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SHOEMAKER'S 
 
 FOR 
 
 READINGS AND RECITATIONS 
 
 Numbers 1 to 28 Now Issued 
 
 Paper Binding, each number, - - 30 cents 
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 This series was formerly called "The Elocutionist's 
 Annual," the first 17 numbers being published under 
 that title. The change in name is made because it is 
 believed a more appropriate title is thus secured. 
 
 Teachers, Readers, Students, and all persons who 
 have occasion to use books of this kind, concede this 
 to be the best series of speakers published. The differ- 
 ent numbers are compiled by leading elocutionists of 
 the country, who have exceptional facilities for securing 
 selections, and whose judgment as to their merits is in- 
 valuable. No trouble or expense is spared to obtain the 
 very best readings and recitations, and much material is 
 used by special arrangement with other publishers, thus 
 securing the best selections from such American authors 
 as Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Lowell, Emerson, 
 Alice and Phoebe Gary, Mrs. Stowe, and many others. 
 The foremost English authors are also represented, as 
 well as the leading French and German writers. 
 
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Schoolday Dialogues 
 
 A G>IIectfon of Original Dialogues^ Tatleaux^ Etc* 
 
 DESIGNED FOR 
 
 School Exhibitions, Lyceums, Literary Societies, 
 Parlor Entertainments, Etc 
 
 REV. ALEXANDER CLARK, A. M. 
 
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 Philadelphia 
 
 The Penn Publishing Company 
 
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 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by 
 
 P. GARRETT & CO. 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 
 
 Copyright 1897 by The Penn Publishing Company 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 Out of several hundred manuscript Dialogues, written 
 in response to a liberal proposition made by the Pub- 
 lishers, we have chosen for publication about one-sixth, 
 taking the editorial liberty of condensing, changing, or 
 otherwise modifying here and there, such as are now 
 presented in this volume. We have sought to furnish 
 as great a variety in sentiment and style as possible, 
 always keeping in view the fact that Dialogues, to be 
 interesting and profitable, must be acted as well as 
 uttered. 
 
 Since this Avork first appeared, we have made several 
 revisions of the original matter, substituting from time 
 to time fresh and timely Dialogues for those which 
 seemed to have grown out of date, and in the present 
 edition have increased the size of the volume by the 
 addition of some twenty pages of entirely new pieces. 
 
 (3) 
 
4 PREFACE. 
 
 There is no species of recitation in which young peo- 
 ple take more delight, or evince more enthusiasm, than 
 Declamation or Dialogue; and with a judicious selec- 
 tion of subject, and a natural manner of representation 
 by voice and gesture, there is no better medium of cul- 
 tivating a beautiful and effective style of elocution. It 
 is impossible to teach reading successfully', and to 
 excite an ambition in the breast of the pupil in this rare 
 and pleasing accomplishment, without using lessons 
 that call out the natural, conversational tones, the phra- 
 seology of every-day life, the vim and voice of repartee 
 in play, in work, in trade, in the most common happen- 
 ings of home, or school, or journey, or occasion what- 
 soever. In a Dialogue, a youngster needs no stilts on 
 which to stretch himself and stalk forward on the high, 
 dead level of language above his years. Here he feels 
 his words, and enjoys their utterance as his own. Here 
 he naturally uses the proper tone, inflection, and modu- 
 lation, and, without knowing it as a rule, glides into the 
 grace of delivery because he watches the immediate 
 eflect and listens to the consequent responses of the 
 words he utters and means. The vocabulary of these 
 Dialogues is not beyond the daily scenes and sounds 
 and sentiments of Schooldays. 
 
 Although this Book is composed for the most part of 
 carefully written and substantial subject-matter, we have 
 admitted quite a number of humorous and amusing 
 pieces. The proportion of the latter may be greater 
 th«».n will be approved by certain melancsholy religionists 
 
PREFACE. 5 
 
 who would infuse their moan into the verj' babblings of 
 the brook and laughters of the breeze. But v»'e have 
 not so far out-grown our own childhood as to depreciate 
 the joys of innocent mirth, or to say that the only 
 method of correcting bad habits, of language or of life, 
 is to frown upon them, or pretend not to see them, or 
 dolefully to sigh and sorrow over them as misfortunes 
 of the fall, and endure them under the name of crosses. 
 Such a self-inflicted penance is more heterodox, in our 
 humble judgment, than any creed, which, gospel-like, 
 aims to correct these every-day errors of the people. 
 Sometimes, indeed, a bit of ridicule, if ingeniously ren- 
 dered, is more effectual in destroying an evil of temper 
 or of tongue than would be a hundred homiletic dis- 
 courses on human depravity, or a temple echoed full of 
 daily prayers that word themselves in the phrases of 
 Pharisaism. We anticipate the criticisms of the would- 
 be models of propriety — the be-solemn bachelorhood of 
 literature — and willingly bargain for all their censures 
 by giving in exchange our commiseration. It is an old 
 saying that " the true orator must know how to excite 
 the mirth, as well as how to command the tears of his 
 audience." If the children shall enjoy this book, and 
 are thereby aided in discovering wrong habits or danger- 
 ous tendencies in themselves or others, and are in any 
 degree stimulated to better manners and happier life, 
 by reading and acting these Dialogues, our object will 
 have been more than accomplished, and our time and 
 care more th;in rewarded. 
 
6 EF ACE. 
 
 The art of feeling, and of teaching others how to feel 
 the force of language, is most readily acquired from 
 the speaking of Dialogues. There is a captivation 
 about an exercise that requires a fellow-actor which 
 enlists the best attention, not only of the performers 
 themselves, but also of the auditors. The speaker re- 
 alizes that he is to impress his hearers as much by the 
 manner as by the matter of his discourse. Mere routine 
 reading, paragraph by paragraph, in parrot-like regula- 
 rity of sound, as a task to be told, will become as mo- 
 notonous as a bell that is tolled. 
 
 It is said of a prosy minister, that, while, on a cer- 
 tain occasion, he was reading to his congregation a 
 chapter from the Bible, he put several of his hearers to 
 sleep. His voice was kej^ed to a meaningless mono 
 tone, and his whole manner was as spiritless and as 
 senseless as the muttering of a mill. For some minis- 
 ters do go, as machines, b}-- some sort of fuel-fed force, 
 rather than by the vital impulses of head and heart, as 
 men. So went he, and as an inevitable consequence, he 
 rumbled the people off into the land of dreams. Then, 
 looking up from his book, and seeing his hearers 
 soothed under his voice like babes by mothers' lullabies, 
 he became indignant at their stupidity, and wishing to 
 make a direct impression, his feeling took action, and 
 he seized the Bible with both hands and hurled it at 
 their heedless heads, saying, in a far more natural and 
 honest manner than that in which he had been reading, 
 ** If yo'i will not hear the truth, you miserable sinners. 
 
PEEFACE. 7 
 
 I am determined to make you feel it." That minister 
 never delivered a more eloquent passage in his life. He 
 felt what he said, if he did not feel what he was reading, 
 and he made the people feel just whal he felt himself, 
 and perhaps some of them a little more I He was 
 aroused and in earnest ; then tone, emphasis, and modu- 
 lation, and gesture were natural. He did a foolish 
 thing ; but he did it in a forcible and striking manner. 
 
 We haA'e sometimes thought that many clergymen, 
 teachers, and parents will have a fearful account to ren- 
 der for the indifference with which the}'- read the Scrip- 
 tures. What beauties, sj-mpathies, grandeurs, and 
 glories are perverted and mutilated b}'^ the task-readera 
 of the Sacred Word ! The devil could not more effect- 
 aall}"^ burlesque religion than to employ certain dj'spep- 
 tic professors of it, to go about reading the Bible I 
 Eyes have thej', but they see not. Tongues have they, 
 but they talk not. Hearts have they, but they feel not 
 Thej' repulse the smiling children by their funereal 
 solemnities when nobody has died ! 
 
 xsot long since we heard the eightieth Psalm read 
 with such a cog-wheel coarseness and clatter of expres- 
 sion that the beautiful petition, " Turn us again," sound- 
 ed as thougli it would all be chipped to pieces in the 
 machinist's lathe. Frequently on funeral occasions, in 
 our hearing, has the fifteenth chapter of the First Epis- 
 tle to the Corinthians been so attacked, so wounded, so 
 slain, so utterl}' buried by professional friends to its 
 glorious truth, that ijj really seemed to us that there 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 would be no resurrection for ever I When will teachers 
 and preachers use the means that are natural, accessible, 
 and efficient, in training the young to read as they talk ? 
 We verily believe that many of the sectarianisms of the 
 religious world, arise from an ignorance of the rules of 
 emphasis in reading the Bible, rather than from any 
 distinct meanings of the truth upon the Blessed Pages. 
 
 An intelligent young Christian student was noticed 
 to come into chapel service ever}'^ day regularly after 
 the Scripture lesson and singing were finished. The 
 Professor called him to an account for his delinquency, 
 and he excused himself on the ground of very tender 
 feelings, not being able to endure the butchery of hymn 
 and Scripture. Said he : " My mother used to read the 
 Bible to me, and I can't associate those hallowed memo- 
 ries with the heartless roughness I must hear in this 
 chapel. I canH do it.''^ He was excused, and the pul- 
 pit readings were improved thereafter. 
 
 The subject of reading, or elocution, should occupy, 
 if not more time, more attention. The 3^oung should 
 be taught to read as they talk, freely, feelingly, with 
 the spirit, with the understanding, with all the emphasis 
 and action of graceful gesture. Enthusiasm must be 
 excited, in some way, ambition aroused, and the natural 
 voice called out as a response to the questionings of 
 common sense. 
 
 If these Schoolday Dialogues shall be properly 
 studied, their lessons fully understood, and their spirit 
 fully realized, their delivery will be, we trust, so accept- 
 
PREFACE. 9 
 
 able and so impressive, that our well-intended labors 
 may not have been in vain. 
 
 Alexander Clark. 
 
COI^TTEIS-TS. 
 
 True Manliness M. L. R. 15 
 
 The Tobacco Pledge Elizabeth E. Ralston. 30 
 
 The New Muff and Collar Kate E. Peet. 34 
 
 Choose tour Words Barbara Broome. 38 
 
 Effects of "War Ceria. 44 
 
 The Two Interpreters of Dreams Hattie Herbert. 49 
 
 The Four Seasons Louise E. V. Boyd. 54 
 
 School Affairs in Eiverhead District. ..(7. W. Deans. 58 
 
 Novel Eeadino 67 
 
 The Demons of THE Glass Oliver Optic. 70 
 
 The Twelve Months Henry H Johnson. 75 
 
 The New Preacher Silonius. 78 
 
 The Seasons Hattie Home. 82 
 
 Little Angels Emma C. Hollinger. 87 
 
 The Young Statesman Beno. 92 
 
 Two AVays of Life H. G.H. 95 
 
 Too Good to attend Common School Eliza Doolittle. 97 
 
 Fireside Colloquy Joseph V/. Leatherman. 101 
 
 Pocahontas Mary Hartwell. 106 
 
 Beauty of Face and Beauty of Sovl.. Abbie J. Thornton. 109 
 
 Uncle Zeke's Opinion TF. H. Sabean. 113 
 
 Spelling Class D. R. Brubaker. 120 
 
 The Two Teachers Hattie Herbert. 1 24 
 
 (11) 
 
12 CONTENTS. 
 
 Memory and Hope Mrs. L E. V. Boyd. 127 
 
 A Contentious Community. , Eureka. 132 
 
 Lost and Found Emma E. Brewster. 138 
 
 The Tri-Colors Emma Fields. 142 
 
 Annie's Party L. A. B. C. 144 
 
 The Reclaimed Brother ; or, | ^ -^ McBride. 150 
 
 The Chain of Roses. | 
 
 Reformation H. B. Niles. 154 
 
 Seeing a Ghost Julia A. Crouch. 158 
 
 The Motto or Examplf Mrs. C. M. Peat. 162 
 
 Choosing a Trade or Profession Geo. D. Hunt. 169 
 
 Child- Philosophy H. A. Duncan. 174 
 
 The Noblest Hero Alice Gray. 176 
 
 Woman's Rights Emma Ztliff. 179 
 
 The Orphan's Trust R. C. Hunt. 186 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 TEUE MANLINESS. 
 
 CHAEACTEES. 
 
 Mb. Howard, a wealthy gentleman. 
 
 Mb. Wayne, teacher. 
 
 Tom Jones, a blusterer. "i 
 
 Caleb Nott, a toady. [ 
 
 Charles Stephens, son of a poor widow. >- Pupils. 
 
 Harey Dare. I 
 
 Edward Burton. I 
 
 Act I. Scene 1. — The School Room. 
 
 Teacher. — Boys, I have something to tell you after 
 school, or rather, you must be prepared to hear some- 
 thing. I believe, however, that I had better not tell it. 
 
 Boys. — Oh, please, teacher, do tell us. What is it? 
 
 Teacher. — No, I shall not tell you; but you shall 
 hear it this afternoon, nevertheless. Now attend to your 
 studies. ^Goes on correcting exercises.^ 
 
 Tom Jones [to Caleb']. — What a mum fellow our 
 teacher is, to be sure; isn't he? 
 
 Caleb. — Yes ; he might as well out with it now. 
 
 Teacher. — Attend to your studies, boys. Are you 
 talking ? 
 
 Tom. — No, teacher, only Charlie Stephens, he makes 
 such a noise with his li^js. {^Charlie looks confused, but 
 does not speak.] 
 
 Teacher [severely]. — Tom Jones, how often must I 
 correct j'ou in speaking? It is unnecessary to use 
 the personal pronoun when you use the noun. A great 
 
 15 
 
16 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 boy like you — almost a man — should be more careful. 
 Charles Stephens, you must make less noise studying; 
 you disturb me. 
 
 Tom to [Charlie']. — I'll be even with you for that lec- 
 ture; see if I don't. 
 
 Caleb. — Hide his old cap after school. 
 
 [Enter Mr. Howard. Mr. Wayne advances, and they 
 shake hands. Boys rise.'] 
 
 Mr. Howard. — I am pleased, Mr. Wayne, to see j'our 
 school in such good order. Have you mentioned my 
 proposition to your pupils ? 
 
 Teacher. — I have not, sir ; but merely intimated to 
 them that they would \\Qixv something. I preferred leav- 
 ing it to yourself Boys, yon know who this gentleman 
 is? 
 
 Boys [all]. — Yes, sir ; Mr. Howard. 
 
 Mr. H. — Thank j'ou, young gentlemen ; I am glad 
 you remember me. [Boys hoio.] Your respected 
 teacher tells me that he has jDrepared you to hear some 
 particular news. 
 
 Boys. — Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. H. — Well, I shall now proceed to tell you what 
 it is. I am, as j*ou may be aware, a great friend to ed- 
 ucation. [Boys how.] Education, my young friends, 
 is better than houses and lands — better than gold. But 
 mental education, without moral, is worse than useless. 
 The boy who possesses one without the other, maj' be 
 compared to a man who has eyes, yet is blind ; who has 
 ears, yet can not hear. Do 3'ou understand me ? 
 
 Boys. — Yes, sir. 
 
 Mr. H. — Very well. ISTow, that you may learn to 
 appreciate the value of moral education, I have deter- 
 mined to offer a gold eagle to that boy whose meritori- 
 ous conduct best deserA'es a reward. 
 
 Boys. — Oh, thank 3'ou, sir; 3'ou are very kind. 
 
 Mr. H. — Remember, boys, that you all can not get it; 
 but the trying for it will be an advantage in many ways. 
 First, striving for this prize will beget in j'ou a noble 
 emulation. Secondly, 3'ou will, if 3'ou really desire to 
 obtain it, practice many virtues — patience, self-denial, 
 energy, etc. Thirdly', you will, in the pursuit of this 
 pri'se, acquire a habit of perseverance, which alone will 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 17 
 
 be worth many half eagles to you. Fourthly — I believe 
 I have no fourthly, except to say, that your term of pro- 
 bation will expire in one month from to-day — when I 
 shall have the pleasure of bestowing a reward on the 
 most deserving, amid, I trust, the approving smiles of 
 his noble-minded companions. Good afternoon, 3'oung 
 gentlemen ; good afternoon, Mr. Waj'ne. [Exit] 
 
 Boys [all together']. — Who'll get ii, I wonder? I 
 mean to try, I don't; 'twould be no use. Ten dollars 
 in gold — I wish I had it — etc. 
 
 Teacher. — Boys ; silence I Is this rnde clamor the 
 beginning of j^our competition for a reward of merit ? 
 Now act more like the gentlemen Mr. Howard calls you. 
 As it wants but twenty minutes until the hour of dis- 
 missal, I shall let you off now. But tell me, who intends 
 to gain the prize ? Tom Jones, do you ? 
 
 Tom. — No, sir ; I couldn't get it if I did try ; and, 
 besides, old Howard is rich enough to have offered 
 iwenty dollars, and I call him stingy. 
 
 Boys. — Oh, shame ! he had no need to give it at all. 
 
 Teacher. — Thomas, I am astonished to hear you 
 speak in such a disrespectful manner; but I hope you 
 are not in earnest. Ned Burton, will you trj' ? 
 
 Ned. — Yes, sir; and I'll get it, too. 
 
 Teacher. — Indeed ; how do you know? 
 
 Neb. — Why, I never tried for any thing I didn't get. 
 
 ToM. — You didn't get the book that master offered 
 for that problem in algebra, and _you tried for it. 
 
 Neu [^aside]. — I'll get satisfaction out of you, though; 
 sec if I don't. 
 
 ToM {^.HneeiHngly']. — Well, maybe you'll get satisfac- 
 tion ; but you wont get the ten dollars. 
 
 Teacher. — Charlie Stephens, will 3'ou get it, too? 
 
 Charlie. — Oh! if I only could. 
 
 Teacher. — Why, what would you do with it ? 
 
 Tom [aside']. — Buy a little doll-baby. 
 
 Teacher. — Answer, Charles; what would you do? 
 [Charles endeaiiors to speak, but falters, and turns 
 away. Tom — behind teacher — places one arm 
 across the other, pretending to dandle a baby; 
 sings softly, By-o-baby ; buy a dolly loith teirdolr 
 lars. Boys laugh.] 
 2 
 
18 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Teacher [musingly']. — I can not understand Charles 
 Stephens. 1 would fancy he had some trouble if he 
 were not too 3'oung. It must he only silly bashfulness, 
 and I must cure him of it. Boys, what ai-e you laugh- 
 ing at ? 
 
 Caleb. — Why, sir, Charlie looks so funny when he's 
 crying; just like a girl. 
 
 Teacher [sternlyj. — I do not see why a girl should 
 look more funny than a boy. Charles, are you crying ? 
 
 Charlie. — No, sir; I am not crying. 
 
 Tom. — Only mighty near it. 
 
 Teacher. — Tom, I insist on j'our being silent, or, at 
 least, you must cease these personal remarks. Because 
 yon have sense enough to be neither bashful nor vain- 
 glorious [looks at Charlie and Ned], you should not 
 tease those who are either. Now you can leave, boys ; 
 and I wish you, each and all, to try for Mr. Howard's 
 prize ; for if he be really pleased with you, his gener- 
 osity will not be limited to this act; but I must not tell 
 any more. However, I hope you will all deserve it, 
 though only one can get it, [Exeunt omnes.'] 
 
 Scene 2. Immediately after Scene 1. — Boys at Play. 
 
 Tom Jones. — I wonder now who will get that tep 
 dollars. I call it a mean trick not to give twenty. The 
 old miser could afford it just as easy, and then 'twould 
 be worth having, though not worth trying for, I say. 
 
 Caleb. — No, not worth trying for, I say, too; but, 
 Tom, 3^ou could get it, couldn't you ? Ten dollars arn't 
 picked up in tlie street. 
 
 Tom. — Why couldn't you get it, if you are so anxious 
 for it ? 
 
 Caleb. — Oh, Tom, 'twouldn't be any use for me to try. 
 Old master doesn't think that much of me ; but you could 
 wheedle it out of his own pocket, if 'twas only in, you're 
 such a pet of his. 
 
 Tom. — No I aint, though. 
 
 Caleb. — Why, didn't you hear what he said to you 
 'vhen that cry-baby, Charlie, began to blubber? 
 
 Tom. — Oh, von want to gammon me now. I'm not 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 19 
 
 quite that green, though. Here comes Burton no"w I'll 
 teach him to brag. 
 
 Caleb. — Now don't, Tom ; master would be sure to 
 hear of it. See what he says first. 
 
 Ned. — I say, Tom, let's have a game of foot-ball. 
 
 Tom \^aside\. — To be sure 1 /ie'« trying for it in earnest 
 \_Aloud.'\ How about that satisfaction, Ned ? 
 
 Ned. — Oh, hang the satisfaction [aside] till I get the 
 prize. 
 
 Tom. — Well, I'll hang it, if you like. I see you're 
 going in to win. 
 
 ^-ETi [indifferently .^ — No; I needn't try. There's so 
 many better fellows in the school than I am. Besides, 
 my father's rich, and I can get ten dollars any time I 
 want it. 
 
 Tom. — You think you can 1 
 
 Caleb [sidling up to Ned]. — Ned, I think you've about 
 the smartest chance going. I'll tell master how you 
 forgave Tom, after all his meanness, and 'twill stand in 
 3'^our favor. 
 
 Ned. — Oh, go 'way. I don't want to have any thing 
 to say to you. 
 
 Caleb [bitterly']. — You don't, don't you? Well, 
 ma3'be 3'Oull come down 3'et, Ned Burton, for all you 
 hold yourself so high. [Goes off by himself.] 
 
 Ned. — Where's that little girl, Charlie ? I guess heHl 
 get it ; he never does an}' thing wrong ; oh, no, not 
 he! 
 
 Tom. — I say, now, that's too bad. If a cry-baby, 
 girl-bo3', like Charlie Stei)hens, gets it, I'll leave school. 
 
 Several boys. — So will I. So will I. 
 
 Harry D. — And WI13' may not Charlie got it, as well 
 as an}- one else, if he deserves it ; and he wont get it 
 unless he'does deserve it. 
 
 Boys. — Oh, preacher ! preacher ! 
 
 Tom. — Ma3'be youHl get it, vou think ? 
 
 Harry. — No, I'll not get it; for I couldn't be the 
 best; bat I'm above joining in against a fellow that's 
 not here to take his own part, and who is the best of us, 
 anyway. 
 
 Tom. — Come now, Harr3' Dare, I like that; mf>.ybe, 
 BiHce you're so read}' to talk for the " one that's the 
 
20 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 best amongst us," j^ou'll be willing to fight for him, 
 too. You'll not say he would do ^that for himself, J 
 guess. 
 
 Harry. — Yes, I'll fight for him as long as jow please; 
 and I am a match for 3'ou, too, Tom Jones, big as you 
 are. \_Puts himself in an altitude.'] 
 
 Ned [Jrastily']. — Oh, come now, boys, don't make fools 
 of yourselves, fighting about a fellow who hasn't spirit 
 enough to open his mouth. 
 
 Tom. — Well, I do not care about fighting, particularly ; 
 let's shake hands, Hal [a.sz(/e].- Ned's bound to win; 
 how disappointed he is that we don't fight. 1 hate a 
 hypocrite. 
 
 Caleb [^approaching hastily']. — I say, boj-s ; oh, what 
 I have to tell you I 
 
 All.— What? what? 
 
 Caleb. — Let me get breath — I shall die laughing. 
 You know our gii'l ? 
 
 Boys. — No; we don't know your girl. What about 
 aer ? 
 
 Caleb. — You don't understand me. I mean the one 
 ;hat goes to our school — Charlie Stephens. 
 
 All. — Yes, yes; go on. 
 
 Cale^. — Well, while you were talking, I saw him 
 scuddin' across the field at a two-forty pace; so, thiuks 
 1, I'll see what you're up to. So 1 follows him a safe 
 distance, or he'd a heard me. 
 
 Harry D. — Mean spy I 
 
 Caleb. — So, on I sneaks after him, slowly, slowly, 
 till he came to that little, rickety, tumble-down hole of 
 a hut, at the edge of the woods. So in there my gen- 
 tleman goes. You know, none of us never could find 
 out where he put up. So, my fine boy goes in ; and I 
 sees a hole of a window at one side, so up I goes, giving 
 him time to get seated to his piano, as 1 supposed, from 
 his high and mighty airs In I peeps, and there — oh, 
 my, 1 can't tell you [laughing immoderately]. 
 
