 'em, and very naturally went to bobbin' up and down myself. Julia. You have had a wonderful time, haven't you Zeke? Zeke. Mel by mighty I guess I have, but where's flfce old boss? drunk as ever ? Julia. Why Zeke, Mr. Aubrey never gets intoxicated. Zeke. Well, he comes mighty near it sometimes, don't he? But look a here Jule, I've got somethin' fer you. Julia. Thank you Zeke, what is it pray ? Ifeke. You're the hired gal here yet, ain't ye ? Julia. Of course I am, but what'a that to do with my present? ' 6 THREE GLASSES A BAY. Zeke. "Well I've got that satchel full of the mightyest dirty clothes, ever a man got out of, and I'm goin' to lei you wash 'em. Julia. I shan't do it, so there ! I'd be ashamed if I's you 1 Zeke. Well you ain't me, and if you don't quit gettin' so darned uppish, you shan't never have my name. Julia. Oh, you hateful 1 1 won't stay here. I hate your presence. (Exit l. Zeke. U-m-m-m she's mad, by hooky ! Says she hates my presents; Well, I didn't spose them dirty clothe3 would please her much. Well I guess I'll go down and change my shirt, and get on my tother clothes, fer 1 spose I'll have to take a regular blowin' up, when the old man gits back, and if I do, I want my best suit on. (Exitl,., whistling, with carpet bag. Enter dfrs. Aubrey and Clara, c. Mrs. A. Clara my child, your father has not yet returned, and should that man, Montford, have any evil design against him, I fear that he would find him an easy person to lead astray, for he knows his weakness. Clara. Oh, mother ! is there not some way in which we can induce poor p&pa to abandon his dangerous habit? Now is the time 'ere it becomes too firmly fixed upon him. Mrs. A. Alas! my child, I fear it is impossible, and though I shudder to say it; I have reason to believe, that not only has he become too fond of the wine cup, but that he has at time3 been induced, by that unprincipled man, Montford, to stake heavy sums at the gaming table. Clara. Can it be possible ? Oh ! my poor father ! Surely if this evil can not be remedied, misery and only misery is ours, ( Covers her face xoith her hands, and weeps. Mrs. A. Clara dear, those words bring sad remembrances to my mind —my own miserable childhood — my poor broken-hearted mother; and more to be pitied than all, my wretched, misguided father. And yet my moth- er has often told me, of the first happy years of her married life — of a kind husband and a pleasant home. Intemperence, changed her happiness to misery, and harsh and cruel treatment from him she loved, brought her to an early grave, and left me the lonely being that I was, until I knew your dear father. No wonder that I dread the sound of even three glasses a day. Clara. Oh, mother! I will go to him, plead with him. Let us sacrifice ali if need be, rather than be brought to scenes like those. Mrs. A. Yet, my child, your father has withstood the arguments of his friends, and surely he will not yield to the pleadings of his wife and child. "That others have fallen," he says, "proves not that I will do the same. But as a man, I will stand forth and prove to all, that the moderate drinker and the miserable drunkard are not to be classed together; that one may stand on the brink of a precipice, without danger of plunging m the abyss below." And thus in his own vain strength he stands. Clara. Human strength ! Alas ! it is but weakness. The power to re- sist evil — nay the very consciousness that evil exists, and the desire to shun it, belong not to man. In God alone must we put our trust. Enter Ralph r. (Clara l., Mrs. Aubrey c Ralph. Ruined ! Ruined ! Fortune gone, happiness lost, and this quiet home must now be broken. Oh ! why was I led to this ? Why did I listen to the flattering words of Harry Montford ? Yet 'tis too late; I am lost, lost. Lost to the world, lost to my family and lost to myself. (Sinks in chair k Mrs. A. Ralph dear, dear Ralph, what can have happened? Clara. Father ! father ! What's the matter father ? Ralph. Oh ! my wife, my child; this is hard to bear, not for myself alone, but for you. Wife, we are penniless. Our wealth is gone, and this old home must be given up, unless unless Clara. Do tell father, what is it ? I will do almost anything, in my pow- er, to save you from ruin, and keep this home — our dear old home. Mrs. A. Yes, dear husband, let us know the worst. We will stand by THREE GLASSES A DAY. T you, in this hour of trouble. Think not that your wife and daughter will desert you now. Ralph. Clara, I have promised your hand to Harrie Montford. You must marry him or we are ruined, and surely you will not break your fath- er's promise? Many 's the lady, who would gladly smile on, and win the love of Harrie Montford. A man of his wealth and position is not to be found every day. Mrs. A. Oh ! my husband, anything but that. Do not force her into a union with that man. Clara. Yes, father, anything but that. Do not urge me into a union with one whom my soul detests. Is there no other way to cancel this debt, save by the sacrifice of the happiness of your own child ? My father, he is no true man, to claim this thing. Ralph. My word is given and it must be kep't. It is of no use; none shall say that Ralph Aubrey ever broke his word of honor. Clara. But