 Boys. — Come, tell us, Cale; go ahead with it. 
 
 Caleb. — !»t's too good ; I can't tell you. 
 
 Tom. — You'd better, or I'll shake it out of you. 
 
 Harry 1). — I'd like to shake his mean soul out of him. 
 
 Caleb. — Well, here goes. Oh, gracious 1 I peeped 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 2i 
 
 m at the window, and there was king Charlie, with — 
 what do you think ? 
 
 All.— What ? tell us what ? 
 
 Caleb. — With — oh, my ! with a great, big, blue check 
 woman's apron on. 
 
 All. — Hurrah for Miss Charlie; hurrah for the boy 
 with a blue check woman's apron on. Go on, go c?u, 
 Cale. 
 
 Caleb.— Yes ; oh, I'll die with laughter. I most 
 burst, trying to keep in there. 
 
 Boys [impatiently']. — Well; what was he doing? 
 
 Caleb. — I'm coming to it. What do yon think? 
 — wanhing the dishes! 
 
 Boys. — Hurrah for the dish-washer! 
 
 One. — I'll tell my mother to hire him — she wants & 
 gal. 
 
 Another. — I'll hire him myself. I'm going to house- 
 keeping. 
 
 Tom. — Now, Harry, what do .you say for your para- 
 gon ? I believe that's the word ; aint it ? 
 
 Harry [aside; angrily']. — I did not think he was such 
 a milksop. I'll let him go. [_Aloud]: why, perhaps, it 
 wasn't him at all. 
 
 Boys. — Oh, now, that wont go down; you know it 
 was ; but go on, Caleb — tell us the rest ; did he wash 
 them clean ? 
 
 Caleb. — It was the poorest kind of a place, I tell 
 you. He was a standing at a little table, where he 
 couldn't see me ; but I could see liim. He was a wash- 
 ing away, and I heard something else — a woman — talk- 
 ing. Charlie was saying: " Motlier, don't you be tiring 
 yourself washing little Alice; when I'm done the pots, 
 and pails, and kettles, I'll wash her, too ; just you lean 
 back in 3'our chair and rest ;" and then the womau says : 
 " No, Charlie, this doesn't tire me ; and you have your 
 lessons to study, too, for you know I want you to keep 
 your place." Now, wasn't that mean — just putting him 
 up to keeping us out of our places ? 
 
 Tom. — I say, boys, let's go, after school to-morrow, 
 and see Charlie washin' dishes. Say, shall we? 
 Boys. — Yes, yes; let's go. 
 
212 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Harry. — 1, for one, will not go. I'm no eavesdropper 
 nor spy. 
 
 Caleb. — Do you mean to say I am ? 
 
 Harry. — Yes. 
 
 \_Caleb slinks away. Approaches Tom, and in dumb 
 shoiv, asks him to fight Harry.'] 
 
 Tom. — No, no ; fight your own battles. I've enough 
 for me. Come, boys, let's go home, and dream we've 
 nabbed old Howard, and each got a ten dollar gold 
 piece. yExeunt.] 
 
 Ned. — I'll go along to keep them in order; 'twill go 
 hard with me, but I will win this reward ; pshaw, this 
 ten dollars, I mean. With it, I can reach the city at 
 last, and then good-bye to being a good boy. [Exit 
 slowly.'] 
 
 End of first Act. 
 
 Act II. Scene 1. — Charlie sitting on a log at the edge 
 of the woods, in a desponding attitude. 
 
 Charles. — No, I can not endure it any longer. I will 
 leave school, though to do so, will be to give up all ray 
 bright dreams, all my cherished hopes ; for, poor boy 
 though I am, I have dreams and hopes. Yes, I have 
 dreamed of a time when I could support ni}'^ dear mother 
 and my little sister. [Here 3Ir. Howard and Mr. Wayne 
 approach, unperceived ; they see Charlie, and stop. 
 Charlie continues.] When the education she has 
 worked so hard to give me, might be made the medium 
 and the evidence of my gratitiKle to her. I have hoped, 
 but it is no use. For three weeks, my schoolmates have 
 taunted and jeered me. Some way they have found out 
 how I worii, and every moment they can, they taunt me 
 b}' saying, " Polly, put the kettle on," or ask me if my 
 disbsloth is clean, and the baby's face washed ? Oh I 
 if one of them had a sick mother, who still sewed day 
 after day, and far into the night, how gladly I wouhl 
 help him with the work he did to help her. I would not 
 call him a girl-boy nor tantalize him ; but I must give 
 it up. Mr Ross will give me three dollars a week 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 23 
 
 to mind his store, and I must take it. If 1 could only 
 get that ten dollars, it would enable mother to take a 
 rest, and then she would get well; but I need not think 
 of it ; they are all against me, even Mr. Wayne. [Bises, 
 and exit dowly. Mr. Howard and Mr. Wayne look at 
 each other.'] 
 
 Me. it. — Is that boy one of your pupils, Mr. Wayne ? 
 
 Mr. W.— He is, and he seems in great trouble. 
 
 Mr. H. — Yes, but it is such as can be easily remedied, 
 I hope. What is it ? 
 
 Mr. W. — Well, really, Mr. Howard, I am half ashamed 
 to say that I do not know. Charles Stephens has 
 always been so reserved that I could not understand 
 him, and I dislike any thing like secretiveness above nil. 
 I can forgive what to others might seem graver faults, 
 if accompanied b}' an upright spirit. There's Tom Jones, 
 for example ; he is heedless, often displays a spirit of 
 rebellion, but still, he is so candid 
 
 Mr. H. [interrupting']. — Excuse me, ray dear sir, but 
 I do not think that Tom Jones' candor, which may 
 really be only a spirit of bravado, should extenuate the 
 commission of the faults you mention. I happen to 
 know something about him myself. As for this other 
 boy, what faults do you find in him beside the reserve 
 you so dislike ? 
 
 Mr. W. — I must sa.y I can not find any fault with him 
 except on that score — he is quiet, obedient, and studious. 
 
 Mr. H. [xoarmly]. — My dear sir, what more would 3'ou 
 have? We must not look for perfection in a school 
 boy. I shall be satisfied with a very good one, for whose 
 benefit I can expend a portion of my superfluous wealth. 
 If I find such a one, I shall, as you know, aid him to 
 prosecute his studies, enable him to enter college, give 
 him a trade or profession, or the means of starting in 
 business, as he may prefer, and if he prove worthy, be a 
 friend to him for life. I am not an advocate for pos- 
 thumous charities. The good I do now may be indefin- 
 itely multiplied if my boy, when he grows up, should 
 do the same for another, and he for a third, and so on. 
 Mr. W. — Yes, I see ; like Benjamin Franklin and his 
 dollar, you would extend the sphere of your benevolence 
 beyond your own time. 
 
24 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 
 
 Mr. H. — I don't call it benevolence. I have more 
 money than I need, or shall ever use, and I was once a 
 poor strugoling bo}^ myself, who Avould have given ten 
 years of his life for this chance that 1 offer, of an edu- 
 cation. 
 
 Mr. W. — Well, Mr. Howard, I wish to assist you 
 conscientiously, therefore, I shall tr^' and find out the 
 secret of Charlie's reserve, and give him an equal chanco 
 with the rest, of profiting by your liberality. 
 
 Mr. H. — Do not misunderstand me ; it is the most 
 meritorious who is to gain the reward, both the present 
 slight one, and the future more valuable one, wiiether 
 it be Tom Jones or Charles Stephens. 13ufc I would 
 like you to find out the cause of his trouble, a^id let me 
 know. 
 
 Mr. W. — I shall not fail to do so. \_Exeuni.} 
 
 Scene 2. — The school-room. Boys standing around 
 teacher. 
 
 Teacher. — Well, boys, the da}^ after will he the day. 
 Already I have seen the truth of Mr. Howard's assertion 
 that though all can not gain the prize he has offered, yei 
 all would be the better for trying. I think you have all 
 been trying, for there is certainly the evidence of it in 
 the increased subordination, and diligence of the greater 
 number of you, at least. 
 
 Ned B. — Well, teacher, I don't care so much for the 
 prize, for, as you know, my father is very rich ; but I 
 would like to please you and Mr. Howard, who is so 
 kind. 
 
 Harry D. — The hypocrite 1 
 
 Teacher. — What did you mutter, Harry Dare? Don't 
 hesitate so ; answer me. 
 
 Ned. — Please, teacher, don't mind making him answer. 
 
 Teacher. — Why not? 
 
 Ned. — I don't want him to be punished — or I 5on't 
 mean that; but I do not care what is said of me, if I 
 onl^' have your approbation and tliat of my conscience. 
 
 Harry. — Now 1 will speak; I said 
 
 Teacher. — Harry, be silent. Ned Burton, I should 
 be sorry to think you did not merit the approval you 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 25 
 
 syjeak of; but your words are almost too fair and good. 
 Take care that j'our actions correspond with them. 
 
 Harry. — Master, I will speak, at the risk of 3'our 
 displeasure. I said Ned Burton was a h^'poci'ite, and I 
 maintain it. 
 
 Teacher. — Can you prove what 3'ou assert ? 
 
 Ned. — No, sir, he can't; he's no witnesses. 
 
 Harry [indignantly']. — Witnesses ! my word is as 
 good as yours. 
 
 Teacher. — Well, say what you have to say. 
 
 Harry. — Yesterday you blamed Charlie Stephens for 
 not having written his Latin exercise, and when he 
 said he had written it, but could not find it, you would 
 scarcely believe it. 
 
 Teacher. — Yes, I remember ; go on. [Ned appears 
 agitated, hut says nothing.] 
 
 Harry. — At noon, to-day, I wished to get something 
 from my portfolio. Ned Burton has one exactlj- like 
 mine. I went to my desk, and to my surprise saw the 
 portfolio on, instead of inside the desk. I opened it, 
 and the first paper I saw was Charlie Stephens' exer- 
 cise. Surprised at this, I turned over another leaf, when 
 I saw at once the portfolio was not mine. I looked for 
 the name, and found it to be Edward Burton. He has 
 known of the exercise being there, for 1 have seen him 
 looking all through his portfolio since then. 
 
 Teacher. — Edward, what have you to say to this 
 charge ? 
 
 Ned. — Nothing, sir, except that it is false. 
 
 Harry. — Look in his portfolio. 
 
 Ned. — Yes, as 3^ou did, sneaking Paul Pryl 
 
 Harry. — I did not pry; your portfolio was on my 
 desk, and I thought it was mine. 
 
 Ned. — Oh! yes, that's easily said. 
 
 Teacher. — Bo_ys, cease tliis crimination and recrimina- 
 tion. An inspection of the portfolio will settle the ques- 
 tion. Tom, bring it to me. 
 
 Ned. — No, sir, 1 deny your right to inspect my pos- 
 sessions. He shall not get it. 
 
 Teacher. — Sihall not ! Do you say he shall not obey 
 my commands ? 
 
 Ned. — Yes, sir, I say he shall not touch my property 
 
26 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Teacher. — Tom, bring me his portfolio, 
 
 \Ned makes an effort to get it, hut is held by seve- 
 ral boys. Then assumes a defiant expression.'\ 
 
 Tom. — Here, sir. 
 
 \_Teacher looks through the portfolio, and draios 
 forth, the lost exercise. Boys utter various sounds 
 of astonishment and horror.'] 
 
 Teacher \_sternly']. — Edward Burton, I am shocked 
 and pained beyond expression, to find that one of my 
 boys — one, too, whom I trusted, and who but to-day 
 made professions so greatly at variance with such con- 
 duct — should be guilty of the gre^ wrong of wilfully 
 seeking to injure another, and adding to that wrong the 
 grievous one of falsehood. You are dismissed from this 
 school, and sorry I am to be compelled to say, that in your 
 case there are no extenuating circumstances. In order to 
 lessen the chance of another gaining an offered reward, 
 you hesitate not to subject him to unjust censure, nor to 
 expose him to the suspicion of falsehood. Charles, I re- 
 gret my hasty action toward you ; as for you, Edward, 
 you are no longer a pupil of mine, but if, after long re- 
 flection on your wicked conduct 
 
 Ned [interrupting']. — Oh, if you mean I'll want to 
 come back, and beg pardon, and all that, you're very 
 much mistaken, and as for your dismissal, why if I had 
 only succeeded in getting old Howard's ten dollars, I 
 intended to dismiss myself right oft', for I am sick of 
 this low school, where rowdies and dishwashers get all 
 the favors. You wanted to find me out a villain, and 
 now pretend to be sorry that 3'ou.r scheme was suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 Teacher. — Take your books, and depart ; I will hear 
 no more. 
 
 \_Ned collects books, etc., goes to the door, stops, and, 
 with, an ironical bow, says :] 
 
 Ned. — Good-by, sir ; I wish you joy of j'our excellent 
 Bcholars and your liberal friends, [Exit.] 
 
 Scene 3. School Room-. Mr. Howard and Mr. Wayne 
 seated. 
 Mr. H.— Well, sir, his mother, you say, appears to be 
 dfilicate ? 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 27 
 
 Teacher. — Yes, sir; it is my honest opinion that one 
 year more of lier present existence would terminate it. 
 
 Mr. H. — And she says that, but for this son, she 
 could not manage to get along? 
 
 Teacher. — Yes ; Charles has, when freed from his 
 school duties, earned, on an average, from one to two 
 dollars a week by doing various little services for the 
 farmers living about here, particularly, carrying mes- 
 sages, an office in which he is inA'aluable ; they say, he 
 never makes a mistake, never requires to be told twice, 
 and is always punctual and prompt. 
 
 Mr. H. — 1 t-hink more of his assisting his mother in 
 her housework, for that shows a spirit which is above 
 false pride, a quality I detest. So many boys are ruined 
 by the pernicious idea that it is degrading to do aught 
 that seems, to their perverted view, unioomanly . A 
 want of manliness is degrading ; but few of the young 
 understand that true manliness consists in doing our 
 duty, whatever it may be, unmoved by the sneers of 
 others. But, I say, Mr. Wayne, I am a pretty good 
 judge of human nature, or boy nature, am I not ? 
 
 Mr. W. — I must say, you are, sir. Your penetration 
 in this case was greater than mine. 
 
 Mr. H. — Ah, ha I I thought you would agree to that. 
 Well, time is nearly up ; and now be sure to tell the 
 boys every thing; that is, tell them all about Charlie's 
 devotion to his mother; bub do not, of course, say any 
 thing of my intention to provide for his mother and 
 sister until he is able to do so himself 
 
 Mr. W. — I shall attend to it, sir. 
 
 [_Enter hoys. They how to Mr. Howard and teacher, 
 and stand in order.'] 
 
 Teacher. — Well, boys, this afternoon will decide 
 whioh of you will obtain the reward offered for good 
 conduct by your kind friend, Mr. Howard ; a reward, 
 which, as I intimated, will not stop at the sum of money 
 offered to-day. Take your seats. 
 
 Mr. H. — No, young gentlemen, the one who is proved 
 most worthy shall receive substantial and lasting evi- 
 dence of my good-will. Your teacher tells me that you 
 bave, with one exception, appeared actuated by a desire 
 
28 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 to improve. I trust this improvement will continue, and 
 I shall feel a pride and pleasure in continuing the warm 
 friend to education, as manifested in this school, that 1 
 always have been. Mr. Wayne, will you proceed ? 
 
 Teacher. — As Mr. Howard has said, I have been 
 pleased to see a decided improvement in many of you, 
 and all of j^ou have merited in different degrees. I have, 
 however, alread}^ decided upon the one, who, judged by 
 his actions in school and out of it, has best deserved 
 the prize. l_Sensation among the hoyn.'] But, before 
 announcing his name, I shall first tell you a little story. 
 Not very far from your school house there is a little 
 cottage, in which dwell a widow and her two children. 
 These children, the elder of whom is a boy, she has sup- 
 ported by the constant and untiring, though not alto- 
 gether unaided labor of her hands. The aid she has 
 had was given by her son, in the intervals of his school 
 duties. But I sliould have said that this poor woman 
 has contrived to keep her son constantly at school, 
 hoping that the education he thus acquired would be the 
 means of enabling him to support her when she could 
 no longer provide for him. He assisted her in various 
 ways, earning now and then a little money, but most of 
 all in her housework. \_Boys appear surprised.'] Yes, 
 young gentlemen, though you may think it derogatory 
 to the dignity of a boy, it seems he did not. His mother, 
 whose health was enfeebled by her efforts in behalf of 
 her children, would have sunk long ago had not her 
 tasks been lightened by her devoted assistant, who took 
 upon himself the hardest, as well as the most menial, 
 duties of the household. It is unnecessary^ for me to 
 enumerate in detail all that he did. Although his school- 
 mates had frequently ridiculed his sensitive and retiring 
 disposition, they went no further, until, by some unfor- 
 tunate, and, J fear, underhand means, they discovered 
 his mode of spending the hours given by them to play. 
 From that moment there was no more peace for him. 
 At every opportunity, he was saluted b^^ such terms as 
 dish-washer, bal)y-tender, and similar ones. This be- 
 came at last so unendurable that he resolved to quit the 
 school, and take a situation in a store. Against this 
 determination his love of knowledge and his mother's 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 29 
 
 wishes hoth contended, and in the end prevailed. That 
 you may not under-estimate the heroism of his course — 
 for heroism it certainly was — in thus continuing to en 
 dure the taunts and jeers of his school-fellows, I shall 
 merely say, that his sensitiveness is so great that, on 
 one occasion, being unjustly and harshly accused of a 
 fault, he was unable to defend himself, and only chance 
 revealed the truth. This boy, whose true manliness ena- 
 bled him to endure contempt and ridicule, rather than 
 swerve from the path of duty, is, I need scarcely add, 
 one of your own companions; and to him is adjudged 
 the pri^e, with, I hope, 3'our approval. 
 
 Boys. — Yes, indeed, sir ; he deserves it. We didn't 
 know his mother was sick, etc. 
 
 Mr. H. — Yes, young gentlemen, you truly say he de- 
 serves it; and I am glad to know, by the heartiness of 
 your replies, that you speak as j'ou think. Charles 
 Stephens, by the decision of your teacher, and the 
 approval of your school-mates, you are entitled to the 
 prize. And while I commend your example in the past 
 to tliem, I trust that neither you nor they will ever be 
 led away from the right by ridicule, and never cons'idet 
 any service that is done for a mother as detracting in 
 the slightest degree from your character for Tkue Man- 
 liness. [^Curtain falls.'] 
 
30 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 THE TOBACCO PLEDGE. 
 
 CnARACTEES. 
 
 John Lossing. 
 
 Albert Miller. 
 
 Mr. Wise, their Teacher. 
 
 Albert. — Good morning, John. Where is your craft 
 bound for so early ? 
 
 John. — Good morning. As you are trj'ing to talk 
 sailor style, I will try, too. My craft is steering, all 
 sails set, for school. A delightful harbor, where all such 
 vessels as ours may anchor in safety from the storms of 
 temptation, sure to assail those who remain out at sea. 
 
 A. — Well done. That's first rate. But come with me 
 to the grocery, and then I will go with you to school. 
 
 J. — Why, what do you want there? 
 
 A. — I coaxed five cents from father, last night, and I 
 am going to have some cigars. 
 
 J. — You have never smoked any, and they will make 
 you sick. I would rather not go. 
 
 A. — Oh, come along, and I will give j'ou one. We 
 will have some fun, I'll warrant. 
 
 J. — I thank you. I never use tobacco, for a number 
 of reasons. One is, " It is a wicked waste of money." 
 Just think : if 3'ou begin now, at eleven years, and spend 
 five cents a day until 3'OU are twenty-one years old, to 
 what it will amount. What a number of good books 
 and papers it would get! $182.50; count for yourself. 
 
 A. — But every bo,y, who is an}^ thing of a man, smokes, 
 and I am as much of a man as an}^ of them. Why, all 
 use it when they get big, and you will, too. It is just 
 because j'our mother will not let you. 
 
 J. — No, that is not the reason. But my mother has 
 shown me that it is a sin, and a poison that will destroy 
 my health. And I promised her I would " Touch not, 
 taste not, handle not the unclean thing." 
 
 .4. — My father uses it, and so does our minister, and 
 nearly every body I know. And they would not use it 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 31 
 
 if the/ thought it was a sin. Why, ministers preach 
 against every thing that is wrong, and I have seen them 
 chewing in church. Now, what can you say to that ? 
 
 J. — They do not view the subject in the right light, or 
 they would not do so. Mother says, the Bible forbids 
 " Using our money for that which is not meat, or our 
 substance for that which satisfieth not." Now if it is a 
 poison, it is not meat ; it will not sustain life There- 
 fore, it is wrong. 
 
 A. — Yes, 3'es ; that may all be if it is a poison ; but 
 how are you going to prove that ? It has been raised 
 for hundreds of years, and I have never seen or heard 
 tell of a case of poisoning from tobacco. 
 
 J. — It can be proved, both by chemistry and physiol- 
 ogy, that it is a poison. And if no one uses enough at 
 one time to kill him, yet the continued use will debilitate 
 the body, and bring on diseases which do end in death. 
 
 A. — I do not know any thing about chcmistr^^ ; but I 
 would like to know a part of what you seem to know 
 so well. 
 
 J. — Any reliable work on chemistrj^ will tell you that by 
 analj'sis a property has been discovered, called nicotine. 
 This is so poisonous that one drop placed on the tongue 
 of a cat will kill it in live minutes. Chemistry says, 
 that the effect of tobacco, in small quantities, on the 
 human frame is of a very pleasing character for a time : 
 the nerves are quietly lulled into a xQvy comfortable 
 feeling, and may for the moment endure more than they 
 can unstimulated. But after the undue stimulus is over, 
 they are weaker than before ; and thus begins the slow 
 but sure undermining of life. 
 
 A. — " Why, how you talk !" It all sounds very good ; 
 but I intend to ask some one else. I shall not take your 
 word for it. 
 
 J. — I do not want you to take my word for it. But 
 just reflect how many persons Vv^e see who are pale, and 
 nervous, by smoking ; complaining of headache, dyspep- 
 sia, weak stomach, etc. All this is caused by imposing 
 upon the stomach with the use of tobacco. 
 
 A. — You say it makes headache ; I say it cux-es tooth- 
 ache. I have seen it done more than once. 
 
 J. — Yes; it cures the toothache on the same principle 
 
32 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 any other narcotic would. But here comes Mr. Wise, 
 on his way to school, and we can walk along, and ask 
 him about what I have said. He understands chemistry 
 and physiolog-y, 
 
 A. — Ha ! ha 1 ha 1 That will not do you any good. 
 Choose some one else. 
 
 J. — What is the matter ? Why will he do me no good ? 
 
 A. — See, he is smoking now. Do you expect him to 
 take his cigar from his mouth, and say : " Yes, I am 
 poisoning myself. I am using my mone}^ for that which 
 is not meat. I am sinning "/" Hal ha! that is too 
 funny. 
 
 J. — No ; I do not want him to answer so ; neither do 
 I intend to ask the questions. You must do that. It 
 would sound like impertinence from me, while you can 
 do it with perfect propriety. 
 
 [3Tr. Wise approaches, smoking. They meet.'] 
 
 A. & J. — Good morning. 
 
 Mr. W. — Good morning, boys ; I am glad to see you 
 out so earlj^ You were very busy talking when we met ; 
 may I know what it was about ? 
 
 J. — Yes, sir; and we want you to decide which of us 
 is right. 
 
 Mr. W. — Well, what is it? I will decide justly, to 
 tYie best of my knowledge. 
 
 A. — I wanted John to go with me to get som^e cigars, 
 and he tried to make me believe that it was wrong, and 
 that any person who knew any thing about chemistry 
 would acknowledge there was poison in tobacco. 
 
 Mr. W. — What else did he say, that you want my 
 opinion concerning? 
 
 A. — Oh, much more. He said the Bible forbade us to 
 use our money for that which is not meat, etc. He said, 
 if tobacco would kill, it was not meat, and that it was 
 wicked to waste our money so. 
 
 Mr. W. — It is true, it is wrong to spend our money 
 iieedlessly. But how does he prove the rest ? 
 
 A. — Let him tell it as he told it to me. 
 
 J. — The chemical analysis of tobacco has discovered 
 a poison called nicotine so active that one drop placed on 
 the tongue of a cat will produce death in five minutes. 
 
 A. — Is that true? Is that true, Mr. Wise? 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 33 
 
 Mr. W. — His authority is very good, I believe that 
 statement is correct. But, John, you do not know of 
 any person being killed by tobacco, do you ? 
 
 J. — I do not, sir. But a great many weak and sick 
 persons complaining of headache, dyspepsia (and I 
 know not what else), are made such by debilitating the 
 stomach with tobacco. 
 
 Mr. W. — You said before tobacco was stimulating ; 
 how then can it debilitate ? 
 
 J. — The very fact that it stimulates at one time is 
 proof of debility afterward. And you know, sir, these 
 secretions of the glands of the mouth are absolutely ne- 
 cessary to assist the stomach in its office of digestion. 
 When the saliva has become saturated with tobacco no 
 one swallows it, but expels it ; thus the stomach is de- 
 prived of this help, and becomes diseased or overworked. 
 
 A. — Well, it's not wrong for old folks to smoke. It 
 is such a comfort when they get so old and blind they 
 can not read to enjoy themselves. 
 
 J. — They are then only suffering from its use when 
 young. Perhaps if they had never injured their eyes 
 with the use of tobacco, their sight might not have failed 
 so seriously. It has a powerful effect upon the eyes. 
 If you were to smoke a cigar now it could be told on the 
 eyes as easily as any other way. 
 
 A. — Why, I never heard any person talk so about to- 
 bacco in all my life. I have heard them scold about it 
 being dirty and hateful, and all such. But is this true, 
 Mr. Wise ? If it is, I will never use it. 
 
 Mr. W. — John, you reason like a scholar. Although 
 I use tobacco, I dare not dispute you. You have reli- 
 gion and science on your side. But who taught you 
 this ? You are too young to have learned yourself 
 
 J. — My mother taught me, sir ; and I promised her I 
 Would " Touch not, taste not, handle not thp unclean 
 Cling." 
 
 Mr. W. [throwing away his cigar']. — You are right, my 
 Doble boy. I have thrown away ray cigar, and will sign 
 your pledge of " total abstinence." I have reasoned and 
 smoked against my own convictions long enough. You 
 have a worthy mother ; I wish there were more such. 
 
 J, — I signed no pledge, sir ; but gave my word, 
 3 
 
34 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 
 
 which I intend to keep as faithfully as if written on the 
 Bible. 
 
 A. — Can't we get up a pledge ? I want to sign, and 
 get others to do so, too. 
 
 Mr. W. — You draw one up and see what success yon 
 will have. Your cause is a good one. 
 
 A. — I would, sir, if I could, but I can not compose it 
 right. 
 
 Mr. W. — John will help you. Here is a pencil and 
 paper — now go to work. 
 
 [After a short whispering, they approach with the 
 following .•] 
 
 A.— Will this do, sir ? \_Beads.'] 
 
 Whereas our school-mate, John Lossing, has proved 
 to us that the use of tobacco is both morally and physic 
 cally wrong, therefore, we, the undersigned. 
 
 Resolve, 1st, We will " Touch not, taste not, handle 
 not," tobacco in any shape or form. 
 
 Resolve, 2d, We will do all we can to persuade others 
 of our friends to join us. 
 
 Resolve, 3d, If we live to become men, and are in- 
 trusted with the office of hiring teachers for youth, or 
 ministers of the gospel, we will patronize none who use, 
 or advocate the use of tobacco. 
 
 Mr. W. — That will do very well ; but we will adjourn 
 now. It is school time. 
 
 THE NEW MUFF AND COLLAR 
 
 CHAEACTEES : 
 
 Mk. Stubbs, an honest country farmer. 
 Mrs. Stubbs, a great lover of dress. 
 Me. Urgem, a city merchant. 
 
 Scene 1. — A store in Boston. 
 
 Mrs. Stubbs. — My dear, you would have forgotten to 
 purchase me a muff, had I not mentioned it to you, and 
 this gentleman saj's he has some very cheap, and made 
 xipon honor. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 35 
 
 Mr. Stubbs. — A muff! my dear, you must be too well 
 acquainted with the shortness of my purse, to make such 
 a demand. I have already expended so much by pur- 
 chasing one nick-nack and another, that I fear we shall 
 ')e short home. 
 
 Mrs. S. — But, dear, what will people say if I return 
 without one? It will make a town talk. \_Turning to 
 the merchant.'] You say that you can afford them on 
 reasonable terms ? 
 
 Mr. U. — Cheaper and better than you can find them 
 in any other place in town. Just look at them. [Ope??s 
 a box on the table or counter, and displays some.'] 
 
 Mrs. S. — Well, I guess myhusband wont object to my 
 taking one, if they are good and cheap, as j^ou say, for 
 he is commonly pretty good natured. [^Turning to her 
 husband.] Oh, my dear, only see what beauties they 
 are ! These are nice. My dear, you canH object to my 
 having one, they are so nice. 
 
 Mr. S. [in a low tone]. — I suppose they are very ex- 
 pensive, and why do you urge me to purchase one, when 
 I have not half the money at command ? 
 
 Mrs. S. — Oh, Mr. Urgem is some acquainted with you, 
 and he seems to be very kind. I dare say he will trust 
 you. [To the merchant.] How much are your muffs 
 and collars ? 
 
 Mr. U. — Only seventy dollars, ma'am, and they are 
 very fine for that money. 
 
 Mr. S. — Seventy dollars! the Lord forgive such ex- 
 travagance as that would be, in us poor folks 1 My 
 dear, if the muffs are worth that money, let us leave 
 town, for I tell you at once, I can not purchase one 
 without robbing our family of necessaries. 
 
 Mrs. S. — Oh, stay one minute. I dare say the gen- 
 tleman will take off some from the price. Don't be 
 scared at ti'ifles. 
 
 Mr. TJ. — If I do, madam, it will be only that you 
 might have one. Wont 3^ou take a muff without a collar, 
 that will come very low? We sell them at only twenty- 
 five doFars. What do you say, sir? [Turning to Mr. 
 S.] Come, your lady wishes for one very much, and it 
 will be a great addition to her appearance. 
 
 Mr. S. — Whv, I say, sir, that I am unable to get so 
 
36 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 much nxoaey by any honest means, and as for turning 
 rogue to purchase my wife a muff, I shall not do it. 
 
 Mes. S. — Why 1 now, I think you very unkind. What 
 Is the lowest figure you will take ? 
 
 Mr. U. — Why — really, ah — rather than you should 
 not have one, j'ou may take it at twenty-three dollars. 
 
 Mrs. S. — There, now, see how kind he is, and he'll 
 trust you, too. I dare say, he's seen your face in Bos- 
 ton before now — have you not, sir ? 
 
 Mr. IJ. — Oh, yes, madam ; I haA-e seen him before, I 
 assure you. 
 
 Mrs. S. — Come, now, I don't see as you can make one 
 objection, only think now, only twenty-three dollars, and 
 you'll make that in some fortunate bargain. Come, my 
 dear, there isn't such a nice muff in Bogtown. 
 
 [Jfr. S., silent, turns his back towards Mrs. S., and 
 walks slowly across the Jloor.'] 
 
 Mr. U. — And you must have a collar, madam ; it wiL 
 be quite unfashionable not to have one with such a nice 
 muff, and they are very warm and comfortable, I assui'e 
 you. 
 
 Mrs. S. \to her husband']. — Yes, my dear, I had about 
 as lief have no muf as to be without a collar ; it will 
 look so unfashionable. 
 
 Mr. U. — Come, sir, I will put them both at sixty-five 
 dollars, and that is absolutely ten dollars less than I can 
 really afford them. 
 
 Mrs. S. [to her husband']. — Come, I see that you 
 almost give consent; and will you not take pride 
 now in seeing me look so much nicer than Mrs. Prink, 
 whose furs were called so nice ? 
 
 Mr. U. — Come, do you give your consent that your 
 lady may take one ? 
 
 Mr. S. — All the consent I shall give, will be not to 
 quarrel with my wife in public. 
 
 Mr, IJ. — Well, sir, as your lady seems to be deter- 
 mined to have one, I think that is about equal to consent. 
 
 Mrs. S. [looking at two or three muffs and collar's].— 
 I think I will take this muff and collar. My husband 
 will settle with you. 
 
 Mr. U. — Please give me your name, sir ? 
 
 Mb. S. — John Stubbs, from Bogtown. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 3T 
 
 Mr. U. \stiffly']. — Ninety days is the longest I give 
 credit. 
 
 Mr. S. — Aye, ninety days, I shall not forget it, sir, I 
 assure you. \_Exit Mr. and Mrs. Stuhhs.'] 
 
 Mr. IJ. [_alone']. — Was not that a fortunate sale to-day. 
 Well, I am lucky for once, and I have realized twenty 
 dollars now. \_Scene closed.'] 
 
 Scene 2. At home. 
 
 Mrs. S. — Come, my dear, will you not go to Mrs. 
 Tibbs with me this evening ? 
 
 Mr. S. — I thought you didn't care to keep up her ac- 
 quaintance; strange — though I forgot you have never 
 been there since our trip to Boston. 
 
 Mrs. S. — Well, it is so pleasant out, if it is cold ; but 
 my furs will keep me so comfortable. 
 
 Mr. S. — Well, I never saw such a comfortable article, 
 for I observe that whatever the weather is, the furs ap- 
 pear. They seem to have some good qualities, for I 
 observe you have never been absent from church since 
 you had them ; and not only have you been a constant 
 attendant, but you have urged others to go. In short, 
 you take vast comfort from them. 
 
 Mrs. S. — Of course, I take solid comfort in wearing 
 them, or I would not have got them ; but you hard- 
 hearted, close-fisted men are afraid we shall have any 
 thing decent to wear. If you would only take a little 
 interest in ladies' dresses, as some of the people do, how 
 much pleasanter it would be. 
 
 Mr. S. — If some ladies would only take a little inter- 
 est in their husbands' pecuniary affairs, it would be so 
 much better for us. That reminds me that this day I 
 received a bill from Mr. Urgem, saying that a prompt 
 remittance of sixty-five dollars will prevent a presenta- 
 tion of the bill and lawyer's fees, and save much trouble. 
 
 Mrs. S. — The unfeeling wretch ! Can he doubt your 
 honesty ? And am I the cause of so much trouble ? 
 
 Mr. S. — But, listen. . The great trouble with you is, 
 that a whisper in your ear, " There isn't such a nice set 
 of furs in all the town," takes awayyour better judgment, 
 and just for that sentence I must part with two of my 
 l^est cows to settle that amall bill \^Exit Mrs, S-l 
 
38 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Mb. S. [^soliloquizes']. — "Misfortunes cluster," and 
 they follow me so closely that were I of that turn of 
 mind, I should give up in despair; but my wife needs a 
 lesson, for she, like many others, just for the sake of 
 having the nicest muff, the costliest gown, the finest 
 bonnet, and the best outside appearance of any in town, 
 would perplex her husband with debts a lifetime. I 
 say this, not that I am austere against the decent fash- 
 ions, for once I could indulge my wife in most of her 
 wishes. Yes ; many I suppose are suffering as I am, 
 and will the ladies ever learn that lesson, not found in 
 schools nor school books, other than that of experience, 
 that Christian happiness would feel no mortification at 
 having a finer muff, a finer hat, or a finer dress standing 
 by their own? If their husband's purse require it, they 
 would gain more love and esteem in having their hands 
 muffled up in the skins of their old cats, than in all the 
 furs of the Russian empire. And if experience does not 
 teach them the same lesson, I give them lief to call me 
 old Pinchpenny to the end of my existence, which, above 
 all other names, I should dislike, if there is one name I 
 dislike more than another. 
 
 CHOOSE YOUR WORDS. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Grandmamma Chamfney. 
 
 Belinda, her granddaughter and namesake. 
 
 Lucy, BeHnda's twin sister. 
 
 Nattie and baby, younger Champneys. 
 
 Mrs. Chamfney. 
 
 Nurse White, a h'EngHsh woman. 
 
 Scene I. — Nursery. Nurse White, rocking baby to sleep. 
 Lucy reading. Nattie building a block-house on the 
 fioor. Enter Belinda hurriedly, her dress knocking 
 down Nattie^s house. He screams with anger. 
 
 Belinda. — Now, nurse3% wont you just sew this ruffle 
 in my dress, and tie on my sash ? Mamma has scut for 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 39 
 
 me, and it's the dinner party for grandmamma to-day, 
 jj-ou know. Lucy [throwing her a pair of gloves], 
 you might mend these ; I am so late. It's time I was 
 down stairs, now. 
 
 Lucy. — Why didn't you get ready before? 
 
 Belinda. — In the first place, it took me an age to find 
 my things, and then, of course, nothing was ready to 
 put on, and — do put down that young one, nurse, and 
 come and help me, or I never shall get dressed. 
 
 Nurse [putting down baby, who sets up a deafening 
 roar]. — Well, Miss B'lindy, though one says it as p'r'aps 
 shouldn't, if you'd h'only be a bit more tidy h'about your 
 h'articles h'of h'apparel, you might ha' been dressed in 
 proper time, and not 'ave set the 'ouse h'in a h'uproar. 
 
 Belinda. — There now, don't stop to talk. Besides, 
 I'm going to turn over a new leaf, for I shall live at the 
 hall most of the time now, since Grandmamma Champ- 
 ney has come there for good. She told mamma that it 
 would renew her own youth to have me there, and 
 mamma cautioned me to be very particular and mind 
 my manners, as grandmamma belongs to the old school, 
 and is very orthodox in her notions. 
 
 Lucy. — Do be careful, then, what you say. 
 
 Belinda. — Fudge I Don't you suppose I know beef 
 from a broomstick ? Oh dear me 1 such nice times as I 
 shall have. Only think, Lucy, I shall ride in a coach 
 and four, and the coachman wears a powdered wig, and 
 mamma says her footman is seven feet high ! Then she 
 will take me to town, and I shall be presented at court 
 sometime, and all because I happened to be named after 
 her. How lucky it was for mu that they did'ut call you 
 Belinda. My apple cart would have been upset, then. 
 Now, Lucy, ain't you sorry ? 
 
 [Lucy shakes her head smilingly, and keeps :n sing- 
 ing to Nattie^s and baby^s edification :] 
 
 What ! lost your mitties. 
 You naughty kitties, 
 Then you shall have no pie. 
 Mew, mew, mew, mew, mew ! 
 
 Belinda. — How silly ! Say, Lucy, now really, ain't 
 70U scry yoMV name isn't Belinda ? 
 
40 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Lucy. — I don't know. If it had been, what would you 
 have done ? I guess it's all right. You care more for 
 such things than I do. 
 
 Nurse [hookiyig up Belinda, and nodding her head 
 at Lucy']. — Little saint ! 'Ow I wish it were you with 
 h'all my 'eart, so I do. H'its h'always B'lindy, B'lindy, 
 h'all h'over the 'ouse ; h'especially h'its so with her 
 mother ; but h'lve a h'idea Miss Lucy'll 'ave the weriy 
 'ighest place h'in 'aeven h'at h'all h'odds. 
 
 Belinda. — What a slow coach j^ou are, Nurse 1 and 
 what's that long string you're mumbling behind my 
 back? 
 
 Nurse [irately']. — Slow coach, h'am h'l I When such, 
 too, as shouldn't be a doin' of it, either, are a slavin' 
 theirselves to death a helpin' of you, and then to be 
 h'insulted h'in this 'ere h'outrageous and h'imperent 
 'ighfalutinum. I must say, as 'ow h'l — h'l — [with a 
 great effort] — I — 
 
 Belinda [laughing]. — All in your eye ! Can't you 
 see it in that light ? 
 
 Lucy. — Now, Belinda, how unkind that is ! 
 
 Belinda [with sudden contrition]. — Nursey, you will 
 forgive me this time, wont you? You know I didn't 
 mean any thing. 
 
 Nurse [relenting]. — There 1 I will say, though it's 
 80 as -perhaps I shouldn't, as 'ow you do 'ave the win- 
 ningest ways for a fact. But your tongue may bring 
 you to sorrow, for h'all that. 
 
 Belinda [shrugging her shoulders]. — Now what's the 
 use of putting it on so thick ? 
 
 Lucy. — Don't talk so, 'Lindy. Supposing you should 
 say that before Grandmamma Champney 
 
 Belinda. — Say what ? Putting it on so thick ? You 
 goosey gander, I should be a donkey. What should I 
 want to sa}^ that for ? 
 
 Lucy. — I don't mean just those very words. But 
 you do talk so much slang, you know. Now what if 
 you should forget and say such things down-stairs. 
 What would be thought of ,you ? 
 
 Belinda. — Good little sister Prim, henceforward my 
 words shall travel by special express train, each one 
 lftbelle4 " this side up with care." Will that suit ? 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 41 
 
 [jgoing out']. Never you fear, but I'll do up business with 
 grandmamma in smashing style. 
 
 Scene 2. — Drawing-rooms. Ladies and gentlemen stand' 
 ing and sitting in groups, drinking coffee and chatting. 
 Belinda appears in the doorway. 
 
 Gentleman [^stepping up to her]. — Fair, shining spirit, 
 whence comest thou ? Hast thou strayed from some 
 enchanted realm to bewitch us bewildered mortals here 
 below ? 
 
 Belinda [bridling']. — I am Belinda Champney, sir. 
 
 Gentleman \drawing her forivard]. — Ladies and 
 gentlemen, allow me to introduce to your most favor- 
 able notice the queen of all the fairies. Miss Belinda 
 Champney. [All the ladies kiss her.] 
 
 Grandmamma Champney [who sits a little ways back]. 
 < — So that is Belinda. She looked like the Champneys 
 when she was a baby. I see she has all their high-bred 
 beauty. She will be a treasure indeed. 
 
 Lady No. 1. — What a little beauty ! 
 
 Lady No. 2. — What lovely hair ! 
 
 Lady No. 3. — Such a sweet expression in her eyes! 
 
 Gentleman. — Visions of rose-leaves and alabaster 
 drifting in clouds of serophane will haunt my dreams 
 for evermore. Say, cruel elf, may I get you some coffee, 
 or do they feed you only on dew-drops and nectar? 
 
 Belinda [quite carried away]. — Not by a long chalk ! 
 
 Gentleman. — I must believe what you tell me, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Belinda. — We had roast beef to-day and a jolly York- 
 shire pudding. 
 
 Gentleman. — So, so. True English diet. I shouldn't 
 wonder then, if you played with dolls sometimes, like 
 other earthly maidens. 
 
 Belinda [disdainfully]. — Indeed, sir, I am much too 
 old to play with dolls. Our governess, Miss McNabou 
 calls me a young ladj^ 
 
 Gentleman. — And so we study a-b abs, c-b ebs, do 
 we ? and are verj^ fond of Miss — Whats-her-name ? 
 
 Belinda. — Snap-dragon, I call her, for she's a inufF, 
 ^nd crosser th^n two sticks. 
 
42 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 
 
 Gentleman. — How hard a lot is yours ! You bear 
 your ills most wonderfully well. 
 
 Belinda. — / guess I don't study all the time, though. 
 Papa gave me a pony last Christmas, and I take a ride 
 every day on him. He can trot 2.40, I'll bet. 
 
 Gentleman No. 2. — What a perfect little Di Vernon 
 It is, to be sure ! What may this flying steed's name be ? 
 
 Belinda. — His name's Garibaldi, and he's a regular 
 trump. 
 
 Gentleman No. 2. — Because he appropriates all the 
 tricks, hey ? 
 
 Belinda. — He doesn't have any tricks. 
 
 Gentleman. — You are too sharp for me. You must 
 be in the habit of taking blades to lunch. 
 
 Belinda. — Nurse always tells us to be careful of the 
 olades. 
 
 Gentleman No. 3. — Oh, oh ! now yon are cutting. 
 
 Gentleman No. 4. — An original, en Veritas. Mamma 
 certainly owns no more such prodigies ? 
 
 Belinda. — There's Luc}^ she's my twin sister, but 
 she isn't like me. Mercy, she's meeker than Moses, 
 and not up to snuff, by any means. 
 
 Gentleman No. 4. — Oh ! She would only do on a 
 pinch, then. 
 
 Belinda. — Then there's Nattie. But he's one of the 
 small fry, and always in a pickle. 
 
 Gentleman. — Let us hope he will be preserved to a 
 green old age. 
 
 Belinda. — And there's the baby. He doesn't do any 
 thing but scream like a house a-fire. 
 
 Gentleman No. 4. — He must have a tongue like a 
 roaring flame. 
 
 Gentleman No. 1. — Little Nimrod, do you know that 
 I am going to carry you over to my place, bag and 
 baggage, and keep you ever so long. 
 
 Belinda. — I'd like to come, but I'm going somewhere 
 else. 
 
 Gentleman. — But I know you'll have a better time 
 at my house. The gold fish talk, and the birds stand 
 still, and wait for you to put salt on their tails. 
 
 Belinda. — Pooh ! that's gammon. 
 
 Gentleman. — Come, and see if it is. You are never 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 43 
 
 sure of any thing till you've tried it. Then 1 have a 
 very nice coachman that will drive you everywhere. 
 
 Belinda. — Grandmamma Champney's coachman 
 drives a four in hand, and I'm going there. 
 
 Gentleman. — Are there no terms you will listen to? 
 
 Belinda. — No. I know which side my bread is but- 
 tered, I guess ; and I shall go to grandmamma's. 
 
 Gentleman.— You are incorrigible, I see. I shall 
 have to shake hands and leave you. Good-by, then. 
 \_Exit ladies and gentlemen.'] 
 
 Mrs. Champney [hurrying up to Belinda']. — Oh, here 
 you are. I've been looking for you. Your grandmam- 
 ma wants to take 3'ou home with her, now, right away. 
 
 Belinda. — Oh goody ! 
 
 Mrs. Champney. — Now, don't be hoydenish ; be lady- 
 like and reserved, for she is very precise. Come, she is 
 looking this wa}' [leads her up to Grandmamma Champ- 
 ney]. This is Belinda, madam. I trust you will find 
 her to be all you expected. 
 
 Grandmamma [sittiny very straight and speaking 
 stiffly]. — That is settled beyond a doubt. 
 
 Mrs. Champney. — She is said to greatly resemble 
 the Champneys. 
 
 Grandmamma [putting on her spectacles and taking a 
 scrutinizing look]. — Yes, yes, I see a Champney nose 
 and mouth, Champney eyes, the true bronze tint in the 
 hair, the proper carriage to the head ; all that I But 
 the raind — the inward features ; think you they could 
 stand the Champney test? 
 
 Mrs. Champney [nervously]. — Why, yes, I — I think 
 so. 
 
 Grandmamma. — Belinda, when you came mto the 
 room — and I have watched you from the moment 
 you entered — my heart warmed toward you, for you 
 looked a true descendant of our race. The " handsome 
 Champneys" has always been a name well applied to 
 us ; but handsome is as handsome does, too, in my eyes ; 
 and if the graces of the mind correspond not to those 
 of the body, of what avail is beauty that is only skin 
 deep ? [To Mrs. Chamimey.] And now I will trouble 
 you to send for Luc3^ I have nothing further to do 
 with Belinda. [Belinda hides her face in her handsJ\ 
 
44 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Mrs. Champney. — But — why — I thought it was Be- 
 linda 3'ou wanted. She is your namesake. I hope she 
 has not offended you. 
 
 Grandmamma. — She is entirely out of the question, 
 after my being an involuntary listener to her conversa- 
 tion a few moments ago. I might excuse such language 
 in a stable boy ; in a Champne}', never. 
 
 Mrs. Champney. — Can you not forgive her childish 
 folly for this once ? I am sure she will not offend again. 
 \_Lucy enters.'] 
 
 Grandmamma. — Lucy, come to me. I can tell by 
 your blushes that you are as modest as the wee wood- 
 land flower, whose color deepens in your eyes ; and if 
 mamma will spare you to me and the old hall, we may 
 soon look to be warmed into life and light by the sun- 
 shine of your presence. 
 
 Mrs. Champney. — But, madam — 
 
 Grandmamma Champney. — Say no more, but allow 
 me to choose Lucy for my protege and companion, for 
 I feel sure she is worthy of all love and trust. I never 
 should feel .safe with one, who knows " which side hei 
 bread is buttered," who " snap-dragons" the governess, 
 and goes "2.40" on a "trump" of a pony. I much 
 prefer Lucy, even though she is "meeker than Moses," 
 and indeed this I consider a great recommendation— 
 " that she's not up to snuff," by any means. 
 
 THE EFFECTS OF WAR. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Henrv, a comrade. 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Son. 
 