father, does rank and wealth outweigh an honorable name ? Does gold and position in the world, cover every sin of a bad man ? No it does not. It's glare and glitter may dazzle many eyes, and blind them to the corruption within; but others there are, who will look beneath the out- side surface, and will shrink away, in fear at the inner revelations. Harrie Montford is a bad man. His life has been spent in dissipation, and this debt, which you call an honorable one — this was'contracted through his in- fluence. It was by his means, tnat my father so far forgot himself, as to play and stake his all, and now he would cancel it by the gift of his daugh- ter. Oh ! my father 1 Let us give up all, if need be, but bid me not wed Harrie Montford. Mrs. A. My daughter wed that man ? Oh, this is hard to bear ! ( Exit l., weeping. Ralph. It can not be, it is too late. My child, would you have your fa- ther known as a gamester, to the world? Stripped of his estates, and cast penniless into the streets? Woukl you have his name made a by word of in this very city ? Oh, my God 1 was I mad, that I should have done this thing? Why was I not stricken down, ere I was led into this snare. Yes, Clara darling, you can be saved in one way, and that is a prison. You shall not be made a sacrifice for the sins of your father. The punishment of my sins shall come on me, and me alone. Clara. Father, dear father, I will see this man and plead with him ; he will have pity on us, and not claim that which will cause us so much mis- ery, {exit, l. Ralph. Now for just one drop of rum to quench this burning heat within me, and pacify that damnable demon which is fast gnawing at my vitals. Just one glass. (exit, e. Enter Montford, c. Mont. Yes, yes; Ralph Aubrey is in my power now, and Clara — the beautiful, peerless, Clara Aubrey — must be mine, (produces paper) This paper is all that is needed to complete my work. With this in my posses- sion she is secure, for she cannot see her father (puts away paper) suffer the penalty of his crime. Enter Zeke, l. dressed up. Montford sits with back to l. so as not to see him. Zeke. Goldarnit; how are you? (slaps Montford on shoulder. Mont. Sir ; havn't you any more manners than that? Zeke. Thunderation I yes ; but I ain't a-goin' to waste 'em on you. Mont. What's your name, and what business have you here ? Zeke. I guess you don't know that I'm Mr. Aubrey's footman, but if you ain't a little more civil you'll find out. (raises foot) And as for my namo, you can call it what you're a mind too. Mont. Perhaps, sir, you do not know to whom you are addressing your conversation— I am Mr. Montford, formerly of Europe. Zeke, Look-a-here, old boy ; you make me think of one of these old- 8 THREE GLASSES A DAY. fashioned dash chums — just about as much slop to you. But I swow you've got some darned guod clothes on, hain't ye? Mont. Wiil you have the goodness to leave this room ? Zeke. N-o — s-i-r — e-e — e ! I won't ! Mont. Young man, 1 wish you'd have the goodness to tell me who you are. Zeke. Well, if yon're so darned particular, I'm Zeke Wintergreen, the fust. Your Richard 3, ain't ye? Mont. What do you know of Rcihard the third ? Zeke. Gol darn it, I guess I know something of him. He's the fellow that was in sich an almighty hurry to git a hoss. That makes me think of the old sorrel mare dad used to have. By Jerusalem ! Richard, you'd ought to * (Montford advances to Zeke, who exits, l Mont. To be bothered with such a nuisance is enough to Enter Clara, l. This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Aubrey. Allow me to conduct you to a seat. Clara. No, no. I am here as a suppliant — as a child begging for the happiness of a dearly beloved parent. You hold in your possession, pa- pers, secrets, which, proven against my father, would place him in a fel- on's cell. No stain has yet been thrown on the name of Aubrey, and it would break the heart of my father and ruin the happiness ot his daugh- ter forever if these things were known. If in an evil hour the tempter came and my father proved weak and yielding, he has bitterly repented since. I do not crave the wealth that has been ours — no, no, ; take it all. It is yours by the law of honor, if not by the law of the land; take it, but ask for nothing more. Do not claim the hand without the heart of a weak girl ! Mont. It cannot be. I cannot give up the hope of the past year thus eas- ily ; it is asking too much. 'Tis not the estates of your father I seek, those I care not for ; I have already enough of wealth to satisfy my utmost de- sires, but the hand of peerless* Clara Aubrey I do crave— for that alone I beg. (kneels at her feet. Clara. Mr. Montford, I pray you rise; (rises) Would you have the hand alone ? Would this hand (holds out hand) and a heart filled with loathing give you ought of pleasure ? Would the knowledge of a broken, bleeding heart ever by your side— a life made desolate by you — give you happiness? If you have a heart, release me from this promise which my father has made you. By all that you hold sacred in this world, 1 entreat you. Mont. By my faith! Harry Montford were a villain indeed, did he claim aught unwittingly of one so Leautiful and charming as yourself. Though