 Blanche, 
 
 Mother, engaged in sewing. 
 
 Scene I. — Enter son dressed in uniform, the mother 
 looks up in surprise. 
 
 Mother. — My son, what does this mean ? 
 
 Son. — It means, mother, that your son comes to you 
 tbiis moi-nijttg, s^ soldiei'. O'U- ooujutry, ray cpuntvy is \v. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 44 
 
 danger I For three long j^ears this bloody war has been 
 upon us, and now there is another call for men. My 
 country calls her sons to her aid ; can I refuse ? She 
 calls them to rescue her from the grasp of the demon 
 who has hor already by the throat ; can I hesitate ? Can 
 I stand calmly by and hear her cries, and not raise an 
 arm in her defence ? No, never ! 
 
 M. — My son, I fear you do not realize what you do ; 
 you are not fit for a soldier ; you can not endure the 
 fatigue of the march, and the exposure and privations 
 of the camp; your constitution will soon be broken 
 down, and you will sink into a premature grave. 
 
 Son. — Mother, would you withhold your offering from 
 the altar of your country ? Think of the Spartan mother 
 who could send away her son to fight for his country, 
 saying, as she gave him his shield, " Return to me with 
 this shield or upon it," — and would j^ou be less patriotic? 
 No, mother ; this strong right arm shall never be with- 
 held, when my country calls for me to raise it in 
 her defence. I should despise myself for ever were 
 I to falter because there is personal danger to be 
 encountered. 
 
 M. — But think, my son, you are leaving home and 
 friends ; friends whose fondest hopes are centered in 
 you, and who have endeavored to make your home a 
 place of sunshine and joy to you ; you are leaving them 
 for the battle-field, there perhaps to throw your life 
 away [wiping a tear]. 
 
 S. — No, -mother ; 'twill not be thrown Away ; rather 
 given in defence of freedom, and for you and future 
 generations. Seek not to hinder me; my decision is 
 made ; my name is on the roll, and I have no desire to 
 withdraw it ; much as I love friends and home, with all 
 its hallowed associations, this sacrifice is not too great 
 to make for my country. 
 
 M. — Well, go, my son, and God be with you, and keep 
 fou amid the dangers and temptations of a soldier's life, 
 ihd hasten the time when you shall return in safety to 
 your home. 
 
 S. — Amen I and now good-by. [They embrace each 
 Uher, the mother weeping. Exit son. Curtain falls.'] 
 
46 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Scene 2. — Charles and Blanche are seated together, 
 her hand clasped in his. 
 
 Charles. — Dearest Blanche, I must leave yoa, and 
 I know you will not urge me to stay when my country 
 calls me. 
 
 Blanche. — No, Charles ; I will not ask you to stay, 
 hard as it is to part. I feel that I would be doing you 
 injustice, as well as disgracing myself. It is our lot 
 to part, and we must submit to it without murmuring. 
 
 C. — But ere we part, accept this trifle [producing a 
 ring and placing it on her finger'], as a token of my 
 love, with the request that it will remind you of the 
 absent one. 
 
 B. — And allow me this privilege also [taking from 
 her own hand a 7'ing and placing it on his], with the re- 
 quest that you will wear it for my sake. 
 
 C. — Your request shall be granted ; its sight shall 
 ever call to mind the happy hours spent here ; I will 
 part with it but with life, and on the field of battle its 
 sight shall nerve me to greater courage : or, perhaps, 
 when lying on the field of death, its sight shall bring to 
 me thoughts of the loved one at home. 
 
 B. — But we will hope to meet again ; yet should we 
 not, we will hope to meet above. 
 
 C — And now good-by, I must go [they embrace each 
 other]. God bless you ! 
 
 B. — And you also, and return you sa"^e. [She accom- 
 panies him to the door, ivhere they pan, and returning, 
 she covers her face with her handkerchief, and sinks 
 into a chair. Curtain falls]. 
 
 Scene 3. — A tent, with a musket standing at the door. 
 CharlCi, lies within, dying of a wound received in one 
 of the last battles of the war. Henry, a comrade, 
 bending over him. 
 
 Henry. — Charles, is there any thing I can do for 
 you ? 
 
 Charles. — Water, give me a drink of water [he 
 gives him a drink from his canteen], and now, if you 
 have time, listen to me. You know my condition ; take 
 this Bible, and should you live to go home, as I hope 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 47 
 
 you will, give it to my mother, and tell her tha„ i have 
 studied its precepts, and endeavored to obey its com- 
 mands ; tell her that I have done my duty as a soldier, 
 and kept my honor unstained, and I will meet ner in > 
 better land. Take this ring, and give it to Biancne ; 
 tell her that I have worn it, and as I told her, i part 
 with it but with life : tell her that he who sent it never 
 forgot her, even in his dying hour : tell her, too, not to 
 regret the sacrifice she has made for her country, but 
 rather to feel proud that she gave her lover in defence 
 of her country's cause. But my strength is failing. 
 Good-by. [Pressing his hand. Curtain falls.'] 
 
 Scene 4. — Curtain rises. Mother and Blanche are 
 seated together. 
 
 Mother. — I wonder why Charles does not write, we 
 have not heard from him for several weeks. 
 
 Blanche. — As it is nearly time for the mail to arrive, 
 I will go to the office ; perhaps we shall get a letter from 
 him [risi7ig. Enter a soldier']. 
 
 Soldier [bowing]. — Mrs. Gray, I believe ? 
 
 Mother. — The same, sir. 
 
 S. [presenting the Bible]. — I bring you 
 
 M. [springing forioard and catching the book]. — My 
 son ! my son ! you bring me news of him, oh, tell me — 
 tell me all ! 
 
 S. [ivith emotion]. — He bade me give it to you, and 
 tell you that he had done his duty as a soldier, and 
 died as a soldier should. 
 
 M. — Oh my son! [pressi^ig the Bible to her heart, aid 
 looking up]. God's will be done. 
 
 S. — This, he directed me to give to you [presenting 
 the ring to Blanche], and tell you that he never forgot 
 you, even in his dying hour. [She takes it, and covering 
 her face with her handkerchief leaves the room.] 
 
 Peace [advancing]. — Oh war, how dread are thy 
 afflictions ! Oh, Columbia, how great the sacrifice which 
 these thy daughters have made for thee ! Comfort thee, 
 oh mother ; thy son rests among those blessed spirits, 
 who nobly cemented our Nation with their blood. Thy 
 
4:8 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 sacrifice was great, and thy reward of a nation's grati« 
 tude, will also be great. Comfort thee ! Thy son per- 
 ished as a martyr in a glorious cause, and his menx^r'* 
 will ever be cherished by a grateful people. 
 
 Sleep on ! brave ones who nobly fell 
 
 Upon the goiy battle-field ; 
 Your shroud, naught but a soldier's cloak, 
 
 Your bier, your country's glorious shield? 
 
 Sleep on ! your memory e'er is blest 
 
 By those you nobly died to save ; 
 And many a tributary tear 
 
 Shall fall upon the soldier's grave. 
 
 [Curtain fallM.^ 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 THE TWO INTERPRETERS OF DREAMS, 
 
 CHAKACTERS. 
 
 Grandma, arrayed in ancient costume, with spectacles, snuff- 
 box, and knitting. 
 Girls. — Olive, Sarah, Mart, and Maggie. 
 Young ladies. — Alma and Cousin Emma. 
 
 Grandma sits quietly knitting, when the girls rush in, 
 
 asking together : 
 
 Grandma, grandma, do you believe in dreams ? 
 
 Grandma. — B'leve in dreams, child ! why of curse I 
 dew. I b'leve they're most as trew as Scripter. La, 
 me [snuffing vigorously'] ! I've studied my dream-book 
 most every mornin' for sixty yers! B'leve in dreams ? 
 I've had so many come round all true, that I'll never 
 doubt them. Why ! the night before my poor husband 
 died [_sohhing'], I dreamed that I saw him, so cold and 
 lifeless, and in the mornin' sure enough he was in a 
 ragin' fever. We sent right off for Dr. Slimpton ; he 
 lived in the village of Middleburg. [Stops crying and 
 knits.'] He and Jeremiah used to be great friends ; they 
 never had a hard word but once, and that was when 
 Jeremiah thought Simeon Slimpton was paying 'tention 
 to me. Ah ! it makes me feel most young to think of 
 those days ! [In her excitement grandma drops a stitch, 
 tries in vain to pick it up, then goes on talking, dropping 
 work.] What lots of beaux I used to hev ! Wal, I 
 wern't bad-lookin' ; mj cheeks were red as yourn, Olive. 
 My eyes wei'e bright ; I could see better then. Here 
 Olive, deary, help your grandmother [handing her 
 knitting]. And my hair [touching the powdered locks]. 
 Ah ! Jeremiah used to say these raven locks were en- 
 chantin'. 
 
 Sarah. — Well ! well 1 Grandma, you were talking 
 awhile ago of sending for Dr. Slimpton. Did grandpa 
 get well ? 
 
 Grandma [reprovingly]. — Get welll child? how ig- 
 noi'ant you a^e to think he could get well after I dreamed 
 4 
 
50 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES 
 
 that I No! I knew he couldn't. [Sobbing.^ And after 
 they sent for the doctor, I went right up stairs to see if 
 my black bombazine would do to wear to the funeral. 
 There it had lain in the chest for twenty yers, and was 
 as good as new, and shone like silk. ■ I got Nancy 
 Maria Slimpton to fix it over for me ; she charged fifty 
 cents. I think it was shameful on such an occasion. 
 Oh ! poor Nancy Maria, she had lots of trouble after I 
 left there ; her nephew's youngest son abused hei 
 shamefull}' and well nigh killed her 
 
 Mary. — Well, grandma, nevermind Nancy Maria, now ; 
 tell us about our dreams. I dreamed of fire ; and oh, 
 how the flames swelled and surged around me ! I could 
 not get away, for the doors were all fastened, and the 
 crowd around me was so great. 
 
 Grandma [sighing']. — Oh, poor Mary ! you will meet 
 with opposition in whatever you undertake, and 
 
 Olive. — Oh, grandma ! I had an awful dream. I 
 wandered in the woods, and savages wore pursuing me, 
 and, in trying to escape, I fell into a den of lions. Oh ! 
 they growled and opened their mouths, and then 1 
 awoke screaming, and have hardly got over the fright 
 yet! 
 
 Grandma. — Oh, poor girl ! that you have so manj? 
 enemies, for such means your dream, and all too soon 
 will ^^ou be caught in the traps they have set for you, 
 \_Snuffing and sneezing.'] Well, Maggie, child, did you 
 dream ? 
 
 Maggie. — Yes ! such an awful dream of my dear sol- 
 dier brother Robert, that he was at home, and lay so 
 still 
 
 Grandma. — Oh ! my poor, poor child ; so young to 
 bear such a sorrow! Oh, dear! [Crying and applying 
 handkerchief.] I dreamed the same Avhen your grandpa 
 died. Oh ! how I mourned. May be, now, Maggie, 
 your brother lies in a hospital 
 
 Maggie [wiping her eyes]. — Don't ; don't talk so, 
 grandma ; you make me feel so bad ! 
 
 Grandma. — Well, well, child, it's all true ; dreams are 
 solemn things. 
 
 Sarah — I dreamed last night of Uncle John, that he 
 came home. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 51 
 
 Grandma [^seeviing s>tartlecl, and rUes, droijping her 
 ball and snuff-Jiox]. — Oh ! did you ? 
 
 Sarah. — Yes ; and we were so glad to see him. 
 
 Grandma. — Oh ! how strange ! for I dreamed the 
 same thing, too. And it's a sure sign we'll never see 
 him again. \_Sobs, and buries her face in her handfcer- 
 chief/] Oh, my poor, poor boy ! I little thought this 
 when you bade me good-b}^, and started for California. 
 Now may be you are dying on a western prairie. Oh ! 
 my poor boy I Girls, j^our old grandmother's heart is 
 broken. 
 
 Sarah. — But, grandma, may be he'll come home. 
 
 Grandma [sternly']. — Hush ! hush, child ! Both of 
 us dreamed the same. Dreams never fail. Oh, dear I 
 Oh, dear ! [Departs iveeping.] 
 
 Sarah. — There comes Alma. Alma, what makes you 
 look so glad ? 
 
 Alma. — Oh ! I had a dream. 
 
 Sarah. — A dream ! a dream ! Do you believe in 
 dreams ? 
 
 Alma. — Yes ; I believe 
 
 Olive. — Oh, girls ! Alma believes in dreams. Why, 
 Alma, I thought you always laughed about them ! 
 
 [All together.] Oh ! goody, goody ! I'm glad ; now 
 you'll interpret our dreams. 
 
 Maggie. — We don't like what grandma says, it makes 
 us feel so bad. 
 
 Mary. — I dreamed of fire 
 
 Alma. — Hush ! hush girls ! you talk so fast. I com- 
 menced to say, when you interrupted me, that I believed 
 we dream — [Girls look disappointed, and, exclaim, Oh! 
 is that all ? I''m sorry !] — and that we dream many strange 
 things, and the reason is, we were thinking such 
 thoughts, and they continued even after our eyes closed 
 in slumber. Mary, was it strange 3'ou dreamed of fire, 
 when you were reading last night of the great conflagra- 
 tion in the city of Santiago, Chili ? The great waste of 
 life there, and the brutality of many, enlisted your sym- 
 pathies and thoughts. 
 
 Mary. — But grandma says I will meet with opposition. 
 
 Alma. — Perhaps you will ! but not any more likely 
 because of 3^our dream. If Mary meets with opposition. 
 
52 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 I hope she will be strong and true, and meet it with a 
 brave heart, remembering that that is what overcomes 
 obstacles. 
 
 Olive. — I fell into a den of lions ; and grandma said 
 that meant I had many enemies. 
 
 Alma. — Of course you would dream of lions, after 
 reading Dr. Livingstone's travels in Africa, and his ad- 
 ventures with the king of beasts. And as for ene- 
 mies, if you are loving, kind and true, and do to others 
 as you would have them do to you, enemies will not 
 harm you, 
 
 Maggie. — Oh, Alma ! do you believe that my brother 
 is in the hospital ? I dreamed he was sick. 
 
 Alma. — No, no, child ! You were writing to him 
 before retiring, and thinking perhaps danger would 
 befall him. 
 
 Sarah. — Grandma and I both dreamed of Uncle John, 
 and she went off just now in a fit of hysterics, because 
 she says it is a sure sign he is dead. 
 
 Alma. — Nonsense I Grandma is whimsical. She has 
 thought and fancied so much about dreams, and that 
 there was reality in them, that she makes both herself 
 and others miserable. I hope you never will be so 
 carried away by them, and borrow trouble about the 
 future. Dreams are very pleasant, if we view them in a 
 sensible light. I heard cousin Emma read something 
 about them yesterday. 
 
 Girls. — Oh, I would like to hear it ! Wont she read 
 it to us ? 
 
 Alma. — I'll go after her. [Goes and returns soon 
 with cousin Emma.'] 
 
 Emma. — Well, girls, you see Alma has really "pressed 
 me into the service," so I'll not retreat, but do the best 
 I can. [Reads.'] 
 
 DREAMS. 
 " Come, Winnie, and sail on. the River of Sleep, 
 Where the fair Dream Islands be." 
 Sleep may be likened to a broad, calm, beautiful river^ 
 on which we sail at eventide, when twilight's dim, leaden 
 mantle has changed to a darker hue. In our light bai'ks 
 we float calmly along, without a ripple or wave to dis- 
 turb us, when the toi's of the day are over. This river 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 53 
 
 is atudded with fair and beautiful Dream Islands. Ohl 
 the beaut}" with which they are adorned ! We view their 
 grand and delightful scenes, flashing rivers, crystal 
 lakes, flowers with rare and sweet perfume, and birds 
 with gay plumage and sw-eetest songs. 
 
 And while our bark stops there, and we revel in the 
 beauty and grandeur, we forget all worldlj^ cares and 
 annoyances. All with pure and holy thoughts may 
 enjoy the beauty without money and without price. 
 And yery thankful am I for that. For the poor forget 
 their pinching poverty. The longing eyes, which so 
 delight in nature's grand and beautiful scenes, but are 
 debarred from them, may now feast heart and soul 
 Those who are separated from friends may again meet 
 and commune with them. But even to some who sail 
 on the river are beauties denied. To those whose 
 lives are spent in selfish idleness, base crime, or those 
 who daily drink of the maddening bowl — to these, dire 
 serpents sluggishly'' move the waters, and ferocious 
 beasts start from the green thickets with glaring e^^es 
 and opened mouth. And madl}^ trying to dispel the 
 scene, the almost delirious victims of sin curse the 
 River of Sleep, and even the fair Dream Islands. But 
 to the good they prove a blessing. Ever flow thou on, 
 peaceful river, set with emerald gems ! 
 
 Sarah. — Alma, you said you had a dream. Tell it to 
 us, and what makes you seem so hajDpy. 
 
 Alma. — Well, Sarah, I will answer you by repeating 
 a poem which I love dearly, and then we must go to our 
 lessons. [She repeats ;] 
 
 ' Pleasant were my dreams last night, 
 Till tlie dawn of moi'uing light ; 
 All the lonely midnitfht hours 
 Roamed I Dream-land's fairy bowers. 
 
 ' And the frieuds of Long Ago, 
 Those I loved and cherished so, 
 Looked on me with loving eyes, 
 Clasped my hand in glad surprise. 
 
 ' Tender words, like holy balm. 
 Filled my soul with heavenly calm ; 
 fcweeter than the song of birds, 
 Seemed to me thoso loving words. 
 
 " But the joy within my heart, 
 Does not with the night depart; 
 Tender words my spirit thrill, 
 Loving eyes look on me still. 
 
 " I've been humming all day long. 
 Snatches ot an old time song ; 
 Know you why my heart islightf 
 Pleasant were my dreams last night 
 
 " Surely blessed are those, hours. 
 When, like dew upon the flowers, 
 Fall they on the weary, sleeping ; 
 Saddest eyesfovget their wa^riHg. " 
 
54 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 THE rOTJR SEASONS.* 
 
 [The curtain rises, and a little girl appears dressed in white, 
 with scarf and sash of pink, a crown of small flowers on her 
 head, and bouquets in her hand. She speaks : — ] 
 
 I AM Spring. They call me beautiful Spring. My 
 step is light and my voice- is glad. I love all that is 
 young; 1 cheer all that is old. I call sweet flowers to 
 light among the gray old rocks, and make the green 
 leaves to tremble in their loveliness, among ancient ruins. 
 1 bring not onl_y soft, light, fresh winds, green 
 leaves, and fair flowers with me, but young birds in their 
 nests, and young lambs to play in the meadows. 
 
 Little fishes dart about in the brooks, too, and frogs 
 sing in the marshes. I come like Hope to the people. 
 They hear my voice, and lay the seed in the ground, and 
 trust it to the dew and the sunshine, the rain and the 
 smile of God. 
 
 I am a miracle worker on earth, and a type of the 
 fadeless land toward which mortals journey. 
 
 The prisoner in a gloomy dungeon far away, feels 
 my breath on his brow, and thinks of the rolling floods, 
 and the glad joy in that mountain home in v/hose defence 
 his comrades fell, for whose sake he can smile at impris- 
 onment and death. In my smile he hopes. 
 
 Now he says, " It is Spring time, and my brothers 
 and friends will gird on their armor and come and liber- 
 ate me." 
 
 The Father above, who guides the young birds back 
 to their last year's haunts, careth too for me, and it is 
 Spring. Lights and shadows fell on the way of the red 
 breast as he journeyed northward, but he hoped and 
 trusted ; he was true as Spring, and Spring is as true as 
 God. 
 
 I am crowned with flowers; I am laden with them ; 
 I am joyous and fair ; I am a being of light, and melody, 
 and fragrance. 
 
 I am the beautifier of Nature, the beloved of man, 
 a visible promise of Paradise. In Heaven only ma}^ I 
 tarry. 
 
 * This Dialogue was written in 1863. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 55 
 
 Here I come, but to depart. I must away, away 
 to make room for my lovely sister, the Summer; but 
 forget me not. I am Spring, beautiful Spi'ing. 
 [Scattering the flowers, she departs.] 
 
 [Enter Summer — A large girl in a pink dress and scarf, and 
 sash of green, and a broad-brimmed straw liat wreathed with 
 loses. On her left arm a small sheaf of wheat, in her right 
 hand a sickle. She says :— ] 
 
 I am Summer, gay, and bright, and gleesome. 
 " Laughing Summer" I am called. I have the brightest 
 sunshine, the thickest canopy of leaves, the stillest, 
 warmest air about me, and the bluest sky above. 
 
 I come to the lands of the North like a dream of 
 tropical beauty. I call the dwellers of the city out into 
 the forest haunts. I fill their souls with my glory. 
 Young maidens are ever garlanded with flowers in my 
 reign ; and I hear the children's laughter ringing out on 
 the air that is so sweet, wandering over orchards bright 
 with clover blossoms, and meadows sweet with new 
 mown hay. 
 
 Happy Summer I am called. I fill the children's 
 Jiands with strawberries. I load the trees with cherries 
 for shouting boys to shake down into the aprons of 
 bright-eyed little girls. 
 
 In my smile the apples grow rosy and mellow, and 
 the farmer's face is glad as he gathers the golden 
 pears. It is when my step is abroad in the land that 
 the poet weaves his brightest vision, and the patriot's 
 devotion is truest. 
 
 It is then he looks abroad and says: "My native 
 land! my own, my native land!" and "Where's the 
 coward that would not strike for such a land ?" I am 
 the friend of the patriot soldier. The youth, on the 
 lonely rounds of his picket duty, blesses God for me. 
 Looking up to m}^ starry' sky, he thinks how, in his far- 
 off home, the eyes of dear ones rest on those same bright 
 sentinels of heaven, the while they pi'ay for him. 
 
 Yes, I am Summer, the radiant and happy, even 
 though there is war in the land ; for* Peace will come 
 over the land at last like Summer and the Sun of Peace 
 
56 SOHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 shall shine as my sun at noonday. The eagle shall 
 spread his wing on the mountain unfearing ; the earth 
 shall be glad and rejoice ; the reapers shall be many, and 
 the harvest plenteous. This is the voice of the passing- 
 Summer. 
 
 [Autumn — A young girl in dress of bufi" or corn color, with 
 blue sash and scarf, and crowned with wheat or j^utumn 
 leaves and grasses ; in her hand a horn of plenty.] 
 
 I am Autumn. Spring promised, and Summer 
 brought, but I finish. 
 
 They call me mellow Autumn, and jolly Autumn, 
 and I, too, am loved. When barns and cellars are full, 
 all heai'ts are happy. The blossoms of Spring were fair, 
 and the roses of Summer bright ; but my wild flowers 
 are of gold and purple, and scarlet, royal, and radiant. 
 
 I have strewn the wood paths with dry leaves, I 
 have warned the dear birds that it was time to be gone 
 southward ; but the chatter of squirrels over their hoarded 
 treasures is heard in the woods, and the voices that go 
 up from the streams are pleasant, the grassliopper's song 
 is ended, and the bee hums near its hive. 
 
 The girls have gathered the grapes, and the boj's 
 the nuts ; the plough is tracing the furrows over the 
 brown fields, and the farmer's table is graced by bread 
 from his land, and honey from his hives. 
 
 And my winds are wild and stirring in their tones : 
 
 "They have been across red fields of war, 
 
 Where shivered helmets He, 
 They have brought me thence the thrilling note, 
 
 Of a clarion in the sky ; 
 A rustling of proud banner-folds, 
 
 A peal of stormy drums — 
 All these are in their music met. 
 
 As when a leader comes." 
 
 Oh! what is like rich, ripe, mellow Autumn, in a 
 land that God has blessed among the nations— a land 
 whose starry banner shall float over it, when its. people 
 shall indeed be free ? 
 
 This, oh land of beauty, is the prophecy of Au 
 tumn 1 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 57 
 
 [Winter — A boy representing an old man arrayed in an 
 ample black cloak, trimmed with white fur — with gray hair 
 streaming from beneath a heavy fur cap — a pair of skates 
 swung from his shoulder.] 
 
 I am Winter. I brought the snow, and the boys 
 shouted hurrah ; the girls clapped their hands rosy with 
 the cold, and said : " Ha ! ha I" I traced the pictures 
 of wondrous beauty on the window panes, and bridged 
 rivers, and hung pearls on the pine trees. 
 
 I set my winds to shouting, and quickened ever}' 
 body's steps. My snow flakes whirl, my snow birds 
 flutter by, and my clouds hurry. 
 
 It is I that have the Christmas tree to decorate 
 my halls, and the New Year's fire to blaze on my hearth ; 
 and then the little cricket chirrups there, while the 
 turkey roasts, and the apples and nuts are heaped in the 
 basket. 
 
 Oh 1 the boys get their skates now, and hurrah for 
 the sport ! And the girls may come along too, and 
 listen to the sleigh bells ! what fun ! hui-rah ! To be 
 upset in the snow-drifts, ah, that is merry ! 
 
 Yes, I am Winter, and most welcome to all, no 
 thanks to fair young Spring, bright Summer, and mild 
 Autumn to be cheerful ; but fur Winter, an old man to 
 come with such grace and pleasantry, that all are glad 
 to see him — that is fine! Winter, Winter, happy is 
 the country that rejoices in thee ! 
 
 The merriest games are played in my long even- 
 ings, the sweetest songs are sung then, and the best 
 stories told. 
 
 Beautiful are the shadows that the fire-light casts 
 on the wall, and " pleasant and mournful to the soul the 
 memory of jo^^s that are past!" 
 
 I bade you rejoice, but I bid you also to mourn — 
 to mourn for those whose deaths have made hearths safe 
 and holy — those peasant men who became warriors at 
 their country's call. 
 
 Let the records of their bravery be eternal! While 
 ever your homes are dear, praise ye the men who 
 perished to preserve them, and let Winter beseech you 
 to care for the widow and orphf.n. 
 
58 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Under the cold light of my stars, their homes 
 seem doubly desolate, and my winds to them take the 
 sound of bitter wailing. 
 
 I am Winter, and 'tis my voice that asks you to 
 care for the poor, who have offered up their beloved on 
 the altar of sacrifice, and while you pray " God be 
 merciful!" be ye merciful, give, give — it is la3dng up 
 treasures in heaven. 
 
 Winter is the friend of Freedom. Amid the snow}^ 
 Alps, the undaunted Tell, with his friends, defied tlie 
 tyrant ; and at Valley Forge the patriotism and the 
 heroism of Washington and his army were sublime and 
 God-like. Shall the descendants of such fathers hold 
 Liberty less dear ? 
 
 [Spring, Summer, and Autumn appear again, and clasping 
 hands with winter, form a circle. Winter proceeds : — 
 " It is your banner in the skies, 
 
 Through each dark cloud that breaks, 
 And mantles with triumphant dyes, 
 Your thousand hills and lakes." 
 
 This* is the voice of the whole year. 
 
 [The curtain falls.'] 
 
 SCHOOL AFFAIRS IN RIVERHEAD DISTRICT. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Squire Wiseman, "i 
 
 Job Turner, and > School Committee. 
 Hans Schweitzer, j 
 
 Joseph Harris, an accomplished gentleman and Teacher. 
 Sam Price the preference of the Board. 
 Pupils. 
 
 Scene L — Harris and his Scholars. 
 
 Har. — My dear pupils ! I desire to say a few wo -de 
 tc you, before I dismiss the school to-night. You have 
 all done well to-day, and I love to encourage you. Do 
 you not all feel better after doing a good day's work ? 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 59 
 
 Pupils. — Yes, indeed. 
 
 Har. — I know 3^ou do. I knew just what you were 
 going to say. Work does us a great deal of good. It 
 makes the blood course freely in our veins. It makes 
 our cheeks glow. It is better than medicine, because it 
 prevents many ills. It does us good to think about 
 good deeds. And I know yon all feel better, to-night, 
 because you have a good da3^'s work to think about. Don't 
 you all love to study and learn hard lessons ? If any 
 boy or girl, in my school, does not like to spend his 
 time well, does not feel better when he has worked hard, 
 n,nd has done something, let him raise his hand. \_One 
 hand is rained.'] 
 
 Har. — Well, Charlie, speak out. Do you not feel 
 uetter when at work? 
 
 Charlie. — Not a bit of that. I feel best when I am 
 wabblin about. 
 
 Har. — Come here, Charlie. I like to see you honest. 
 I love honest boys. Always speak the truth. I like to 
 see you all active. Charlie doesn't understand me. He 
 thinks I am commending boys who are alwaj^s still. I 
 do not mean that. Industry requires activity. Indus- 
 trious students, however, are industrious thinkers. A.nd 
 thought is silent. [^Another hand is raised.] What do 
 you want to say, James ? 
 
 James. — Do thoughts always keep still ? 
 
 Har. — Not always. The}^ often seek expression. 
 But much talking indicates little thought. We ought 
 to express our thoughts ; but look out for proper occa- 
 sions. You may recollect the proverb which says: 
 " Still waters run deep." To turn upon another subject : 
 I am sorry to think, scholars, that we are so perplexed 
 about classing and teaching you properl}''. Our books 
 have become so various, that I find it very difficult to 
 teach as I would like. I do not find as much time for 
 each class, as I could if our system of books, studies, 
 etc., were improved. But let us be patient. I intend 
 to see Squire Wiseman, the most prominent and influen- 
 tial man of the school board, and see what can be done 
 to better our condition. In the meantime, let us work 
 hard to get our lessons well We will close school bj 
 repealing a few of James Montgomery's questions ant* 
 
60 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 answers [^School divides — one class on the right and 
 one on the left of the stage.^ 
 
 ist class. Nature, whence sprang thy glorious frame ? 
 
 2d class. My Maker called me and I came. 
 
 1st class. Oh, Sun ! what makes thy beams so bright ! 
 
 2d class. The word that said, " Let there be light." 
 
 1st class. Planets, what guides you in your course ? 
 
 2d class. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. 
 
 Isi class. Flowers, wherefore do you bloom ? 
 
 2d class. We strew thy pathway to the tomb. 
 
 1st class. Dews of the morning, wherefore are ye given? 
 
 2d class. To shine on earth, then rise to heaven. 
 
 1st class. Time, whither dost thou flee ? 
 
 2d class. I travel to eternity, 
 
 1st class. Oh, Life ! what is thy breath ? 
 
 2d class. A vapor lost in death. 
 
 1st class. Oh, death ! how ends thy strife ? 
 
 2d class. In everlasting life. 
 
 Har. — School is dismissed. \^AU pass out.'] 
 
 Scene 2. — Mr. Harris, Squire Wiseman and Job Turner. 
 
 Har. — How are j^ou, my good friend ? I have been 
 desirous of meeting you for some time. I have much 
 which concerns the common interests of our school and 
 district to converse about. I fear we shall not have 
 time for all. 
 
 Sq. W. — Perhaps not. But it doesn't matter. I am 
 not very well versed in these school affairs, you 
 know. And a conversation would not be of much ser- 
 vice to 3"ou, it may be. However, I shall be happy to 
 meet you, at the office, some evening. 
 
 Har. — That will not do. I have little time for an3'' 
 thing merely promotive of my own pleasure. I must 
 improve a moment, at present, I think, hoping that j-ou 
 will pardon the impropriety there may be in urging it. 
 I have been thinking of trying to remove a difficulty 
 under which we labor respecting books. 
 
 Sq. W. — What difficulties do the books make ! 1 
 thought they were made to remove difficulties. 
 
 Har. — So they were. Yet some do their work but 
 poorly enough — making more than they remove. 
 
 Sq. W. — How is that ? How is that ? Are you get- 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 61 
 
 tiixg so wise as to know more about books than the 
 book-makers ? 
 
 Har. — I can tell, I think, when a book serves a good 
 purpose as a text, and when not. 
 
 Sq. W. — Well ! well ! How are you going to mend 
 flings ? The law will not allow you to interfere with 
 our books. 
 
 Har. — 'Tis true ; and most properly is such inter- 
 ference, on my part, prohibited. But I wish to influence 
 you, and those associated with you, as a school com- 
 mittee, to the fulfillment of your duty respecting this 
 matter. I would like to see the very wise provisions 
 of our law enforced, respecting a uniformity at least. 
 
 Sq. W. — I never could see much force in the statute 
 to which you refer. 
 
 Har. — Indeed ! Perhaps j'^ou have not reflected upon 
 its importance. To me it is one of the most essential 
 and important features of the code. 
 
 Sq. W. — I generally look at the importance of things, 
 sir. I should not be qualified to act as umpire for 
 others, were it not the case. 
 
 Har. — Let me then call your attention to the great 
 want of classification, existing in our school, when I 
 first took charge of it — a want, too, which still exists, 
 and which is occasioned, solely, on account of the 
 variety of text-books used by pupils of the same age 
 and advancement. 
 
 Sq. W. — Well, I can't see how it matters about the 
 book, if pupils be well and correctly taught. 
 
 Har. — True ! but how can they be well taught in such 
 a case as mine ? 
 
 Sq. W. — Hem ! Well, if people have books, they 
 will hardly trouble themselves to get more. 
 
 Har. — But they should. And, by the law, they are 
 bound to, if prescribed by the right authority. The 
 convenience of one should be sacrificed to the necessi- 
 ties of the many. 
 
 Sq. W. — Oh, well ! I fear you can't introduce these 
 new-fangled notions among us. We are a steady, 
 straight-forward people. Don't go in for change. 
 
 Har.. — Except pocket change I I do not desire to in- 
 troduce such notions as those, of which you speak. 
 
62 SCHOOLDA^' DIALOGUES. 
 
 Tbe law has anticipated me in the premises, looking, as 
 it did, to the pressing demands of the youth of our 
 schools. I would like to see its wise provisions executed. 
 J, therefore, appeal to you as the authorized agents of 
 the law-making power to attend to our wants. I should 
 be glad to give any advice that would assist you in the 
 adjustment of our difficulties. 
 
 [^Enter Job Turner, another member of the school 
 committee.'] 
 
 Tub. — What advice is that ar you propose to give 
 to us ? I heard you had gone over to stir up a fuss, 
 and I thought I'd come over and see tew it. We don't 
 want men around here who can't attend to their own 
 business. 
 
 Har. — I am surprised, Mr. Turner. All that I have 
 done, I have done with honest intentions, I am not 
 aware that I have overstepped the bounds of my duty. 
 
 TuR. — Is it your business to run down our school- 
 house ? 
 
 Har. — It is my duty to call attention to what I be- 
 lieve to be for the good of the school. 
 
 Sq. W. — Why, Mr. Harris, what is the matter with 
 our house ? We all got our education in it. 
 
 Har. — It may be. But it is now grossly dilapidated, 
 
 TuR. — Now i am a new hand in this business. But 
 I know such things as these will make trouble. 
 
 Har. — I must go. I hope we shall all do our best 
 in our respective capacities to meet all the wants of 
 those under our care. \_Exit Harris.] 
 
 Sq. W. — Now, Job, this is insulting. We can't stand 
 this. I am not penurious— but — but let us quietly get 
 rid of this man. I can, perhaps, induce him to resign. 
 
 TuR. — Go it, squire. I am in. I'll be bound if we 
 wont show him that he can't rule all Riverhead. Aftfr 
 -we git him out, we'll have an examination and employ 
 aceordin' to our own notions. 
 
 Scene 3. — Squire Wiseman, J. Turner, H. Shweitzer, 
 and Samuel Price. Examination day. 
 
 Sq. W. — I suppose you heard of the resignation of 
 Mr, Harris as teaclier in our school. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 63 
 
 TuR. — I did that. It takes jon, squire, for them 
 tliiogs. I heard to-day there was an examination, and 
 I thought I'd come up in time to get posted. 
 
 Sq. W.— Well, I don't like to talk about myself. But 
 somehow or other, I always thought I could manage 
 all these delicate affairs with some success. Eh ? 
 
 TuR. — Exactly, squire. And I must say I felt kinder 
 proud to be elected school committee with you. You 
 see, I knew that affairs would go on swimmingly, as 
 long as you manage them. [^Squire struts about with 
 importance.'] 
 
 Sq. W.— Yes— Yes. Wall, I hope they will. 
 
 TuR. — Oh ! I know they will. Don't talk to me, when 
 the squire is in for any thing. It's all right. I need to 
 learn. 
 
 Sq. W. — All right, neighbor. We ought to move 
 carefully in these matters. 
 
 TuR. — Yes, I reckon we had. Look what everlastin' 
 musses are kicked up sometimes, because things aint 
 arranged as they orto be. 
 
 Sq. W. — So, so. The time for the examination has 
 nearly arrived. Let me tell you one thing, Job. Let 
 us all work together. Our friend, Schweitzer, who is 
 one of the committee, as you are aware, is very strong 
 in his opinions, sometimes. And, under such circum- 
 stances, it will be better to sacrifice our own notions, 
 you know, in order to preserve harmony. 
 
 TuR. — Well, I reckon so, too. But there are some 
 pints about teachin' that I allow to know a heap about, 
 and I'd like to have my say, you know. 
 
 Sq. W. — Oh, certainl}^ ! We all have that privilege. 
 \_Enter Schweitzer.'] 
 
 ScHW. — Goot afternoon. Yot for ye talkin' so much ? 
 Ish it not time for de examination ? 
 
 TuR. — Don't get into a flurry now. We're goin' to 
 sarve the public now. We must look 
 
 ScHW. — Yot for you look so long ? You never do de 
 vork in dis vay. I must go home in one hour to sow 
 my turnips. So hurry on. 
 
 Sq. W. — As soon as our friends, the teachers, come, 
 we will proceed. 
 
 ScHW. — Yell, den. Here comes a poor tivil of a 
 
64 SCHOOLBAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 schoolmaster, I know. Ax him a few quibbles, and if 
 he can't answer noting, praps he can teach the young 
 uns to spell. \_Enter Sam Price, applicant for a 
 school.'] 
 
 Sq. W. — Take a seat, sir. [ Teacher gawks about, and 
 finally sits down with his hat on.] 
 
 TuR. — Well, squire, do you know this man ? I reckon 
 he is arter a school. 
 
 Sq. W. — I suppose so. Friend, did you see our 
 notice ? 
 
 Price. — Yas, I did. I thought I'd come up. 
 
 ScHW. — Yot for you come up ? Can you teach 
 school ? 
 
 TuR. — Hold on, now. We are goin' into a regular ex- 
 amination in a minnit. All these things '11 come out 
 then. I am goin' in for first-rate disqualifications. 
 
 ScHW. — Yell, den, go to vork. I no go in for so much 
 zamination, or vot you call him. 
 
 TuR. — Come, Squire, this is your business. [Squire 
 looks wise and proceeds.] 
 
 Sq. W. — What is your name ? 
 
 Price. — Samuel Price, sir. 
 
 ScHW — Who cares for de name ? 'Tis de teacher we 
 want. 
 
 Sq. W. — What is the place of your nativity ? 
 
 Price. — What is it, sir ? 
 
 TuR. — Where did you live when you was born? he 
 says. 
 
 Price. — I don't remember. I guess 'twan't far off, 
 
 Sq. W. — Where were you educated ? 
 
 Price. — I don't jest understand you. 
 
 ScHW. — Yare did you larn noting ? he says. 
 
 Price. — I larnt some at school — but more sence I got 
 out on't. 
 
 TuR. — Have you got any more sense than you used 
 to have ? 
 
 Price. — I saved a little change in teachin' down 
 country. 
 
 Sq. W. — Then you have had some experience ? 
 
 Price. — Oh, yas 1 
 
 Sq. W. — Did you please the people ? 
 
 Price. — I don't know. Spect I did. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 65 
 
 Sq. W. — Will you read some for us ? Here is a book. 
 \^Ileads awkwardly hut very loud. Job Turner gets per- 
 fectly astonished at the fine elocution.'] 
 
 TuR. — Good gracious, mister ! Where did you larn 
 to read like that ? It beats everj^ thing I ever dreamed 
 of. I reckon you can teach some, can't ye ? You see, 
 we all go in for the very best kind o' larnin' about here 
 — cipherin', spellin', and the like. That sounds more 
 like real edication than any thing I've listened to in a 
 long time. Excuse me, squire ; really I didn't mean to 
 disturb you. 
 
 Sq. W. — What's grammar ? 
 
 Price. — Grammar is the way things is done — perticu- 
 lex'ly in the matter of speakin', talkin', riten', etc. 
 
 Sq. W. — How is it divided ? 
 
 Price. — Among the scholars accordin' to their ages. 
 
 Sq. W. — What is a noun ? 
 
 Price. — Any thing you can hear, feel or taste. 
 
 ScHW. — Yes, and schmell, too, I b'leve. 
 
 Sq. W.— What is a verb ? 
 
 Price. — A verb is what bees, doos, suffers, ax, and 
 passes. 
 
 Sq. W. — What verbs are transitive ? 
 
 Price. — Some verbs is transitive, and some isn't. 
 
 Sq. W. — Will you do some geometry for us? — any 
 thing you please. 
 
 Price. — Oh, yas. The four sides of an icicle triangle 
 is about equal to three right angles; and a round 
 circle aint got no end. 
 
 Sq. W. — Well, that will do, unless the other gentle- 
 men have questions to ask. 
 
 ScHW. — Oh, no, it ish goot — betters as I have heard in 
 a long time. 
 
 TuR. — We have heard enough to satisfy us, I reckon. 
 
 Sq. W. — Will you please to retire ! [Price passes 
 out.] 
 
 Sq. W. — Well, what do you think ? I don't exactly 
 like the appearance of the man. 
 
 ScHw. — He looks well enough. 'Tis te teacher we 
 want. 
 
 Sq. W. — But the address of a man has a great inllu' 
 ence upon pupils. 
 5 
 
^6 SCHOOLDAY t>TALOGUfiS. 
 
 TuR. — fie's sniai^t, though; aint he, squire? 
 
 Sq. W.— Yes, rather apt, though his answers were not 
 all correct. Still — we — have been pajang rather too 
 high. If this man will teach for a reasonable salary 1 
 am willing to employ him — say ten dollars a month. 
 
 ScHW. — I go for ten dollars a raont, too. 'Tis pig 
 biice I know. But the poor tivil must live. 
 
 TuR. — I am willin' to agree to what's fair in his case. 
 Ten dollars is above my mark, some two dollars. But 
 I see he is a goin' to do up the business right, and I am 
 willin' to agree to the price. 
 
 Sq. W. — Inform him, Mr Turner, of his appointment, 
 and if he accepts, he can commence immediately. 
 
 ScHW. — Squire, you see dat dis deacher puts in de 
 whole time. We no w^ants to lose money on dis pargain, 
 nohow. \_Exit all.'] 
 
 Scene 4. — Sam Price in school. Piqnls talking loud 
 and noisy. 
 
 Price. — Silence ! ! I D'j-e hear that ? Set down ! I 
 Take off your hats ! ! Ef ye don't be still now, I'll 
 
 use that hickory to your hearts' content, ye young 
 
 Class in jogerph3'-, come up. [Pupils come shuffling and 
 crowding.'] Where do you live ? 
 
 Class. — At home. 
 
 Tea. — Right ; but in what town ? I meant. 
 
 Cl. — Don't know. 
 
 Tea. — Riverhead. 
 
 Cl. — Riverhead. Riverhead. Riverhead. 
 
 Tea. — What's the shape of the earth ? 
 
 Cl. — Of a punkin shape. 
 
 Tea.— What motion has it ? 
 
 Cl. — It goes on an axle-tree, and has a motion biggei 
 yet. 
 
 Tea. — What town in the Great Desert ? 
 
 Cl. — Eoypt. 
 
 Tea.— What State in New York ? 
 
 Cl. — Varmount. 
 
 Tea. — Class dismissed. 
 
 Pupils. — May I go out ? Please, may I go out ? Master, 
 let me go out ? Tom's piuchin'. Master, may I tell you 
 on Jim? He's ben doin' somethin', etc. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 67 
 
 Tea. — Yes, j^es. All go out. [All r-un — two or three 
 fall down. Teacher rings a bell repeatedly, hut no 
 scholars come in. Soliloquizes.'} Plague on the var- 
 mints. I'll lick 'em. I wonder if I was born to teaclj 
 school, any how? That's what they all say, But 1 
 don't believe it, jest. Here I am, and nobody to listen 
 
 to my valuable instructions. I'll go and resign . 
 
 No I wont either. Dad and mam '11 laugh too much to 
 see me comin' hum now. I give fust, best kind o' satis- 
 faction among the people. They all say I beat the 
 other teacher — Harris — all to nothin', They had to turn 
 him out. He kicked up the greatest fuss about this old 
 house, books, and other foolish things, ever I heerd tell 
 on. I'm thinking ef he warnt about right, tew. We have 
 got the scurviest old house in creation, I re».kon. But 
 a feller can get on in these ere parts, ef he only has the 
 larnin'. That's what puts me through. I know how 
 it goes by experience. But if I could only make these 
 varmints toe the scratch, I'd go it slick as ile. Onl}'^ 
 keep dark about matters furrin to real teachin', and a 
 feller can become popular in these diggins — just as easy 
 — That's so IBiyigs.} Confound the iing wis. I wish 
 the old Harry had 'em, and I was in Hardscrabhle agin 
 'long with the old folks. Wouldn't I get drunk on 
 apples and cider, and go to see Sally, eh ? Wouldn't I 
 be up to that ? Oh, yes ! Thar's them boys goin' into 
 that orchard. [Takes his hat and runs hack and forth.'] 
 I'll haze 'em. [Runs hack for his whip.] I'll lick 'em. 
 Dogs and all mustard ! I'll bring 'em up and see if 
 they'll go away agin. Ef I don't lam 'em 1 [Leams.'} 
 
 NOVEL READING. 
 
 ■ CHARACTERS. 
 Lena Grey. Her brother. 
 Frank Grky. 
 Edgar Ramon. 
 
 Edgar. — Will you please tell me what book you are 
 reading, Lena ? I have been regarding your countenance 
 for sometime, and by its ever varying expression I 
 judge you are much interested. 
 
68 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 
 
 Lena. — I am interested ; it is tbe most fascinating 
 story I ever read. 
 
 Edgar. — Will you please tell me the character of the 
 book ? I can not consider it one that requires much 
 profound stud}^ ; you turn the leaves too rapidly. 
 
 Frank. — Her- "glances are quick and comprehensive ; 
 a very few convey to her mind all the information she 
 desires. 
 
 Lena. — The book is a novel, I suppose; for it contains 
 the usual amount of love, jealous}^ sentiment, and crime ; 
 but do you think it is wrong to spend a little time oc- 
 casionally in reading merely for amusement ? 
 
 Edgar. — That depends upon the kind of amusement 
 the book affords. We would not pelt ourselves with 
 stones for the sake of obtaining exercise ; nor should 
 we permit the mind to indulge in recreation equally 
 injurious. 
 
 Lena. — Most surely you would not imply that be- 
 cause I indulge in novel reading, I shall render myself 
 less capable of performing the trivial duties of dail}^ life. 
 With the greatest economy of time I can obtain only a 
 v'ew hours each da}^ for mental culture ; and should I 
 spend even the greater part of that in novel reading, 
 what evil could result from it? 
 
 Edgar. — In the words of the learned Daniel Wise, 
 let me reply, " Obscured, feeble intellect, a weakened 
 memory, an extravagant and fanciful imagination, be- 
 numbed sensibilities, a demoralized conscience, and a 
 corrupted heart." 
 
 Lena. — Could I believe that all that troop of evils 
 would follow so harmless a pastime, I would never 
 again unfold the covers of a novel. 
 
 Frank. — Were success even possible, I would try to 
 convince you of the truth ; but you are so persistent in 
 the maintenance of an agreeable tenet, that I fear you 
 would employ your inclination rather than reason in 
 forming a conclusion. 
 
 Lena. — If I have ever given you occasion to form 
 such an opinion of me, I certainly regret it ; but why 
 should novel reading obscure the intellect ? We are 
 brought in contact with some of the most lovely and 
 pure beings that the imagination can conceive ; we trace 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 69 
 
 their conduct through an ever eventful life ; we observe 
 the motives that controlled their acts ; and are we not 
 benefited ? We are also led to contemplate viler shades 
 of character. We behold ignorance, misery, vice, ami 
 crime; we trace their origin; they excite our loathing; 
 and we discern more clearly the excellence of virtue. 
 
 Frank. — I should certainly rejoice could I believe 
 that you had been so benefited. 
 