my heart bids me claim your hand, yet I would not wish an un- willing bride. Your father bade me think that his fair daughter would not look unfavorably on this union, and so I pictured to myself happiness and a new life in the love of the beautiful Clara; but fate decrees otherwise and I must submit. Clara. This is generous, manly. (sits,L.) I looked not for such noble conduct in you, Harrie Montford. May the blessings of a happy father and daughter ever fall on you ; and though you have not the love, yet you have the respect and friendship of Clara Aubrey. (/ zlds out her hand. Mont, (taking her hand) Clara, you have long had my love. To you it was given a year ago when first we met, and then I vowed to win you, neither thinking or caring whether your love went with the hand. That your pure heart shrank from mine is no wonder, for my life has been that from which all as pure as you would shrink away in fear. Yet it was not always thus. There was a time when none could throw reproach on the name of Harrie Montford, but the over-indulgence of a fond mother, and the etern, unbending will of a step-father, brought me into difficulties at home, and when sent to college, I soon got into trouble and was expelled. THREE GLASSES A DAY, 9 Then my father forbade rne the house, and I became a rover. With plenty of means to travel and do as I willed, for fifteen years I have not crossed the threshhold of my own home, for I swore then I'd never trouble fattier more. My mother I never saw again. A few years after I was informed of her depth by a lettei from my father, which he sent to Paris whither he learned I was. In that letter he said that my mother had left me her dy- ing blessing, and bade me turn from my sinful ways, and for a time I did break away from my companions and lead a different life. But old habits were strong upon me, and again I yielded. I partook again of the spark- ling w r ine, and again I frequented the gambling rooms. Clara, these were my worst vices, though the world says otherwise; but I can lay my hand upon heart, and vow that my deepest vices have been those of a gamester and a w r me lover. Clara. Harrie Mont-ford, I believe you speak the truth. Mont. Clara, though I have seen many beautiful ladies who have smil- ed, and wooed me by the glances of bright eyes, in sunny Italy, in gay Pari9, and in our own native land, yet never did my heart answer to love s call till I met you. Be not alarmed, Clara, I shall not press my suit, I am not worthy to mate with such angelic purity and loveliness. I will not ask it now. I will go forth into the wide world and strive amid its clamor, to win an honorable name— to wash away the stain from the escutcheon of a Montford, and become a man of good and true principles. Lifts her hand to his lips as she is about to exit, l. Clara. And remember, Harrie Montford, the blessing of Clara Aubrey shall go with you. ,-u exi \' L \ Mont. Yes, yes ; I have been a fool ! I have wasted my youth, my best life in dissipation, and now the pure and lovely shrink from me. 0, Clara if you could have but loved me, you might have saved me— might have re- de'emed me from mvself; but such happiness is denied me. 1 must alone battle with the world, and win an honorable n t ime ; and God helping me, I will ! And then, if she is free— but that dream must fade ; she loathes me, she shrinks with abhorrence from the very name of Montford. But I will d stroy all trace of the crime of Ralph Aubrey, so that what I deemed would grant me the hand of the fair Clara, shall at least bring me her es- teem and friendship, {takes out paper and burns it in light) Thus perishes all traces of his crime, and thus commences the first act of the new life, which 1 have resolved to lead. \exi«, 0. Enter Mr. Aubrey, b., intoxicated. • Ralph. Say ! hold on— hie— why don't yer— ec— stir round an' 'elp a fel- ler when ha's tired ? Hullo ! nobody 'ere ! Enter Zeke, l. I guess— hie— they didn't— 'spect— me. Well, it's all right ! Zeke. By Jerusalem ! you're drunk, ain't ye ? I swow, you look neat I Ralph. Don't I feel neat— hie— too ? That sling's little too much forme. What f s the matter 'ith 'em chairs ? What's the matter'th you, Zeke ? Why don't yer — hie — don't yer stand still ? Zeke Gol darn it, you don't know nothin', do ye ? Ralph. It's ail 'ight, Zeke— 'its all 'ite. When I die I'll leave you all my — hie — old clothes. . Zeke. It strikes me pooty darned solid that's all you'll have to leave. Ralph. What's makes me so shleepy ? I'll lay down here and— hie— rest awhile— 'spose it's all 'ight, ain't it ? Must be all 'ight. (sinks on floor, front c.) Of course it's all right. Yes-it's-all-right. {breathes hard. Zeke. Whew ! He's slopped over the dam pooty darn quick I ~ ( Whistles, and exits, l. Enter Mrs. Aubrey and Clara, l. Mrs. A. (starts) Merciful heavens 1 the blow has come, what will be- come of us? (weeps* Clara. Oh ! my daar, dear father. 