 Edgar. — Novels address themselves to the passions, 
 and there Is great danger that we shall sympathize not 
 only with the pure and lovely characters portrayed by 
 the novelist, but also with those that are less worthy. 
 Thieves, profligates, and murderers, are represented as 
 shrewd, ingenious, and talented ; and the fact tliat they 
 possess qualities that are admirable, renders them ob- 
 jects of greater interest to us. We regard such charac- 
 ters as necessary to form an agreeable contrast with the 
 more angelic beings ; and the more deepl}' they are cast 
 in blood and crime, the more pleasing is the effect. 
 
 Lena. — How can the study of such contrasts disaffect 
 the mind ? May we not admire the talent that enables 
 a man to accomplish a bad purpose, and yet despise the 
 doer? 
 
 Edgar. — Novels are not read merely for the purpose 
 of observing the contrasts of character presented there, 
 nor for criticism ; but, as yon have said, " for amuse- 
 ment." They fill the mind with lively pictures of what 
 might be true ; and yet the utter improbability that a 
 person would ever be placed in similar circumstances 
 renders it useless that we should burden our memory 
 with a record of the lives portrayed there. 
 
 Lena. — There is one excellency, at least, that I trust 
 5'ou will accord to novels ; they certainly tend to make 
 the imagination more vivid. 
 
 Frank. — My dear sister, 1 deeply regret your appar- 
 ent ignorance in regard to the adaptation of words. 
 Assuredl}^, you would not have used the adj active 
 "lofty," instead of "distorted," had you considered 
 how illy it expressed your meaning. 
 
 Edgar. — There are many most excellent works of the 
 imagination ; the productions of the most gifted minds; 
 Such might well repay our perusal. But novel reading 
 
70 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 intoxicates our minds rather than elevates our concep- 
 tions ; for, even as the inebriate, jovial with wine, fancies 
 he has attained the height of happiness, so the novel 
 reader, lost in the mazes of fiction, believes that all the 
 longings of her mind are satisfied. Then, too, reading 
 should be pursued for benefit, and ladies are seldom 
 deficient in imagination. 
 
 Frank. — That is certainly true. If all Lena's plans 
 could have been carried into effect, our earth would 
 have been an Eden, our home a paradise, long ago. 
 
 Lena. — Do you condemn all works of fiction? 
 
 Edgar. — No ; there are some fictitious writings most 
 excellent in their character. I would object only to 
 those which leave the mind in an excited, unsatisfied 
 state, which " rob us of a higher pleasure than they 
 aflbrd, since the same attention to solid reading would 
 procure us loftier, purer pleasures." 
 
 Lena. — Your argument is specious ; but I certainly 
 do not like to believe it. I will not decide immediately 
 on so important a question. 
 
 Frank. — You will rather wander awhile in the ditch 
 in order to see if you will be defiled. 
 
 Lena. — No : I will stand on the bank and consider. 
 
 THE DEMONS OF THE GLASS. 
 
 CHAEACTERS. 
 
 T^^t ^^^^'^^f °^ ^^^ I drinking friendB. 
 Jerry opencer, j ° 
 
 ToTTE, a fairy. 
 
 POVERTT. 
 
 Crime. 
 
 Disease. 
 
 Edith. 
 
 Little Child and Servant. 
 
 Scene 1. — Enter Pennington and Spencer. 
 
 Pennington. — Now, Jerry, sit down and have some- 
 thing before you go down street. This is a raw day 
 out, you know. 
 
 Spencer. — I <jan stay but a few minutes, PeuningtotL 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 71 
 
 You are aware that I must meet my father at the depot 
 in — let me see — [takes out his watch'] — ^just fifteen min- 
 utes. [ They both sit down at a table^ 
 
 Penn. — This would be a cold world, indeed, Jerry, if 
 we couldn't have a little something warm to take occa- 
 sionally, you know. [Bings the hell.'] Good whisky, 
 Jerry, is the best thing in the world to develop the 
 latent caloric in the human system, physiologically 
 speaking. [Enter servant.] 
 
 Servant. — Did you ring, sir ? 
 
 Penn. — Yes, I rang. Bring us some of that best 
 whisky, Tom. Mind, the best. Of course I rang. 
 Didn't you know what to bring, without coming to see? 
 
 Servant. — I might have known. [Aside.] He doesn't 
 want much else but whisky any more. 
 
 Penn. — Quit your muttering there, and bring the 
 whisk3^ 
 
 Servant. — Yes, sir. [Exit.] 
 
 Spencer. — It's well to have a good friend, Penning- 
 ton, and I've often thought that we ought to look to each 
 other's interests a little more. James Pennington, I 
 believe we are both indulging in the glass too much. 
 For my part, I have determined to quit short off. 
 When I drink this time with you — [eyiter servant with 
 two glasses, filled, on a waiter, and exit] — it shall be the 
 last. 
 
 Penn. — What ! why, Jerry, whisky's a great institu- 
 tion. It's the life and soul of a man almost. [ Takes 
 up glass and hands it to Spencer ; fakes the other him- 
 self; both rise.] Here's health, Jerry, and may you 
 never think less of me for saying. Here's to your reso- 
 lution I 
 
 Spencer. — May you never live to realize the tortures 
 of the " Demons of the Glass !" [Pennington drinks. 
 Spencer, unnoticed, cautiously throws the contents of his 
 glass upon the floor.] So now, Pennington, good-by. I 
 must go. 
 
 Penn. — Good-night, Jerry. Stop and see me often. 
 [Exit Spencer.] " Demons of the Glass!" What does 
 he mean ? I feel vei*y strange to-night. I don't think 
 I'm drunk. I've been drunk before, and I didn't feel 
 this way. Pshaw ! doctors often recommend whisky— 
 
72 SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 
 
 eay it's good for consumption. Well, so it is ; good for 
 my consumption, for I do consume it sometimes, that's 
 certain. Ha ! Ha 1 that's a g-o-a-k [spelled only'] as 
 /riend A. Ward has it. \_Rings beW]. Whisky is good. 
 " I like it," as an old hotel-keeper out West used to say. 
 Good to raise the spirits. [Three or four distinct raps 
 near the table. Starts in his chair, astonished.'] Hallo ! 
 what's that ! Spirits raised sure enough. [Enter ser^ 
 vant with glass on waiter.] You're a good fellow, Tom. 
 When I shuffle off this mortal coil — die, I mean — I'll 
 leave you all my old clothes. [Dri^iks.] 
 
 Servant [aside]. — He won't have much else to leave 
 an^' body, if he keeps going on at this rate. 
 
 Penn. — You're a good fellow, Tom ; bring me another 
 glass of this soul-reviving elixir of life. 
 
 Servant [aside]. — He likes " er" that's true 1 [Aloud.] 
 Another, sir ? 
 
 Penn. — I — said — hie — another — didn't I ? An — hie — 
 'nother ! Of course another. [Exit servant.] Another 
 — hem ! why not ? Whisky is a fundamental princ- 
 — hie — ciple. What's a fellow to do if there's no spirit 
 in him. Another ? I can afford — hie — to drink as much 
 as I please. I'm a — hie — able. I'm rich. I'm going to 
 marry the handsomest, the richest, the most intelligent 
 lady in the city. I'm going to — to — be the happiest 
 man alive — [enter servant with glass — Pennington takes 
 it]-— if Edith Graham and this can make me. You 
 didn't put just a little too much water in this, did you, 
 Tom? 
 
 Servant. — No, I hope not. \_Exit.] 
 
 Penn. [sets the glass on the table and looks at it]. — 
 Jerry said something about "Demons of the Glass." I 
 don't see any. Jerry's a good fellow, and when he said 
 that, he must have meant something. I feel very strange, 
 sleepy, and drowsy. [Thoughtfully and low.] "Demons 
 in the glass." [Falls asleep with his head on his arm 
 resting on the table.] 
 
 [ Three or four girls sing a stanza or two of some 
 temperance song — very softly— from some con- 
 cealed place on the f^tage. During the singing, 
 enter Totie, a fairy, dressed in white, with a 
 wand in her hand.] 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 73 
 
 ToTiE [looks at the sleeper]. — Ah ! who have we here? 
 This man needs my attention. [Takes up the glass and 
 looks at it.] Oh ! poor dehided mortal, why will you 
 drink this vile stuff? I must help him to see his con- 
 dition, [Waves her wand over him. He starts up and 
 looks around, wildly.'] 
 
 Penn. — Who — who — was that ? [Starts hack with 
 astonishment when he sees Totie.] Who are you? 
 
 ToTiE.— Totie ! 
 
 Penn. — Who ? 
 
 Totie.— Te— to— tal. Totie for short. 
 
 Penn. — What do you want here, and with me ? 
 
 Totie. — I came on an errand of mercy to 3'ou. 
 
 Penn. — To me ? Well, now, that's a fine joke. Well, 
 before you commence business, won't you have a little 
 nip to waken up your spirits ? Hey ? 
 
 Totie. — No, I come to warn you. That [pointing to 
 glass] is what demons feed fools and dupes upon. 
 
 Penn. [aside]. — Demons again ? [Aloud.] Fools and 
 dupes ? 
 
 Totie. — James Pennington are you a fool or a dupe? 
 
 Penn. — I acknowledge being a ibol or a dupe ? No 1 
 no, indeed ! 
 
 Totie. — What is in that glass ? 
 
 Penn. — Whisky ; and good whisky, too, if I am a 
 judge. 
 
 Totie.— What else ? 
 
 Penn. [looking in the glass]. — Nothing else there, 
 Totie. 
 
 Totie. — You are blind, James Pennington. There is 
 in that glass enough to make you cry out in despair 
 and hide your eyes for very horror ! There are demons 
 in that glass. 
 
 Penn. [starting]. — Demons ? 
 
 [Totie waves her ivand — Disease appeal's.] 
 
 Penn. — Who are you ? 
 
 Disease [in a hollow tone]. — My name is Disease. I 
 am the messenger of Death, come to warn you. My 
 home is there [pointing to glass], in the bottom of that 
 cup. 
 
 Penn. — Kather a small home for you, I should think, 
 from your size 
 
74 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Disease. — It is large enough for me and all who are 
 with me there. [_Exit.'] 
 
 [ Totie waves her wand — Poverty appears."] 
 
 Poverty. — My name is Poverty. 
 
 Penn.. — I should say you are well named by your 
 appearance. 
 
 Poverty. — In the bottom of that glass is my home. 
 
 Penn. — I have never seen you there. 
 
 Poverty. — You were blind. Thousands and thou- 
 sands have found me there, as you will in reality at no 
 distant day. [Exit.] 
 
 Totie. — There are others at the bottom of that cup. 
 Shall you see them ? 
 
 Penn. — Oh no I no 1 I've seen enough ! I've seen 
 enough 1 
 
 Totie. — But you shall see them, 
 
 [ Waves her wand and Crime appears, clad in rags, 
 and chains on his hands and feet.] 
 
 Penn. — I wish to see no more. This is horrible ! 
 
 Crime. — My name is Crime. I live at the bottom of 
 yonder glass. By-and-by you will know me better, and 
 do my bidding. I am a " Demon of the Glass." Those 
 who use the glass, obey its lord. 
 
 Penn. — Oh 1 leave me ! leave me ! What does all 
 this mean ? 
 
 Totie. — There is more misery there [pointing to the 
 glass] — you shall see more. 
 
 Penn. — I've seen too much now! My whole soul is 
 full of terror. [Fairy waves her wand — Poverty re- 
 enters, bringing with him Edith and little child.] Oh 1 
 merciful heavens ! what do I see ? Is it possible ? 
 That miserable woman, Edith ? Edith Graham ? 
 
 Totie. — This is a vision of the future. That is Edith, 
 your wife, and that is your child. 
 
 Penn. — That my wife ! That half-starved child mine I 
 Oh, no ! no ! That can never be. 
 
 Totie. — Listen 1 
 
 Child [looking up at Edith]. — t?h, mamma, I am so 
 cold, so hungry. 
 
 Edith [weeping]. — I know you are, my child, but 
 food, nor clothing, nor shelter, I have not for you. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 75 
 
 Child. — Will papa come for us to-night ? I'm sure 
 when he comes we will be happy again. 
 
 Edith. — Alas ! my child, your father fills a drunk- 
 ard's grave, and we are left to starve. Once we were 
 rich, but now all is gone. Misery, and only misery, is 
 our portion. 
 
 \_Pennington covers his face with his hands, and 
 lays his head upon the table. A few stanzas of a 
 temperance song are again sung softly by the girls, 
 concealed on the stage. The fairy, Edith, etc., all 
 exit, softly. * * * Stands up — looks around ] 
 Penn. — Was that all a dream? Oh, what a dream 1 
 [^Bings the bell. Enter Tom.^ Tom, take that glass 
 away. There are legions of demons in the bottom of 
 it — and bring me the cold water pledge. My resolu- 
 tion is taken. Never shall another drop of that vile 
 liquor pollute my lips. That dream has saved me. 
 [^Curtain falls.'] 
 
 THE TWELYB MONTHS. 
 [for twelve ladies.] 
 COSTUMES. 
 January, white dress with dark sash. 
 February, white dress with dark sash. 
 March, same as February. 
 April, white dress with green sash. 
 May, same as April, with a few flowers in her hair. 
 June, same as May. 
 
 July, white dress with pink or red sash. 
 August, same as July. 
 September, white dress with yellow sash. 
 October, same as September. 
 November, white dress with dark sash. 
 December, same as November. 
 
 [Each speaker should enter separately, and after speaking, 
 lake her place in such position that after all have entered they 
 will form a semicircle, facing the audience.] 
 
 January. — I come mid frost and snow to usher in 
 the New Year. Pe(->ple dre-^d me, and saj' that I am 
 
76 SCHOOLDAY 1? .rt'^OlirrES. 
 
 cold-liearted and stern ; and it may be so, but I robe the 
 ground with a mantle of fleecy snow, and I bind the 
 babbling brook with fetters of ice. Although manhood 
 and age shiver and tremble when I am near, yet the 
 merry laughing children love me, and call me glorious 
 January. 
 
 February. — My name is February. The month I 
 represent, gave birth to a Washington, whose deeds of 
 noble valor and heroism have caused me to be loved by 
 all mankind, despite the cold and frost that still linger 
 about me, bequeathed to me by my scarcely more stern 
 and elder sister, January. 
 
 March. — They call me March. My fiery and tempes- 
 tuous disposition has led man to name me after the 
 fiery little war-god. Mars. Yet, withal, I possess some 
 redeeming traits of character. I melt the frost and 
 snow brought upon the earth by my two elder sisters ; 
 I release the brooks from their icy fetters, and send 
 them on rejoicing and babbling my praise. 1 am the 
 harbinger of Spring. 
 
 April. — It is said that I am unstable in character, 
 and changeable ; that I bring rain and snow, frost and 
 thaw, alternately ; but I labor for the good of mankind. 
 I revive the earth ; I unfold the green leaf, and I form 
 the bud that is to unfold its petals and be perfected into a 
 flower. Who shall say that April does not fulfill her 
 appointed mission ? 
 
 May. — I am called loving, laughing May. I expand 
 the buds, and perfect the early flowers ; (the buds of 
 which my sister's hand fashioned.) I call the happy 
 birds from the sunny south, and cause them to pour 
 forth strains of sweetest melody to charm the ears of 
 careworn man. The children love me, and call me their 
 own dear merry month of May. 
 
 June. — I com.e to herald tlie approach of Summer. 
 I spread a carpet of beautiful green over the valleys, 
 adorn the mountain tops with lovely flowers of the per- 
 fume and choicest hues. I strew the meadows with 
 lilies and buttercups, and breatne soft warm zephyrs 
 that ripple the smooth surface of the glassy lake, and 
 ben a the tops of the waving grass. Who shall say that 
 t]\e mission of June has been in vain ? 
 
iCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 77 
 
 July--/ mh named after Rome's gieatest Em[)(!ror, 
 Juliuf; Crjsar. The month I represent gave birth to a 
 natJoi-. vf heroes and freemen. America claims me as 
 her own, for, on one of my da3's, the great American 
 flquiblic was born. The American people will never 
 'brget me ; for, until the end of time, the Fourth of July 
 will never cease to be hailed with pride and joy. 
 
 August. — I, too, am named after one of Rome's 
 greatest Emperors, Augustus Csesar. The month I 
 represent, although perhaps it can not boast of contain- 
 ing the birth-day of a nation, yet I claim a high and 
 noble mission. It is my mission to ripen the golden 
 grain, and to prepare the harvest for the sickle of the 
 reaper. Yes, the farmer loves August, for I bid him 
 gather into his garner the products of his toil. 
 
 September. — It is my mission to finish what my 
 sister began. I fold the petals of the flowers, and, 
 breathing my cool breath over them, bid them wither 
 and fade. 1 paint the forests with gorgeous colors of 
 red, 3'ellow, and green. 1 ripen the luscious fruit, and 
 stain with delicate tints the rosy cheeks of the peach 
 and apple. The golden corn I ripen for the husband- 
 man. Ah, yes ! September, too, has her mission of 
 usefulness. 
 
 October. — It is my province to dismantle the earth 
 of its robes of verdure. The delicate flowers wither and 
 droop and die when the}' see me come. The little birds 
 gather themselves into flocks, and flee away to a warmer 
 clime at m}' approach. I breathe my cold chilling breath 
 over the forests, and the leaves turn brown and sere and 
 fall tumbling to the ground. October, too, has its mis- 
 sion, but alas ! it is one of death. 
 
 November. — I come forth to behold the ruin wrought 
 by my sister, and behold ! all, all is dead ! The brown, 
 sere leaves lie scattered here and there, or are whirled 
 about by the chill Autumn winds. Mankind call me 
 cold and unfeeling November, and hail me as the dread 
 harbinger of frost and snow ; but such is my mission, 
 and as such i< nust be fulfilled. 
 
 December. — Uail, sisters ! I come to complete the 
 circle of months. Mankind have branded me dark and 
 gloomy December, and such I may be ; for slett and 
 
78 - SCnoOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 snow and cold frosty winds herald my approach. Men 
 shiver and crouch beside their hearthstones where the 
 fire glows brightly, when they hear my name pro- 
 nounced ; but the month I represent contains the birth 
 day of the Saviour of the world. My mission is one of 
 peace ; then, though mankind shall alternately bless and 
 curse us, still gentle sisters, let us join hands, and be at 
 peace, and each perform her own allotted mission cheer- 
 fully and in love. 
 
 l^All join hands and si7ig,2 
 
 Let loving friendship join our hearts 
 
 In peace and love sincere ; 
 Thus, while we each perform our parts, 
 
 Shall pass the rolling year. 
 
 {^Curtain falls.'] 
 
 THE NEW PREACHER. 
 
 CHARACTERS, 
 
 TWISTEK. 
 
 Wink, 
 bohbasterson 
 
 HiGHLOOK. 
 
 Twaddle. 
 
 Fairman. 
 
 GiMBLET, 
 
 coppermouth. 
 
 Blunt. 
 
 Chub. 
 
 Worldly, and others. 
 
 Scene 1. — Neighbors lounging about the door of a 
 country church after service. 
 
 Twister.— Well, neighbor Wink, I obsarved you kept 
 one eye on the preacher purty keen, this mornin' ; what 
 do you think of him, any way ? 
 
 Wink.— Why, the fact is, if I was to saj^ that is, if I 
 was to mention my 'pinion, so to speak, I can't 'xactly 
 say that the sarmint pleased me. Just 'tween 5-ou and 
 I, and I've hearn 'nough preachin' to know, he wa'nt 
 altogether what might have been expected. Takin' 
 every thing into the 'count, I must say that I was dis- 
 appinted in the man. 
 
SCHOOliDAY DIALOGUES. 79 
 
 Twister. — That" s just what I was going to say inj^self, 
 Mr. Wink, but I thought I'd like to hear your opinion 
 first, for you are one of the sort of folks that don't hes- 
 itate to say whatever j^ou think. Now, Mr. Bombaster- 
 son, what's your opinion ? 
 
 BoMBASTERSON, [in a deep, pompous tone']. — Hem 1 
 a-hem ! As for me, I think the young man might do to 
 talk on a small scale to some school-house congregation, 
 but as to preacMn\ why, that isn't in him ! He couldn't 
 have been heered ten rod from the church, and his Bible 
 lesson soiinded more like talkin' than readin'. I like 
 to hear a man fire up and steam ahead from the text to 
 the amen, as if he had — a — a — hem ! — as if he had 
 
 Fairman. — Lungs like an ox, Mr. Bombasterson ? 
 That is not my idea of eloquence. You have paid the 
 new preacher an unintentional compliment, by saying 
 his preaching and reading were like talking. I am glad 
 we now have the prospect of hearing a man who has 
 evidently studied the art of delivery, and has learned 
 how to be natural in the pulpit, where, above every 
 other place in the world, viC should expect honest}' of 
 heart and naturalness of voice. 
 
 COPPERMOUTH. — I don't object to his manner so much 
 as his matter. I'd like to know what right a minister 
 has to preach in favor of war, and to pray for the suc- 
 cess of armies of aggression against our southern breth- 
 ren ! I want to hear the pure Gospel when I go to 
 church, and not politics. It's awful the way the pulpit 
 has corrupted the people. I believe secession's a divine 
 institution 
 
 Blunt. — So is the bottomless pit a divine institution 1 
 I glory in the Gospel that proclaims liberty to the cap- 
 tive, and loyalty to the Constitution, and I glory in the 
 minister that dares to declare the whole counsel of God I 
 I pray for the coming of the day when eveiy Christian 
 shall learn the blessed brotherhood of love as taught in 
 the New Testament, and exemplified b_y our Union of 
 States, and freedom of worship. Go home, Mr. Copper- 
 mouth, and read the Thirteenth Chapter of Romans, 
 and if you can't indorse that, then go t® the Confederacj- 
 at once, you traitor, and hear the mock Gospel that wil 
 V)etter suit j^ou. 
 
80 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Twister. — Come, brother Blunt, you know the saying, 
 " Blessed are the peace-makers" 
 
 Blunt. — Then blessed be our cannon, our swords, 
 and our bayonets 
 
 Twister. — Oh, you altogether misunderstand me ! — 
 I'm loyal sir, to our country, loyal, sir, but 
 
 Blunt. — Loyalty admits of no " buts" or "if's," sir. 
 Your whole heart — your whole devotion, or nothing. 
 
 Twister. — You misunderstand me, brother Blunt — I 
 only spoke of making peace between you and neighbor 
 Coppermouth, for I'm afeard jon are both a l-e-e4-l-e 
 excited. 
 
 Blunt. — Well, perhaps so; for better men than either 
 of us have been excited since this war began. 
 
 Twister. — Sa3^ friend Highlook, jo\x are a man of 
 taste ; what do you think of the new preacher ? "Will 
 he do ? 
 
 Highlook [stroking his moustache, and twirling his 
 vane']. — Will he do ? Well, that is a mattah of gweat 
 impawtance. The refawmation of our society at lawge 
 depends upon the capacity of the ministah, to no incon- 
 sidawable extent. I was much mawtified to behold his 
 black cwavat, and also to witness him wipe the perspi- 
 wation in the pulpit with a howid wed bandanna. To 
 suit us, ow ministah must weah black gloves, white 
 socks, and a white neck-tie, and use invawiablj'' a white 
 pocket handkerchief. Fawthamoah, his hair is a shade 
 too light, and his eyes a little too keen for a placid min- 
 istah of the Gospel. I shall twy, howevah, to be satisfied, 
 and to attend occassionally, when the weathah is faih, 
 upon his ministwations, to encouwage the young man. 
 Good mawning, gentleman. [iZe bows and retires.'] 
 
 Twaddle. — I wish Mr. Highlook had studied for the 
 ministry. I do like his beautiful address. And what 
 good sense and elegant manners ! What a pity that 
 such splendid talent should not be used by the church 1 
 I would give a handsome sum to secure the services of 
 a preacher that we could be proud of 
 
 Chub. — Raither perticler, friend Twaddle. For my 
 part, I don't believe in eddycaten fellers to the preachin' 
 business. The airly apostles was picked up from their 
 fishin' seines, and sot right to work without any book- 
 
SOHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 81 
 
 larnin' or polishin', and they was tirst-rate preachers, so 
 they was. I'm in favor of none of your college-bred 
 chaps, pretendin' to know every thing, and don't know 
 how to turn a furrer or split a rail, so they don't. 
 
 F AIRMAN. — Gentlemen, it would take more than an 
 angel, and less than a baboon to suit all of you. 
 
 Worldly. — He preached up too much piety for me. 
 For one, I don't calculate to sit still and be twitted of 
 my sins every Sunday, and pa^' him for doin' it into the 
 bargain. I left the house before he was more'n half 
 done, just to let him see he daren't pitch into me. 
 
 Twaddle. — I heered Mr. Highlook say he heered a 
 man say, who heered this 3'^oung minister preach some- 
 where once, that the people thought his sermon lacked 
 depth. 
 
 [Re-enter Mr. Highlook.'] 
 
 Highlook. — Excuse me, gentlemen, but I fawgot to 
 say to you pwiah to my depawture, that it is to be feahed 
 ow young ministah lacks depth of mind, if we are to 
 judge from what the people say elsewhere, where he 
 has held fowth. I undahstand, fawthawmoah, that his 
 discoahses have no impwessive wohds whatevah, such 
 as Jewawboam, the son of Nebat, Nebucadnezzah, Deu- 
 tewonomy, Ecclesiasticus, or any of the ancient patwi- 
 archs. 
 
 Blunt. — Mr. Highlook, let me repeat to you for your 
 edification a few lines : 
 
 " Oh, that the mischief-making crew 
 Were all reduced to one or two, 
 And they were painted red or blue, 
 That every one might know them." 
 
 Highlook \_higlily offended']. — I shall see you again, 
 sir I [ Withdraws.] 
 
 Blunt [calling after him]. — If you do, you may hear 
 the rest of that stanza. [Aside.] I do get indignant, 
 sometimes, at the indiscriminate criticisms on preachers 
 and preaching. [One by one the company goes aioay, 
 until all are gone hut Blunt and Gimhlet.] Attend what 
 church you maj^ you will hear, after the service, espec- 
 ially in the parlor circle where neighbors visit on the 
 Sabbath, all sorts of unwarrantable opinions about the 
 manner of preaching, and precious little about the sub- 
 6 
 
82 ■ SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 ject matter of the discourse, and nothing, whatever, as 
 a personal self-application of the truth. But I must be 
 patient, and do my duty. 
 
 \_Starts toward home, when Gimblet, a silly, spong- 
 ing fellow, follows him.'] 
 Gimblet. — Say, Mister Blunt, I guess I'll go and 
 take dinner with you to-day — 'tisn't much out of my 
 way. [^Exeunt.'] 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 Scene 2. To he represented by fifteen girls, and one 
 boy to represent March. Uach season wiin its months 
 passes along, with appropriate fruits, flov ers. grain, 
 etc. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 I COME from the distant frozen zones, 
 
 Where the ice ever binds, and the wind ever moans. 
 
 Cold, chilling winds follow fast in my track ; 
 
 All frow^n at my coming, and wish me back. 
 
 The meadows I'll cover with a mantle of snow, 
 
 Which I scatter abroad whei'ever I go. 
 
 With ice I will silence the murmuring streams ; 
 
 With clouds I will hide the sun's powerless beams. 
 
 All nature must sleep in my chilling embrace 
 
 Till the arrival of Spring, when I must give place. 
 
 M3' children are with me, my designs to fulfill, 
 
 They may speak for themselves ; they all do my will. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 I am the first-born of winter, yet of months am the last ; 
 All rejoice at my coming, yet joy when I'm past; 
 For my dark, gloomy days, and long, cheerless nights 
 Are illumined by naught save the gay Christmas sights 
 I am the favorite of the girls and the boys. 
 For with me come visions of Santa Claus' toys. 
 ** Christmas is coming," and then 3'OU will hear 
 The last dying knell of the fast passing j^ear. 
 Pause, now, and think what account it will bear. 
 But my mission is ended, m^^ farewell's soon said, 
 And 1 haster to join the years that are fled. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 85 
 
 I am proud Januar}'-, the first of the j^ear ; 
 
 All rejoice at mj' coming, and joy when I'm here. 
 
 Gladness and mirth follow close in my train, 
 
 "A happy New Year" is heard again and again. 
 
 My visions are bright, no forebodings I know; 
 
 M}'^ hopes tinge all objects with fancy's bright glow. 
 
 Fondly 1 linger, still longer I'd dwell, 
 
 But I, too, must hasten to bid you farewell. 
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 As I am the third, and my days being few, 
 
 With not many words I will now trouble you. 
 
 I am short, cold, and crusty, I very well know, 
 
 But once in four years I kindly bestow 
 
 "A Leap Year," that ladies their husbands may choose: 
 
 Yet I give the poor gents a chance to refuse. 
 
 But I, too, must hasten away from your sight, 
 
 So to all I will bid " good night ! good night 1" 
 
 We are passing away, but ere we are gone 
 
 You will hear the shrill notes of our winter song. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 I COME, the timid and gentle Spring, 
 
 Sweet treasures of beauty and blossoms to bring. 
 
 The streams I'll unlock from their fetters strong, 
 
 And soon you will hear them murmuring along. 
 
 The cold, chilling winds will vanish away. 
 
 For the}'- know of my coming and will not stay. 
 
 All nature rejoices, for soon will be seen 
 
 The earth enrobed in its vesture of green ; 
 
 And beautiful flowers springing every where, 
 
 Teaching a lesson of God's provident care. 
 
 From its distant home 1 call to the bird. 
 
 And soon will its joyous song be heard. 
 
 To the poor and the needy sweet comfort I bring, 
 
 And all I'ejoice to welcome the Spring. 
 
 But my children are waiting their gifts to bestow, 
 
 And we'll sing you a song as away we go. 
 
84 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 I am bold March, the noisy, and proud ; 
 
 Blowing my trumpet so long and so loud. 
 
 Fitful and storm}^ a pest and a joy. 
 
 For all pronounce me "a troublesome boy;" 
 
 I care for nobodj^, no, not I, 
 
 So I'll take my leave without a "good-by." 
 
 Timidly I come as my rude brother leaves ; 
 His boisterous manner my spirit oft grieves ; 
 He chills my fond heart, and fills it with pain. 
 That my heart's dearest treasures I can uot retain. 
 So I weep sad tears o'er the springing flowers, 
 And thus sadly vanish poor April's hours. 
 
 Charming and gay comes the laughing May, 
 
 Singing and skipping the glad hours away. 
 
 Blooming so sweet are my beautiful flowers. 
 
 Decking with gladness earth's loveliest borers. 
 
 The forests are ringing with music most sweet, 
 
 Happiest voices our ears ever greet. 
 
 How charming and gay around is each scene, 
 
 Clad in its garb of beautiful green ! 
 
 With smiles and with joy I now pass away, 
 
 Leaving bright visions of blooming May. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Brother and sisters, we pass along, 
 And sing, as we go, our welcome song. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 I COME from a far distant Southern clime, 
 
 Where the orange-flowers bloom and myrtles twine; 
 
 Wl.ere the skies ever smile over glittering seas, 
 
 And I'ichest perfumes are borne on each breeze. 
 
 To the North I come with my heated breath. 
 
 Bringing, too often, disease and death; 
 
 Yet in my steps comes the rich golden grain, 
 
 Luscious fruits I give you, they come in my train. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 86 
 
 The jear's bright noon-time, how pleasant it seems, 
 E'en under the sun's hot, scorching beams 
 M3' children, hasten and bring your store, 
 Gladdenins: the hearts of men once more. 
 
 I am June, and gladly I bring to you 
 Mild, balmy air, and skies of blue ; 
 Days of soft and hallowed light. 
 Followed by a fairy, gentle night. 
 Long, long days of sunniest noon, 
 Mark the hours of radiant June. 
 
 I am July, and close in my train 
 Come the rich harvests of golden grain ; 
 Berries and fruits I will bring to you 
 Ere I pass away and say, " Adieu." 
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 August comes with its sultry days. 
 
 Bringing rich crops of the golden maize ; 
 
 Yet causing all to sigh for the breeze. 
 
 Which only is found by the murmuring seas. 
 
 The city's deserted, all flee to green fields. 
 
 To taste of the J03^s which the country now yields. 
 
 But my long tedious days at length will be done, 
 
 And I, like my sisters, must be passing along. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Warm-hearted sisters for ever we be, 
 Bo sing, as we go, a farewell glee. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 I COME, grave Autumn, proud boasters to show 
 That their haughtiest works will soon be laid low. 
 I breathe o'er the forests, how changed they appear 1 
 The grass withers away as if in sadness and fear. 
 I scatter the leaves from the loftiest trees. 
 And gather them up with the eddying breeze. 
 
B6 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 The songsters that warble so happj and gay, 
 All hasten to fli^e, at my coming, away ; 
 Yet there's joy in my presence, for gladly I give 
 Of my richest abundance that mankind maj^ live. 
 My children are wear3' with the burdens they bear 
 Of the rich, luscious fruits of the fast passing year. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 Quiet comes the mild September, 
 Bringing joys that all remember; 
 Gladdening hearts with plenteous store, 
 That for all there's plenty more 
 Fruit and food ; so none need fear 
 Want will trouble us this year, 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Cool October greets jon here, 
 With frosty breath, so pure and clear. 
 With its days, so calm and pleasant, 
 Will return the jay and pheasant. 
 Propping nuts fall thick apace, 
 Gladdening many an urchin's face. 
 But my sunshine must give way 
 Before my sister's gloomy day. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 They call me " dull," and full well do I know 
 
 I can boast but of little save of rain and snow. 
 
 November's my name, which none will admire, 
 
 But shrink at my coming and call for a fire. 
 
 So quickly I'll leave, for I will not remain 
 
 Where my presence brings naught but sadness and pain 
 
 Sisters are we of the fading year. 
 
 Please give us a song, our journey to cheer. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 87 
 
 "LITTLE ANGELS." 
 
 CHAEACTEES. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Brown, who reside in the country. 
 
 Mrs. DosEii. 
 
 Pkter Jehosaphat Hezekiah Dosem. 
 
 Prtscilla Aquilla Eebecca Dosem. 
 
 Adam Salathiel Dosem. 
 
 Eachel Abigail Dosem. 
 
 EuTH Sarah Dosem. 
 
 James St. John Simon Dosem. 
 
 SisERA Dosem. 
 
 Scene 1. — Mrs. Brown, peeping from the window at the 
 turning into the lane leading to her house. 
 
 Mrs. Brown. — Good gracious me ! What have I 
 done to deserve such a judgment? If there hain't the 
 Dosems a coming. I should know that green silk bun- 
 nit among a thousand, with them pink bows of ribbon 
 onto it. Oh, deliver us ! they've got that snapping 
 poodle dog of theirn, and he'll scare the cat out of her 
 seven senses. And only goodness knows how many 
 children there is. I can count four heads stuck out of 
 the winder. Dear, dear 1 what shall I do for dinner ? 
 I do "wish folks would stay to home till they're invited. 
 \_Stage stops. 3Irs. Dosem alights, hearing three 
 hand-boxes, a carpet-hag, an umbrella, and a huge 
 bouquet, and closely followed by seven children — 
 three boys and four girls. She throws down her 
 burdens, and running up to Mrs. Browyi, flings 
 her arms around her neck.'] 
 Mrs. Dosem [with empressmenf]. — Oh ! Mrs. Brown ! 
 my dear, dearest Mrs. Brown I I declare it's been an 
 age sense I last sot eyes on you ! I told Mr. Dosem, 
 day before yesterday morning, while he was eating 
 breakfast — says I, " Mr. Dosem, I must leave every thing 
 and go out to Lynnham, and see dear Mrs. Brown !" 
 And Mr. Dosem, he said — "Most assuredly, Lucy." 
 And he's gone out to board, and we've come — ail of us ! 
 The children were wild to see their dear Aunty Brown 
 
88 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 once more — and they're such quiet little darlings I ven- 
 tured to bring them ! I knew you would be delighted 
 to have them. 
 
 Mrs B. \_fainthj']. — Of course. 
 
 Mrs D. — That's jest what I told Mr. Dosem, and he 
 said, "most assuredly." Let me name them to you. 
 It has been so long since you saw the darlings that you 
 may, perhaps, have forgotten their names. Peter Je- 
 hosaphat Hezekiah, you are the oldest, come here and 
 kiss dear Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Peter \_pulling the dog's taW]. — Don't see the pintl 
 
 Mrs. D.— The little angel ! He's so witty Dr. Pill- 
 work said, when he was an infant, that he'd never live to 
 grow up. He had too much intelligence of the brains to 
 live. But I feel in hopes a merciful Providence will 
 spare him to me. Adam Salathiel, you'll kiss Mrs 
 Brown, wont you, lammie ? 
 
 Adam. — Shan't do it! Don't believe in kissing no- 
 body but the "gals," and especially not folks with false 
 teeth 1 
 
 Mrs. D. — Did you ever ? Children will be children. 
 Come, Priscilla Aquilla Rebecca — you see we took our 
 children's names from the Bible. 1 do so dislike these 
 novel-writer's names. 
 
 Peter. — Do dry up, marm, and let's go into the 
 house ; I'm hungry — I am ; I want some sweet cake. 
 
 Mrs. B. — Yes, come in pleading the way']. 
 
 Mrs. D. — I do hope your chambers are large and airy. 
 It nearly kills me to sleep in a close, hot room. It 
 affects m^' respitorj^ apparatus so. Dr. Pillwork saj^s I 
 should have plenty of fresh air alwa^'s. 
 
 Miss Priscilla \_an affected miss of fifteen]. — Are 
 there any botanical specimens about here, Mrs. Brown ? 
 
 Mrs. B. [loith apuzzled air]. — Well, I can't say. There 
 msiy be, but thei-e's never any of them been to this house, 
 I guess. I hain't seed any. 
 
 Miss Priscilla [_aside]. — Heavens! what ignorance 1 
 I shall perish among such savages. 
 
 Mrs. B. — Take off your things and set down, do. 
 
 Peter [_seats himself upon a table, which upsets, and 
 he goes down with it]. — Golly, that's a turntable. Take 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 89 
 
 your hoops out of the way, Sil, and give me a lift [seats 
 himself beside Priscilla on the sofa]. 
 
 Priscilla [in dismay']. — Get up, instantly ; you'll 
 ruin my dress ! Oh, dear me 1 what an iniiiction boys 
 are — half-grown, uncivilized beings. Oh ! ma, do make 
 him behave. He's given my nerves such a shock. If I 
 coul 1 only have a cup of tea at once. 
 
 Mrs. D. — Mercy me ! I hope you hain't going to have 
 another of those nervous spells. Dear Mrs. Brown, I 
 have an awful trial ; Priscilla's nerves are so out of 
 kilter, I have to be as particular with her as I would 
 with an infant. Get the camflre, and a little cologne, 
 and a fan. And do make a cup of tea just as quick as 
 you can. I feel as if I should like a drop myself. 
 [Exit Mrs. Brown.] 
 
 Mrs. D. — Mean, stingy old hunks 1 I never would 
 have come nigh her, but she's got such a nice place out 
 here, and she used to be a good cook. Children, you 
 must stuff yourselves up well at dinner. Country air 
 gives folks an appetite. We'll stay a month, if she only 
 feeds us well. It will save us fort}^ dollars a week. 
 
 Mrs. B. [entering, loaded down with bottles]. — Here's 
 some camlire and arnica, and some essence of pepper- 
 mint, but I hain't got no cologne. 
 
 Priscilla [throwing up her hands hysterically]. — Good 
 
 heavens 1 no cologne ! How do people manage to exist ? 
 
 [Peter whistles Yankee Doodle, the two younger boys 
 
 are playing horse, with the curtain-cord for reins, 
 
 and the smaller girls pull hair behind the big 
 
 rocking-chair.] 
 
 Mrs. D. [perceiving them]. — My deai'est Rachel Abi- 
 gail, and my darling Ruth Sarah, what are you doing ? 
 
 Ruth [vindictively]. — She pulled my nose and made 
 up a face at me. I'll cave her head in, I will. 
 
 Abigail. — And she spit on my dress and scratched 
 my face. 
 
 Mrs. D. — Dear little lambs ! they must have their in- 
 rccent plays. James St. John Simon, take your ftet 
 cut of Mrs. Brown's work-basket, my bird. Sisera, do 
 be careful how you flourish that stick around that look- 
 ing-glass. There ! you've done it ! Well, mind and not 
 ^et any of the glass into your precious little feet. I'm 
 
90 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 real sorry it's broke, Mrs. Brown ; it's such a bad sign. 
 But, thank tie Lord, it's only bad for the one that the 
 glass belongs to. 
 
 Priscilla [rousing up']. — Do send those dreadful 
 children out to play. They'll kill me dead if they stay 
 here ! 
 
 Mrs. D. — Yes, dears. Run right out and have a good 
 time. I suppose there's plenty of room about here ? 
 
 Mrs. B. —Do, please, children, be careful about tramp- 
 ling on the beans and cabbage plants. Mr. Brown is 
 dreadful particular about his garden. There'd be an 
 awful time if any thing should get pulled up. 
 
 Mrs. D. [indignantly']. — They wouldn't hurt a fly! 
 Now, I guess Priscilla and I will take a little nap while 
 you get dinner ready. 
 
 [ The children go scampei'ing and screaming from 
 the house, and Mrs. Brown shows Mrs. Dosem and 
 Priscilla upstairs.] 
 
 Scene 2. — The dining-room. Thq JJosems seated at the 
 table. Mrs. Brown, flushed and disconcerted, standing 
 in waiting. 
 
 Mrs. Dosem. — I see you have no coffee. I always 
 take a cup of coffee with my dinner. The food relishes 
 so much better. You needn't make it very strong. 
 And have plent}^ of cream. 
 
 Priscilla. — Pass me the bread, mother dear, if you 
 please. 
 
 Mrs. D. — My love, you must not eat any of that warm 
 bread. It will injure your digestive organs. Mrs. 
 Brown, have you any cold bread ? 
 
 Mrs. B. — No ; I do not happen to have any. 
 
 Mrs. D. — Indeed 1 I'm sorry. Good housekeepers 
 are not often without cold bread. Well, just put this 
 Into cold water a minnit ; onl}^ a minnit, remember. 
 Priscilla is so delicate. 
 
 Ruth [vociferously, brandishing knife and fork]. — 
 Give me some more sugar— ^enough of it. I want some 
 with my bread and butter. 
 
 Abig.4^il. — i^nd I. too! and some syrup! And give 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 91 
 
 me a piece of sweet cake ! And I want a three-pronged 
 fork. 
 
 James. — Ma, Peter is eating up all the preserves; I 
 shan't get a mite. Make him stop. 
 
 Priscilla [languidly']. — Ma, I wish you would close 
 that blind ; the sun hurts my eyes. And do make 
 Sisera stop drinking tea from her saucer. When will 
 these children learn refinement? 
 
 Mrs. D. [suddenly']. — Where's Bounce ? Here's just 
 such a piece of steak as he likes. Where is he ? 
 
 Peter. — In his skin. 
 
 Mrs. D. — Don't be disrespectable, dear. What have 
 you done with your sweet pet ? 
 
 James and Adam [together]. — He's in the well. 
 
 Ruth. — He bit me for pulling his tail, and I hove 
 him in. 
 
 Mrs. D. — Good graciovis ! my darling in the well ! 
 [Enter Mr. Brown, in a state of angry excitement.] 
 
 Mr. Brown. — What the deuce has been afoul of my 
 garden ? I'd like to know if there has been a drove of 
 pigs along. 
 
 Mrs. Brown [soothingly]. — My dear Solomon 
 
 Mr. B. — Don't " dear" me, Susan. I asked you what 
 had been into the garden ? 
 
 Mrs. B. — My dear Solomon, don't you see there's 
 company ? 
 
 Mr. B. — See ! Yes, and hear, too. Will you answer 
 my question ? 
 
 Mrs. B. — What has happened ? 
 
 Mr. B. [furiously]. — You'd better ask what ain't 
 happened. Somebody or other has tore all my beans 
 up by the roots, and trod my potatoes into the ground, 
 and tied my best rooster to the well pole. 
 
 Peter [grinning] — Golly ! how he cackled ! 
 
 Mr. B. [seizing the youngster by the collar]. — Did you 
 do it? Speak, or I'll shake the breath out of ye. 
 
 Peter. — Lemme alone. Jim and I did it to see him 
 squirm. Ruth and Nab pulled up the beans. Marm, 
 make him let me alone. I can't git my breath. He's 
 drunk, and smells of onions. 
 
 Priscilla [falling hack in her chair]. — Oh, heavens I 
 I shall fwoon. 
 
92 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Mrs. B. [excitedly']. — Oh, Solomon, dear ! don't. IXi 
 let him alone. Don't, I beg, Solomon. 
 
 Mr. B. — You needn't beg, none of ye. I'm mad 
 enough to shake j'ou all to pieces. All my summer's 
 work destroyed by a pack of young savages. If they 
 belonged to me, I'd trounce every one of 'em till they 
 couldn't tell 'tother from which. 
 
 Mrs. D. — Oh, my poor boy ! There — he's tore Peter 
 Hezekiah's collar. Good gracious ! I wish we'd stayed 
 to home. 
 
 Mr. B. — I wish to zounds you had. 
 
 Mrs. D. — I'll leave this instant. I hain't to be abused 
 in this style. My angel children shan't be the victims 
 of such a dreadful man. Where's my things ? 
 
 Mr. B. — Here they are. 
 
 Mrs. B. — Solomon, I beg of you 
 
 Mr. B. — It's no use, Susan ; they shall leave. This 
 woman did not know me last summer, when I called at 
 her house just at dinner time, and now I don't know 
 her. My horse is harnessed, Mrs. Dosem, and I shall 
 be happy to take you to the hotel. 
 
 Mrs. D. [indignantly]. — I wont ride a step. 
 
 Mr. B. — Walk, then. I'm willing. 
 
 Mrs. D. [turriingto Mrs. Brown, with dignity']. — Good- 
 by, Mrs. Brown. I pity your condition with such a 
 husband. I thank God that ray angel children have not 
 such a parient. Come, darlings, we will go. I will 
 send for our baggage. 
 
 [Uxit the Doaems, en masse. Mr. Brown whistles 
 the Rogue^s March.] 
 
 THE YOUNG STATESMAN". 
 
 Child. — Mamma, don't you think I would make a 
 good statesman ? 
 
 Mamma. — What makes you think so, my child? 
 
 C. — Why, phrenologists think I am gifted in the art 
 of government, and that I am bound to make a good 
 lawyer. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 9S 
 
 M. — Does it generally follow that good lawyers mako 
 good statesmen ? 
 
 C. — Yes, as a general rule they do. 
 
 M. — But what are 3^our own views of a good states- 
 man ? 
 
 C. — Well, mamma, I suppose a good statesman is one 
 who understands the constitution of our country, is well 
 versed in the history of our own and foreign nations, so 
 that he can judge what is best suited to the wants of 
 the people he represents. 
 
 M. — Are these all the qualifications that are necessary 
 to make a good statesman ? 
 
 C. — Well, he ought to be a good orator that he might 
 be able to plead his cause in such a way as to excite the 
 feelings, and awaken love, pity, or hatred, as best suited 
 his subject. 
 
 M. — But are there no other qualifications of a higher 
 order necessary ? 
 
 C. — Oh, yes ! he ought to have a good classical edu- 
 cation. 
 
 M. — My boy, I do not depreciate the merits of a 
 classical education, yet I do not think it absolutely ne- 
 cessary. 
 
 C— Now, now, mamma, you are caught. Kecollect 
 how often you have told me that Moses was the greatest 
 statesman the world ever saw, and you know " he was 
 learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians, and was 
 mighty in words and in deeds." 
 
 M. — Very true, my boy ; but was it his learning that 
 made him such a great man ? 
 
 C. — Well, mamma, I can only say with the inspired 
 penman, that he was learned in all the wisdom of the 
 Egyptians, and I suppose he wished us to understand 
 that he was qualified for his office, and that it was 
 learning that made him so. 
 
 M. — My beloved boy, the same inspired penman tells 
 us he was not an orator. Aaron, his brother, had to be 
 his spokesman ; so you see his learning did not fullj 
 qualify him for his office. 
 
 C — Then, mamma, it must have been his wisdom. 
 
 M — But where did he get that wisdom ? 
 
94 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 C — Wh3^, mamma, you know he was educated in the 
 •oourt of King Pharoah. 
 
 M. — Ah, my boy ! your last answer forces a sigh 
 from the heart, and a tear from the eye of your beloved 
 mother. 
 
 C. — Not for all the world would I bring a cloud over 
 the sunshine of your happy face. You are all the world 
 to me. What in m}^ answer makes 3^ou look so grave ? 
 
 M. — Oh, my beloved boy ! I know you would not 
 willingly grieve 3^our mother, but — has her boy yet to 
 learn that " the wisdom of this world is foolishness with 
 God ?" 
 