10 THREE GLASSES A DAY. Mrs. A. Heavenly Father, help us in this our hour of trial and suffering, and guide us in the life of misery which lies before us. (weeps. TABLEAU. Music — 'Hornet Sweet Home/ as the curtain slowly falls. Mrs. Aubrey, r. JRalph on floor, front c. Clara, l. END OF ACT I. ACT II. Scene. — Miserably furnished room. Mrs. Aubrey seated in rocking chair, b. c. Table l. c. Mrs. A. Again the bright sun rises and sheds its warm radiant light over the earth, making warm happy B homes bright and joyful, but it brings naught but gloom and misery to our wretched lite. Little did we dream five years ago that our pleasant home and happy family were so soon to be broken and brought to scenes like this ! My poor husband, once the type of a proud and noble man, is slowly but surely going down to the gra*e. Our once ample fortune which by the bounteous hand of providence, was re- turned to us by the generous heart of Harri3 Montford, is gone, and what the future has in store for us, time alone will disclose. Miter Julia, r. \ ' Julia. Please, ma'em, shall I take Mr. Aubrey's breakfast up to his room? He has just got up, and looks, ! so miserable, and 1 thought some of those warm rolls would please his appetite. Mrs. A. Yes, Julia, if he is ready take them up at once. (Julia turns to go) One moment, please, Julia ; you have ever been a faithful help, and it pains me to tell you this. You must know that we are no longer able to pay you, and for your sake it is best you should find a new place of employment. Julia. Oh, Mrs. Aubrey ! you don't know Julia Lovegrove yet. Hav'nt I been with you through days of wealth and happiness, and shared your prosperity ? And because you are brought to penury and want, do you think I will desert you now ? Never ! Mrs. Aubrey. It is no more than right that I should share your lot with you, and come what may, I will. Mrs. A. Julia, you have a generous heart, and I can hardly express my thank3 to you for the kindness you have already shown us in the past ; yet it seems hardly right for you to remain here without your pay. Julia. What do I care for pay ? Hav'nt I had it already? But shall I go up to Mr. Aubrey's room? Mrs. A. Yes ; and I'll go with you, to® — perhap3l may be of some ser- vice to my poor husband. (both exit, a. Enter Zeke, l. Zeke. Isowfer a little of my ornamental penmanship, fct's kinder fun- ny 1 hain't. never got married 'fore now, ain't it ? I've been kinder waitin' on Jule fer some five or six years, but somehow I never da3t to say much on such a ticklish subject as matrimony. Gol darn it ! that's all the trouble with me — I'm so thunderin' bashful — but I swow ! I shant wait much longer. I guess I'll write 'er a love letter, and leave it here so she'll find it when she comes in. I never writ a love letter in all my born days, but I knowed a feller once over in Plymouth that sent one to a gal, and he got married in less'n three weeks'. His was in poetry, so I suppose that'swhat suits 'em best, (places table front c, and fumbles in drawer, getting piece of foolscap paper and large, yellow envelope) I guess I'll practice a little, so as THREE GLASSES A DAY, 11 to get limbered up, fer Jule says its practice that makes perfect, {pulls Out another piece of paper and begins to flourish) All right, I'll write her some- thin' solid, {writes, spelling the large words very extravagantly, and then reads it aloud. ) O, Julia, my darling, I love you so well, For you're such an all-thunderin' fine little gal, With your silver locks streaming far out on the breeze, And your long lashes droop as you frequently sneeze, In all my spare moments I watch your fair motion, And the tears course from my eyes as salt as the ocean As I fear on my love, perhaps you will frown — And then for a wife I'll he butier-side down ; But Julia, don't think I your feelings would hurt, For I already knosy your not much of a flirt, And should you see fit to blight this fond hope, I'll drown all my sorreis in a tub of soft soap. So marry me soon, and live like a queen In the sunshine and love of Zeke Wintergreen: There! how's that for high? If she can resist sueh tender lines aa them, she must have a pretty darned hard heart. Enter Julia, r. Julia. Zeke, your master wants you. Zeke, (writing on letter) "Weil, you can tell him I'm here. Julia. But he wants you to come to him — stupid ! Zeke. "Well, I will ; but, Jule, just afore 1 go, here's a little testimonial of my affection that I want to leave in your possession, {gives letter. Aside) "Wonder who she called stupid ? guess she must have meant the old man. Exit, R. Julia. Now what in the world can this be? (looking at letter) "Why, it's for me, and it's some of Zeke's nonsense. Mercy ! what writing ! (spells) M-i-s J-u-1-l-y-a L-u-v-g-r-o-a-v.e, S-e-n-t-i-r W-r-i-d-g-e — who ever saw such impudence? I know what it's all about; I suppose he thinks I'm going to marry him. Enter Clara, R. Clara. "Who thinks you're going to marry him, Julip ? Julia. ! Miss Clara, that Zeke Wintergreen's had impudence to write me, what he calls, I suppose, a love letter. Oh ! the wretch ! Clara. Well, what are you going to do about it ? Julia. What am I going to do about it ? (tears up letter) I'm going to tear it to pieces, and learn him to attend to his own business. Clara. Why, Julia ; Zeke's a very nice fellow, always good natured, never gets out of sorts. Really, Julia, I think you can't do better. Julia. Pshaw! Miss Clara, why didn't you marry Harrie Montford ? Me marry Zeke Wintergreen ? — preposterous ! (exit r. Clara. Harrie Montford ! Strange that the mention of that name should cause a thrill to my heart, such as I have never known before ; and strange that it should cause it to beat so rapidly. Can it be that I have mistaken my heart ? That those last words, coming as they did from the lips of Har- rie Montford, have worked other than friendly feelings? Strange, strange is the heart of woman ! Yes, even now there is pity, sympathy, and even more in my changed feelings towards him. But what am I saying ? why do I mention his name ? He is lost to me ; — for five long years he has been absent, and — I shall never see him more, (rap, i,.) Come in. Enter Harrie Montford, l., disguised as old man. Mont, (feebly) Kind lady, will you give me a glass of water, I am very, very thirsty ? Clara. I will, with pleasure. Here is a chair that you may rest, for you look tired and weary. (gives chair, and exits R. Montford sits, h Mont, (in natural voice) Yes, 'tis the same beautiful Clara Aubrey, Ah ! she little thinks the poor old man begging for a cup of water is the 12 THREE GLASSES A DAY- noted gambler, Harrie Montford, who left her five years ago. But I must be careful, lest she penetrate my disguise. I have come a long way to see her, and learn if the name of Harrie Montford has been blotted entirely from her memory. She comes. Enter Clara, b., with glass of water. Clara. Here, sir, is a glass of water; and would you not like something to eat ! (gives water.. Mont. Thanks, gentle lady, this cold water is all I wish for. (drinks) Will you have the goodness to tell me your name, that I may know whom to thank for this heartfelt kindhess ? Clara. Certainly ; my name is Clara Aubrey. Mont. Clara Aubrey ? that name sounds familiar. Did you ever know a person by the name of Harrie Montford ? Clara, (eagerly) I did ; can you tell me anything of him? Mont. Nothing ; only that in years gone by I used to be an acquaint- ance of his, and I have heard him mention the name of Clara Aubrey. The last account I had of him, he had sailed for South America. He was a low and unprincipled character, was he not ? and little respected by the community in which he lived ? Clara. There was a time when Harrie Montford's examples were not those we should copy; yet he was not devoid of principle — he had a noble, generous heart, and I believe, if he is living to-day, he is a man of good and true principles. Mont. God grant that it may be so. Kind lady, once more thanking you for your kindness to a poor old man, I will now take my leave, (exit, l. Clara. Yes, God grant that it may be so. Thank heaven that I have heard one friendly sentiment uttered in behalf of Harrie Montford, (exi'^R. Enter Ralph, c. Ralph, (rubbing his eyes) Come, old boy, this won't do. Wake up, let's have none of yonr laziness. Shake your feathers and open your shutters. I pity these great folks, they eat, drink and sleep all the time; your rich folks have always something to bother 'em, and fancy every little mouse that plays about the house is a thief. Now I'm never afraid of thieves, they can come it they like. There's uothing like being poor — it saves a world of trouble, (sits l. c. elbow on table) I feelkinder s*range to-day ; I don't think I'm drunk. I've often been drunk, but I never felt this way — sleepy and drowsy. (rests head on table — sleeps. Enter Julia, e. Julia. 0, poor, deluded mortal. Why w ill you drink that vile stuff and cause your family so much misery? Ah! he sleeps, and the sickening fumes of rum are borne upward with every breath. Oh, Ralph Aubrey, if you could be made to see your condition, could you but picture to yourself the sorrow you cause your wife and daughter, I'm sure, unless' you are en- tirely devoid of reason, that instead of draining the cup to the very dregs, you would hurl the poisonous thing from you as you would a serpent. Enter Zeke, b. Oh, you hateful ! what are you here for ? Don't you know that Mr. Aubrey cannot pay you, and that unless something happens for the better, they will have to go to the poorhouse ? Zeke. Let 'em go , ef they go to the poorhouse, I'll go long with 'em. Say, did you peruse that little epistle that I handed ye? Julia. No, I didn't ; and if you ever do such a thing, I'll put this (seizes broom) broom over you, so clear out. Zeke. . Oh, don't get so darned huffy about it. Ye needn't marry me'n 'less ye want to, I ain't particular about it, but I thought it would be a heap eight better for you. Say don't you think you'd better pretty much con- clude to change your mind, and so hitch up with me. By Jerusalem I Jule- THTtEE GLASSES A DAY. 13 Julia, (raises broom — exit Zeke &.) Oh, dear, was any oae ever so pes- tered with the presence of such a Enter Zeke, r. Zeke. There, I've been out and blowed ray nose, and now I've come in— Julia, (drives him out with broom) Clear out you hateful rascal ! Can't I have a moment's peace without being bothered with that troublesome yankee? When Mr. Aubrey was himself Zeke had to mind his stops, tut since he has lost all care and control of things, he thinks he can do just as he pleases. 1 do wish Mr. Aubrey would send him away, although I sup- pose he could not well get along without him. But I do wish°he would mind his own business. Enter Zeke, e. Zeke. Say ! Look-a-here ; that old gray mare has been and gone and got the scratches. Julia. Zeke Wintergreen, if you want your foolish head broken, you'd better come in here again. (raises broom. Zeke. See here, you little conglomeration of tongue and temper, you know I didn't mean nothin' ; I was only foolin'. But if you'll put down that broom, I'll make it square. Julia. If you won't vacate this apartment, I will. I won't be bothered by such a greenhorn. (Exit, a. Zeke. W<*11, vacate it if you want to — what do you suppose I care? Jurns to lialph, who is sleeping, l c.) Look 'e here, old pop, don't you want I should rouse ye up a leetle ? (about to collar him, when Julia calls. Julia, (outside, r.) Zeke! Zeke! Zeke Wintergreen ! Come here, quick! Zeke. (starting) Waal, I wonder what's the matter with that female, now ? ( Exit, r. Enter Clara, c. C'aro. Ah, here is my poor father ! What makes you sleep hsre, fath- er? Ah, that heavy breathing tells too well the cause of your slumber! Oh, father, father-! (sits, r Knock, l.) Come in. Enter Montford, l. Clara, (rising) Harrie Montford! Mont. Yes, once more returned to this well-remembered place. Am I quite .brgotten ? < Clara. No, not forgotten, and I bid you welcome to our old home, which thanks to you, is ours again. (hi takes her hand. Mont. Miss Aubrey, this fair hand I once claimed; then your heart was full of bitterness toward me. I was a bold, bad man, with a dark stain upon my name — now it stands brigbt and untarnished before the world. 1 have striven to lead a better life, with what success you have seen. But in those five long years, there has come no new love dream to my heart; I love you still. What ar* 1 saying — your pure heart shrank from me then —no, no, you can but despise me. Cla^a. Can you forgive the harsh words I uttered five years ago ? Mont. Tbere is nothing to forgive. You speak kindly to me — you dc not withdraw your hand — Miss Aubrey — Clara, dare I hope that you will some day be my wife? Clara. My heart is yours, and I will be your wife. Mont, (kisses her hand) Thus has the greatest earthly happiness dawn- ed upon me, and I now feel fully repaid for the five long years of struggling since we parted. Clara. But Harrie, do you see my father, th^re ? There is the wreck c] a once proud man. Would you claim the hand of a drunkard's daughter' Mont. That, I heed not, care not for, so say no more. I have learned all concerning your father's downward course — but hereafter, let us eacb forgive and foiget the unhappy days that are past and gone, for it shali b« my earnest endeavor to make the remainder of your life pass happily. ■ H THREE GLASSES A DAY. Clara. But Karrie, must I leave my father and mother? You have doubtless learned that the ample fortune which was returned to us through your kindness, has been all exhausted, and this old home is mortgaged for its lull value, and unless something can be done, we must Mont. Dear Clara, have no fear — luckily I have wealth enough, and to spare. You shall keep your old home, and your parents shall be kindly cared for. But grant me this one favor — keep the knowledge of my return from your parents, until I, myself, make it known. But come, let us gc before your father awakes. Clara. Oh, Harry, if my father was a sober man, I should be perfectly happy. Thank heaven for your return to us. Come, this way. {Exeunt, l. At this moment Mrs. Aubrey and others if so desired, sing softly, the second verse of "Rock Me to Sleep, Mother." Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of years, I am so weary of toils and of tears — Toil without recompense — tear* all in vain — Take them, and give me my childhood again. I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away. Weary of sowing for others to reap — Kock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep. Ralph, (raising up. and looking around) Was that a dream? Am I that wretched being, that was pictured to me, struggling in that rushing rivei of liquor ? Yes it was, and vainly trying to reach the shore where my poor wife and daughter, with streaming eyes and uplifted hands, were beckon- ing me to them. Yet vain was my utmost endeavors. Struggle as I might, I was 6 till going down, down, soon to be burned in those liquid fires of hell 1 when suddenly there came a warning voice saying, "Thus far shalt thou go and no farther." And the sweet voice of my gentle wife sounded in my ears rousing my sinking soul to energy. Then those rushing waves were stilled, and again I struck out boldly for the shore, which, thank heaven, I had succeeded in reaching, and where I will hereafter stand and again prove to the world that 1 am more worthy of its esteem and friendship. And with the help of God, never shall another drop of liquor pollute my lips. That dream has saved mel Mrs. Aubrey and Clara, who have appeared during this speech, come, down, l. Mrs A. (falls on his neck) Oh, Ralph! Ralph! Once again the same fond husband as of yore. Clara. Father, father ! My own father once more! Ralph. My dear, true-hearted wife — my darling daughter ! This has been a long night, but with God'e help, the day will now dawn upon you. Mary, you have ever been a faithful wife and mother. I have caused you much suffering, but in the future it shall be my endeavor to be what I ought to be, both to you and Clara. Clara. Oh, father,! am so happy ! What a glorious surprise awaits you and mother ! (exit, l. Ralph. Perhaps, wife, you are not awsre that we have some trials to pass through. We are in debt, and unless I can make some arrangement with my creditors, we must part from our pleasant home. Mrs A. Do we owe so very much, Ralph ? Ralph. Amere trifle to those who possess riches, but a large sum to those who have nothing. About five hundred dollars, I believe. Mrs A. One moment, Ralph. (exit, L. Ralph. That's a dear wife of mine ! What a brute I have been ! Enter Mrs. Aubrey, l., with a s>nall ivork box. Mrs A. Here is a gift for you, Ralph. (placing box in his hand3. Ralph. And rather a heavy one— (raising the lid) — too. Why, Mary, where did all of this money come from ? ^ THREE GLASSES A DAY. f 5 Mrs A. Have you forgotten the "Three Glasses a Day" you irdulffed me in, for so many years? Those five ten, and twenty- five c» n t pieces, which form the contents of that box, are the result of that present you made me five years ago. J " .-- Ralph. Is it possible that you have treasured it up in this manner ? Mrs A 1 saved it for a time of need. It is all yours, now-there are five hundred and sixty-five dollars. We may keep our own dear homp Ralph And I am a free man on-e more, thanks to you. I accept youi gift. Strange that both somw and gladness should be caused by "Three Glasses a Day." * - Enter Clara and Harrie Montford, l. Ralph. Do my eyes deceive me, or is it indeed Harrie Montford who now stands before me? i ¥° n x\ Tt!f Ht A . ubre ^ [t » . H , ar r ie Montford, but not the same as ot old. 1 trust that the live years which have elapsed since I saw you last have made in me a change for the better. I went direct from here to the gold mines of Peru, and engaged in speculation. With plenty of capital I was enabled to reap a rich harvest. I succeeded in business beyond mv most sanguine expectations. Gold rolled in, in abundance, but* I deter- mined to suspend my business for a time— leave South America, and re- turn to these well-remembered scenes, and see if I would be welcomed to your home. Ralph. Welcome, yes, welcome ! (to Mrs. Aubrey) Mary, have you no- word of greeting for our former benefactor and friend ? Mrs A. Yes, Mr. Montford, I welcome you to our home, which had it not been for you, would have been in the hands of strangers. Mont. Thanks, dear friends for this kind greeting. But, Mr. Aubrey can you welcome me as a son? Once more I come to ask the hand of vour daughter — her heart is already mine. Ralph. Take her, Harrie, take her— and make her a good husband— bet- ter than I have been. I have led a miserable lite, and Mont. Thanks, Mr. Aubrey, say no more. And Mrs. Aubrey Mrs A. Yes, gladly do I accept you as my son, and remember that you have a mother's trust and love. Enter Zeke and Julia, a. Zeek. How dye du? Why, boss, you're straight 's a string, ain't you ? And I'll be darned if here ain't Richard three. What in thunder 'e Join' tew happen? 6 Julia. Zeke, won't you keep your noisy tongue still? If you don't, I won't Zeke. There, you liked to told on't yourself, didn't you ? Clara. Ah, I see how it is, Julia ; you've changed your mind in regard to Zeke, as I knew you would, like a sensible girl as you are. Zeke. Yes, she's pretty much concluded to change her mind, and so hitch up with me." Julia. No, sir, not unless you learn i little civility and good manners at least more than you have shown for the last few weeks. Zeke. Um-m-m-m ! Pootty well said fer yeou. Mont. Oh ! 1 see we are to have two weddings. Zeke. Two weddin's ! who's the tother victim ? Mont. Myself and Miss Clara. Zeke. Whoop 1 Bravo ! skip-te- deedle-i- do ! that's all I know. Give us ycr hand for thirty days ! (shake hands) Yeou know which side yer bread's buttered on, don't ye ? Julia. Be careful, Zeke Wintergreen ; what if I should conclude not to marry you after all, what would you do then ? Zeke. Why, I'd drown all my sorrow in a tub of soft soap, like as I writ ye in that letter. Mont. Clara, dear, did you think when you gave that poor old man a glass of water, that you was so soon to be his wife? 16 THREE GLASSES A DAY. Clara Whv. Harrie, what do you mean ? Mont. I simply mean, Clara, that that old man was none other than mvaSf. HowsLuld I know but what I had been forgotten in the five K years that I have been absent? and I assumed that disguise to earn vour feelings towards me. But remember the old saying, "All's well that I^aI w 1 » ( Zeke places Julia's arm wxtnxn his own. Ralph Yes, dear wife, daughter and son, -All is well ;" and as I stand here! once rnor'e united with my happy family beneath this old roof and thiSc that you together have saved me from ruin and from an ignomini- ous death, fwoulcf return thanksgiving ior the many blessings we -have > re- ceived. And to those of our dear friends present, who are about to step forth intothe broad arena of life, and to those who stand on the brink of the fatal precipice : lest you you be precipitated into the gulf below, pause, pause, an§ beware of the tempter, a/d while there is yet time, pledge your- selves, with the help of God, to shake off the yoke that binds you. Be true to yourselves, and to the dear ones that gather *™*\j°™* ™™*; hearths j and bear in mind the sad remembrances of our "Broken Home. Mrs. Aubrey and Mr. Aubrey, 0. Harrie and Clara, u., with hand joined. Ztke and Julia, l. TABLEAU. Slow Music and slow Curtain. DRIVEN TO THE WALL, OR TRUE TO THE LAST. A Play in Four Acts, by A.D. AMES, author of the Poacher's Doom, Wrecked, The Spy of Atlanta, Etc. For beauty of dialogue, startling situations, depth of feeling, in fact all points whicn go to make up a drama, which will continue to grow in public favor, there is none on the American stage superior to this one. The plot is an exceedingly deep one, aud the interest begins with tne first speech, and does not for a moment cease until the curtain falis on the last scene of the last act. The cast is small, the costumes easily arranged. It can be played on any stage. It has parts for Leading Emotional Lady, Juvenile Ladv, Leading Man, Villain, Chararter Old Man, First Old Man, Comedy, etc Traveling companies, everywhere, should have it, and every thea- tre should have it. Just published at 15 cents per copy. r>- Every Dramatic Company should order copies of the Temperance Plays mentioned below. "RESCUED" In two a^ts, by Clayton H. Gilbert. Has five male and three fe- male characters. This play is esaily produced and is always very effective. It visibly depicts the dangerous consequences of falling into bad company, the follies of the intoxicating bowl, and shows that even the pure love of a noble girl will be sacrificed to the ac- cursed appetite. The rescue of the fallen man is well carried out by a friend in deep disguise. The solemn scenes are balanced by the tunny portions, and all in all, the play is a grand success. a Out in the Streets/' In two acts, by S. N". Cook. Wherever this drama has been pre- sented, it has been received with the greatest enthusiasm. Listen- ers have been melted to tears at the troubles of Mrs. Bradford, and in the next scene been convulsed with laughter at the drolleries of North Carolina Pete. The play has six male and four female char- acters. The characters are excellently drawn, and if a clay is needed that will exactly fill the requirements of a small company, order this one. 0§^ The above plays are but 15 cents per copy. For sale, WHOLESALE & RETAIL by A. I). AMES, Publisher, Clyde, Ohio. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUE OF PLA iW7_401 667 7 No. 60. — I>riven to tlic Wall, or Xriie to the Last, A Play, in four acts, by A. D. Ames. 10 male and 3 female char- acters. For beauty of dialogue, startling situations, depths of feel- ing, in fact all points which go lo make up a drama that will con- tinue to grow in public favor, there is none on the American Stage superior to this one. The plot is an exceedingly deep one, and the interest begius with the first speech, and does not for a moment cease uu til the curtain falls ontheJast scene of the last act. The cast is small and the costumes easily arranged. It can be played on any stage. It has parts for Leading Emotional Lady, Juvenile Lady, Leading Man, Villain, Character Old Man, First Old Man, Comedy, etc. Traveling companies, everywhere, should have it, and every theatre should have it. No. 61. — Not as Deaf as Ite Seems. An Ethiopean Farce in one act. 2 male characters. Scene — a plain room. Costumes exagerated and comic. Extremely ridicu- lous and fuuny. Time of performance 15 minutes. No. 63 — Xen rvigltts in a Bar-Room. A Temperance Play, in five acts, by Wm. W. Pratt, from T. S. Arthur's novel of the same name — 7 male, 3 female characters. This edition is rewritten, containing many new points, and is the best ever presented to the public. Nothing need be said in its praise, as it is too well known. It is often played, and always suc- cessfully. Time of performance about two hours. No, U9.— Three Glasses a I>ay, Or, The Broken Home. A grand Moral and Temperance Drama, in two acts, by W. Henri Wilkins, 4 male, 2 female characters. Cos- tumes modern. Scenes, interiors. First-class characters for Lead- ing Man, Villain, a genuine down-east Yankee, wiiich is also very funny; also Leading Lady, and a tip-top Comedy Lady, If acorn- uany wish something with an excellent moral, at the same time running over with genuine humor, buy this. Time of performance about one hour and thirty minutes. No. 64.— That Boy Sain. An Ethiopean Farce in one scene, by F. L. Cutler. 3 male, 1 fe- male character. Scene— a plain room and common furniture, Cos- tumes, comic, to suit the characters. Very tunny, and effectually gives the troubles of a "colored gal" in trying to have a beau, and the pranks of "that boy Sam." Time of performance twenty minutes. No. 65* — An Unwelcome Return. A Comic Interlude, in one act, by Geo. A. Munson. 3 male, 1 fe- male character. Scene — a dining room. Costumes, modern. Com- panies will find this a very amusing piece, two negroes being very funny — enough so to keep an audience in the best of humor. Time of performance, twenty minutes. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 017 401 667 7