 C. — Then, mamma, you think the Egyptians were not 
 wise. 
 
 M. — How could the}^ be wise, when they knew not 
 God ; for the wisdom of this world without the knowl- 
 edge of God makes a man so high-minded and so full 
 of self, that he would break a world to pieces to make a 
 stool to sit on. 
 
 C. — Mamma, where did he get his wisdom ? 
 
 M. — Certainly not from his classical education, for 
 the inspired penman tells us, that every good gift comes 
 from above, " and that the fear of the Lord is the begin- 
 ning of wisdom." 
 
 C. — Thank you, my own dear mamma; you have 
 brought me to see that if a man is to be truly great, he 
 must be truly good. 
 
 M. — Yes, my darling child, you have answered well 
 at last. 
 
 C. — But where, mamma, in all the whole world will 
 3^ou find a man like Moses, who will stand up before a 
 congress or parliament, and spread out his hands 
 toward heaven, and speak and pray and plead with the 
 Lord, as he did? — why the members of the house would 
 saj'^ he was mad. 
 
 M. — Yes, my boy, they might even go as far as the 
 Israelites did with Moses, when they were " commanded 
 to stone him with stones." 
 
 C. — Oh, surely, mamma, they would not do so 1 
 
 M. — I do not mean that in the nineteenth century any 
 learned body of men would do so, but you know, my be^ 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 95 
 
 loved boy, that hard words and cold looks fall as heavv 
 upon a good man's heart as stones upon his flesh. 
 
 C. — Well, mamma, I see what you wish ; is it not that 
 every statesman should do like Moses ? spread every 
 knotty question before the Lord, and never, never to 
 trust his own wisdom in order that he may be just and 
 wise ; and then, like Joseph, his words will have power, 
 and his way will prosper. 
 
 M. — Yes, my boy, you are now beginning to under- 
 stand your mother's views of a " good statesman." 
 
 TWO WAYS OF LIFE. 
 
 Scene, a forest. An aged peasant is discovered, hixtding 
 up a bundle of faggots. Enter a stranger, in a sjjlendid 
 military dress. He looks around as if bewildered, ob- 
 serves the iDoodsman, and speaks. 
 
 Stranger. — Good-evening, venerable father 1 will you 
 direct me, of your courtesy, the nearest way to the cas- 
 tle of Konigstein ? 
 
 Peasant [who does not perceive the stranger"]. — I must 
 be going; little Eva will be on her way to meet me. 
 [He rises.] 
 
 Stranger. — I say! Good father! Are you deaf? 
 
 Peasant. — I beg your pardon, my lord. Good-even- 
 ing, my noble gentleman. 
 
 Stranger. — Good-evening. Will you guide a belated 
 traveler toward the castle of Konigstein ? 
 
 Peasant. — The road lies beside the door of my cot- 
 tage, and I am this moment going thither. Come with 
 me, my lord, and if you will do us the pleasure to enter 
 ouv humble dwelling, my Marie will be proud to offer 
 you apples from our orchard, and the best of cheese and 
 butter from her dairy. 
 
 Stranger. — Thanks ! And I, in return, will bestoTt 
 ■■ihis broad piece of gold upon your little Eva, as a keep 
 sake. 
 
96 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Peasant [aside']. — He knows Eva's name. A gold 
 eagle of the grand duke. [Aloud.'] ' You must be very 
 I'ich, my noble lord ? 
 
 Stranger. — Yes, my good friend; my cool head, and 
 my good sword, have brought me wealth and honor. 
 And yet, /played beside a peasant's hut in my days of 
 childhood, like your little Eva. 
 
 Peasant. — And noio, my honorable gentleman ! 
 
 Stranger. — And now. — The history of your country, 
 for the last ten years, is but the record of my deeds — I 
 am the emperor ! 
 
 Peasant. — And what may that be, my gracious lord ? 
 It is, perhaps, one of the officers of the grand duke ? 
 
 Stranger. — Is it possible ! And this is the fame I've 
 fought and struggled for ? No, old man 1 I am the Tnas- 
 ter of the grand duke ! Have you not heard that he has 
 been driven from his dominions, and forced to take 
 refuge in America ? 
 
 Peasant. — No, my lord ; I had not heard of that. So 
 the poor old duke is gone 1 He must be about my age 
 I've heard my mother say, the joy-bells were ringing for 
 his birth the morning I was christened. It must be a 
 sad thing, to be driven from one's home and country in 
 one's old age, my lord emperor ! 
 
 Stranger. — Yes. But we will not speak of that. 
 What have you been doing these ten years past, not to 
 have heard of these great events which have been going 
 on around you ? 
 
 Peasant. — J? I have ploughed and sown the few 
 acres my father left me ; reaped and gathered in my 
 scanty harvests. I have seen my fair daughter Lena 
 grow up, in innocence and goodness, beside our humble 
 hearth, and leave it, wearing the roses of a bride, to 
 make the happiness of another not less humble. And 
 since, I have seen her laid beneath the blossoms of our 
 village graveyard, in%ie hope of the happy resurrection 
 of the just. And now, 'her child — our little Eva — fills her 
 place in our poor hut, and my good Marie guides her 
 feet in the ways of obedience and truth. 
 
 Stranger. — And have you been happy in this quiet 
 life, old man ? 
 
 Peasant. — Why not, my lord emperor? I have a 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIAI.OGUES. 97 
 
 cottage, dear as a lifetime's home can be. I have the 
 society of my faithful wife, my patient, noble Marie; 
 and we share between us the whole heart of our Eva — our 
 winsome, prattling grandchild. I have a heart at peace 
 with all mankind, and sure and precious hopes for the 
 Ii.t3 which is to come. 
 
 Stranger. — And such are the simple, homefelt joys 
 my mad ambition has trampled upon ! Josephine ! now 
 do 1 feel the justice of thy reproaches. \_Takes off his 
 hat.'] M3' good friend, it seems you, too, have been a 
 sort of conqueror ? 
 
 Peasant. — Wh}^, yes, ray lord. I have conquered 
 some rocks and thorns in my rugged fields and gardens ; 
 and many a rock}^ fault and thorny grief in my own 
 heart beside. But I thank mj'^ God, this hand has never 
 been stained in the blood of a fellow-man I 
 
 Stranger. — I wish / could say as much ! [ Takes the 
 hand of the woodsman.] Old man, the conqueror of 
 Europe envies your felicity ! 
 
 TOO GOOD TO ATTEND COMMON SCHOOL. 
 
 CHAEACTERS. 
 
 Tom Smith, a specimen of " Young America." 
 William Stkady, ] g^i^ooij^^^tes 
 Charles Candid, r " ^^'^ 
 
 Tom. — Halloo, Bill I which way so fast ? 
 
 William. — That is not my name, sir. My name is 
 William. 
 
 Tom. — It seems to me that you ai'e mighty particular. 
 Well, William, then — Master William, if that suits you 
 any better — which way are you walking so fast this 
 morning ? 
 
 William. — Why, to school, to be sure, and I have 
 but little time now to talk with you, for I fear I shall 
 be late. 
 
 Tom. — Pshaw 1 what's the use in always being so 
 
98 SOHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 punctual, I'd like to know ? They don't pay you for il, 
 
 do they ? 
 
 William. — I do not receive money from any one, if 
 that is what you mean ; but I do get well paid for being 
 in season, by gaining the approbation of my teachers, 
 and also by not losing any of my recitations. 
 
 Tom. — Perhaps yoit can, but I can not see that a fellow 
 gains so much by worrying himself about being in 
 school, always just to the minute. Why, one loses a 
 good deal of fun in the street by that. Sometimes, just 
 as the bell rings for school, the ^re hell rings also, and 
 then I like to run and see where the fire is, and how the 
 machines work. You know, too, it might be our house, 
 and then how bad I should feel not to be there. I think 
 a boy might be excused for being a little late, at such a 
 time. 
 
 William. — I don't know about that, but I do know 
 that running after engines is bad business for boys. 
 They are apt to get into bad company-, and hear bad 
 language, and learn bad manners in such places. Then, 
 tod, they are apt to get in the way, and get hui't. 
 
 Tom. — Oh ! that's all nonsense. The bad talk and 
 bad manners don't hurt me ; and as to getting in the 
 way, I have helped to put out a good many fires. I can 
 help draw a machine, and work it, too. Why, some of 
 us boys "stole a march" on the engine companj' the 
 other night, got out the machine, and worked it all by 
 ourselves. 
 
 William. — I grant you are rather smart — Sxvift by 
 name, and swift by nature ; but you will not convince 
 me that the influence of such places and company is not 
 already working in your mind for ill. I can see it in 
 3'^our talk now. This running about the street, when 
 you should be at school, every good and wise person 
 will tell you is bad business. But come, j^ou had betlei 
 go to school now. I must go. \^Starts.'] 
 
 Tom. — Oh ! hold on a bit — don't be in such a hurry 
 There is time enough yet. I am a good runner, and if 
 I start when I hear the clock begin to strike, I can get 
 to m}' school in time. 
 
 William. — You see I am not so swift as you are. I 
 can not stay any longer. There comes my friend Charles 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 99 
 
 Candid — he has a vacation to-day. I must leave you 
 to finish this argument with him. 
 
 \_Exit William and enter Charles.'] 
 
 Charles. — Good raornino;, Tom. 
 Tom. — Good morning, Charlie. 
 
 Charles. — I noticed you and William were having 
 an earnest talk. What was the subject ? 
 
 Tom. — Oh, his hobby — school and punctuality. 
 Charles. — I hope you did not disagree with him on 
 that. 
 
 Tom. — Yes, I did. I go for the largest libert^^ yet I 
 am an advocate for attending school when it suits my 
 convenience. He thinks I am a little reprobate, just 
 because I like to be free, and run with the fire engine 
 sometimes, instead of being at school just to the minute 
 every day. I expect he takes his seat just at nine 
 o'clock, and looks as demure as a little priest, and 
 thinks he is very good. 
 
 Charles. — Well, sir, do you expect to get to school 
 this morning ? If you do, I will not detain you. 
 
 Tom. — Oh, I'm in no hurry. I am going down to the 
 depot, before I go to school, to see the trains come in. 
 Don't we boys have good times jumping on the cars, 
 riding a little, and then jumping off again ? 
 
 Charles. — As to that I can not say. I never tried 
 it. I expect you will get your head or limbs broken 
 yet. 
 
 Tom. — Pshaw 1 I am not afraid of that. I can jump 
 like a streak of lightning. But I see by your eye 3'^ou 
 are not pleased with my talk. You look like a very 
 clever chap. Where do you go to school ? 
 
 Charles. — To the Union school. 
 
 Tom. — Why, that's a free school, is it not? 
 
 Charles. — Yes; what of that? 
 
 Tum. — Mother says she would not let me go to a free 
 school "for all the ivorld.'" 
 
 Charles — Wh}^ ? 
 
 Tom. — There are bad boys who go there. She is too 
 careful of my morals for that. 
 
 Charles. — Well, well! I think she must have an 
 eye to them, indeed, from the fruits which I see. J 
 
100 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 guess you need not be afraid of any you would be liable 
 to meet there. There is, now and then, by the way, a 
 bad boy who chances to get into a private school. 
 
 Tom. — So father says ; and he groans not a little 
 about being taxed so much for these free schools, and 
 once in a while, when he gets out of patience about 
 taxes, he says, " Hang it ! 1 have a good mind to send 
 Tom to a free school and gain something myself." But 
 mother says, " Why, Tom go to a free school! never! 
 'twould ruin the precious darling for ever!" So father 
 yields — puts a new quid into his mouth and walks off 
 to the store. 
 
 Charles [laughing']. — Well, Tom, you are a pretty 
 smooth talker, but to be a little more serious, I want to 
 go back again to our starting point. 
 
 Tom. — 1 must say I am tired of this — but let us have 
 your creed and end it. 
 
 Charles. — Well, I fully believe that a tardy boy is 
 in great danger of becoming a truant, and in the end 
 likely to grow up a loafer, with a fair chance of promo- 
 tion at an early age, from the sti'eet school to the peni- 
 tentiary high school, and from that, perhaps, to one of 
 the state colleges, vulgarly called "State's Prison." It 
 will make little difference whether he start in a free or 
 select school. 
 
 Tom [excitecC]. — You impudent fellow! I have a 
 great mind to thrash you. 
 
 Charles [putting his hand on Tom^s shoulder^. — 
 Hold on — keep quiet. This ma}^ seem severe, but 1 
 speak as a friend. You may yet thank me for it. 
 Promise me you will think seriously of this, and mend 
 your wa3^s, before it is too late. 
 
 Tom [hesitatingly]. — Well, I do not know what to 
 
 say — perhaps I will, but here comes the ten o'clock 
 
 train — I'm off — good-by. 
 
 Charles [alone]. — Poor boyl I fear he is on tho 
 sure road to ruin. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. lOl 
 
 FIRESIDE COLLOQUY. 
 
 Lucy, — How beautiful the world is ! The green 
 earth covered with flowers — the trees laden with rich 
 blossoms — the blue sky — the bright water, and the 
 golden sunshine. The world is, indeed, beautiful ! and 
 He who made it must be beautiful. 
 
 William. — It is a happj^ world. Hark ! how the 
 merry birds sing, and the young lambs skip — see, how 
 thej' gambol on the hillside. Even the trees wave, and 
 the brooks ripple in gladness. The eagle, too, oh, 
 how joyously he soars up to the glorious heavens 1 the 
 bird of liberty, the bird of America. 
 
 Lucy. — Yes : — 
 
 " His throne is on the mountain top ; 
 His fields the boundless air ; 
 And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 
 The skies, his dwellings are." 
 
 William. — It is a happy world ; I see it and hear it 
 all about me ; nay, I feel it, here, in the glow, the elo- 
 quent glow of m}' own heart. He who made this great 
 world must also be happy. 
 
 Lucy. — It is a great world. Look off to the mighty 
 ocean, when the storm is upon it ; to the huge mountain, 
 when the thunder and the lightnings play over it ; to 
 the vast forest, the interminable waste, the sun, the 
 moon, and the myriads of fair stars, countless as the 
 sands upon the seashore. It is a great, a magnificent 
 world, and He who made it — oh, He is the perfection of 
 all loveliness, all goodness, all greatness, all glori- 
 ousness ! 
 
 Feank. — What is the shape of the world, or of the 
 earth ? 
 
 William.- -It is round, or nearly so ; it is what is 
 called an oblate spheroid, having about twenty-three 
 miles greater diameter from East to West, than from 
 North to South. 
 
 Lucy. — Yes-, you know, Frank, our little geography 
 
102 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 " The world is round and like a ball, 
 Seems swinging in the air ; 
 A sky extends around it all, 
 And stars are shining there." 
 
 Frank. — The world round like a ball ! do you believe 
 that, mother? 
 
 Mother. — Yes ; men called navigators, have sailed 
 around the world in ships, and come to the same place 
 they started from — like a fl}^ walking around an apple. 
 
 William. — That is called circumnavigating. 
 
 Lucy. — That is a very long word ; I suppose it was 
 made so, because it is such a great distance around the 
 world. 
 
 William. — Lucy, can j^ou spell the word, and prop- 
 erly divide the syllables and pronounce them as you go 
 along ? 
 
 Lucy. — Yes ; I think I can. 
 
 William. — Well, go on. 
 
 Lucy. — Cir-cum-nav-i-gate. Circumnavigate. 
 
 William. — You are correct, Lucy. 
 
 John. — How far is it around the world ? it must be a 
 great distance, I think, mother. 
 
 Mother. — It is said to be about twenty-five thousand 
 miles: I believe, I am right, William, am I not? 
 
 William. — Yes ; and its diameter is about one third 
 this distance, or about eight thousand miles. 
 
 John. — What is that which you call diameter, Wil- 
 liam ? 
 
 William. — The distance straight through, from one 
 side to the other ; just as I run this knitting-needle 
 through this apple — thus. 
 
 Frank. — William, how does any person know how 
 far it is through the earth? no one has ever went 
 through to measure it, I guess. 
 
 William. — True, Frank ; no person has ever actually 
 measured it ; but there is a mathematical rule that will 
 find the diameter of any thing circular in form, when 
 yon have the circumference. 
 
 Lucy. — W^iat is that, William ? 
 
 William. — If the circumference of the earth is twen- 
 ty-five thousand [25,000] miles, b^^ dividing this distance 
 by the tabular number 3.1416, will give the diameter ; and 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 103 
 
 if tL<^ diameter of any circle or sphere be multiplied by 
 this number, it will give you the circumference. 
 
 Lucy. — Oh, yes ! and they know the distance around 
 the outside; and to divide this distance bj^ three, or that 
 other number you mentioned, will give the diameter. 
 
 William. — Yes. 
 
 Frank. — Why, William, can they measure distance 
 on the great ocean? 
 
 William. — Yes. 
 
 Lucy. — How far is it to England, or across the 
 A.tlantic ocean ? 
 
 William. — About three thousand [30GO] miles. 
 
 Lucy. — And the Pacific ocean, how wide is it ? 
 
 William. — It is called ten thousand [10,000] miles. 
 
 Frank. — How many oceans are there on the earth ? 
 
 William. — There is said to be five oceans ; but more 
 properly speaking there is but one, having different 
 names applied to different portions : as Pacific, Atlantic, 
 Indian, Arctic, and Antarctic. 
 
 Frank. — Why, I suppose there must be nearly as 
 much water as land — how is it, William ? 
 
 William. — A great deal more water than land ; 
 three fourths of the globe is said to be water, and one 
 fourth land. 
 
 Prank. — You astonish me 1 
 
 William. — To think, too, of the tides of the ocean — 
 how the water rises and falls, twice every twenty- 
 four hours — the incomprehensibility of its inhabitants 
 — the great leviathan, how he sports therein, and other 
 interesting things connected with the ocean, the 
 heavens, and the earth — often constrains me to think 
 of David when he sings in the one hundred and third 
 psalm — " Bless the Lord, oh, my soul : and all that is 
 within me, bless his holy name." The ninety-sixth 
 psalm likewise is very beautiful. 
 
 Lucy. — 
 
 " God moves in a mysterious way, 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
 And rides upon the storm !" 
 
 William. — Why, Lucy, you seem quite poetic this 
 evening ; by the way, it is said the verse or couplet you 
 
104 SCHOOT.DAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 just now repeated, contains all the parts of speech, 
 grammatically speaking, in the English language ; but for 
 m^' part I think there is one of the eight parts wanting. 
 
 IjUCY. — What is that ? 
 
 William. — The inteij-clion. 
 
 Frank. — I wonder h;i.v many people there are in the 
 world ? 
 
 William. — It is said there are one billion [1,000,000,- 
 000] persons in the world ; all of which are comprised 
 in only five distinct races, called the Caucasian or 
 white race ; the yellow or Mongolian ; the black or 
 African race ; the brown or Malay, and the red or 
 American race, called also aborigines. 
 
 Frank. — Why, are not we of the American race ? We 
 live in America, and were horn here, too. 
 
 William. — No; our ancestors came from Europe; 
 we are sometimes called Anglo-Saxon, too. Our fore- 
 fathers landed at Plymouth, in Massachusetts ; a settle- 
 ment was also made at Jamestown, in Virginia ; but 
 those settlements were made long after Christopher 
 Columbus discovered America. You will observe, Frank, 
 that the negroes born here in America are still called 
 Africans, although they first saw the light and have 
 been reared here in this country ; and it T\ould be the 
 same were the Indians to go to Europe ; the}^ would 
 still be called Indians, or "red men." 
 
 Frank. — Were the Indians and negroes here in 
 America when Columbus discovered it ? 
 
 William. — The Indian was, but not the negro ; he 
 was brought here b}^ the English when they settled at 
 Jamestown, and made a slave of by them ; he was 
 brought here from Africa. 
 
 Lucy. — I have often thought that the discoAery of 
 America, by Columbus, was in its effect, one of the great- 
 est events that ever occurred in the world's histor3^ 
 
 William. — Most unquestionably one of the greatest 
 events that has occurred, since the advent of our Sa^•iour 
 Jesus Christ into our world, has been the discovery of the 
 Western Continent — great in a variety of wa3's ; promi- 
 nent among whii h is the great goodness of God in open- 
 ing a way or outlet, for the people of the over-populated 
 countries of the Eastern Hemisphere; a land, too, where 
 monarchy and despotism in the affairs of government find 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 105 
 
 no favor. To think, too, what would have been the con- 
 dition of millions of people, now happ,y, prosperous and 
 contented, and in this glorious land of freedom — "the land 
 of the free and the home of the brave" — if the great dis- 
 covery of this continent had not then or since taken place. 
 But thanks to God for the realization of this sublime fact 
 Another great fact, scarcely less grand and stnpen' 
 dous, connected with the discovery of America, was the 
 demonstration (of theory only heretofore) that the world 
 or earth was round, or of globular shape. This proof 
 has been of inestimable value to science and art ; truly, 
 astronomy and geography without this knowledge would 
 be but a myth, and the celestial as well as the terrestrial 
 world, an unknown and undiscoverable mysterj'. Oh! 
 when I think, were it possible to obliterate all the 
 attending circumstances, grandeur, goodness, greatness, 
 and glory connected with this great event, "I am lost 
 in wonder, love, and praise!" 
 
 Frank. — When did Columbus discover America? 
 Lucy. — In the year one thousand four hundred and 
 ninety-two. Three hundred and seventy -four j-ears ago. 
 William. — Yes, and now we number thirty-seven 
 States, and a population of over thirty-one millions in 
 the United States alone ; then there is South America, 
 Mexico, British America, West India Islands, etc., not 
 included in this account. 
 
 Frank. — Oh, Lucy, don't you remember that beautiful 
 poem that you recited on last examination day, called 
 " Three Days in the Life of Columbus ?" 
 
 William. — I suppose he refers to that beautiful 
 translation from Delavigne, Lucy. Won't you repeat a 
 passage from it, and that will conclude our pleasant 
 chit-chat for this evening? 
 Lucy. — 
 
 But hush I he is dreaming I — a vail on the main, 
 
 At the distant horizon, is parted in twain. 
 
 And now. on his dreaming eye. — rapturous sight! 
 
 Fresh bursts the New- World from the darkness of night. 
 
 0, vision of glory ! how dazzling it seems ! 
 
 How glistens the verdure! how sparkle the streams ! 
 
 How bhie the far mountains ! how glad the green isles ! 
 
 And the earth and the ocean, how dimpled with smilea . 
 
 "Joy ! joy!" cries Columbus, " this region is mine !" — 
 
 Ah ! not e'en its name, wondrous dreamer, is thiue. 
 
106 SCHOOLUAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 But lo ! his dream changes ; — a vision less bright, 
 Comes to darken and banish that scene of delight, 
 The gold seeking Spaniards, a merciless band, 
 Assail the meek natives, and ravage the land. 
 He sees the fair palace, the temple on fire, 
 And the peaceful Cazique 'mid their ashes expire; 
 He sees too, — 0, saddest, 0. mournfullest sight ! — 
 The crucifix gleam in the thick of the fight. 
 More terrible far than the merciless steel, 
 / Is the uplifted cross in the red hand of Zeal. 
 
 Again the dream changes, Columbus looks forth, 
 And a bright constellation, beholds in the North. 
 'Tis the herald of empire ! a people appear. 
 Impatient of wrong and unconscious of fear ! 
 They level the forest, — they ransack the seas, — 
 Each zone finds their canvas unfurled to the breeze. 
 " Hold !" tyranny cries ; but their resolute breath 
 Sends back the reply, "Independence or death !" 
 The ploughshare they turn to a weapon of might. 
 And, defying all odds, they go forth to fight. 
 They have conquered ! the people, with grateful acclaim, 
 Look to "Washington's guidance, from Washington's 
 Behold Cincinnatus and Cato combined, [fame ; — 
 
 In his patriot heart and republican mind. 
 0, type of true manhood ! What scepter or crown. 
 But fades in the light of thy simple renown? 
 And lo ! by the side of the Hero, the Sage, 
 In freedom's behalf sets his mark on the age; 
 Whom science adoringly hails, while he wrings 
 The lightning from Heaven, the scepter from kings ! 
 At length, o'er Columbus slow consciousness Ijreaks. — 
 " Land ! land !" cry the sailors, " land ! land," — he awakes, 
 He runs, — yes ! behold it I — it blesseth his sight, — 
 The land ! 0, dear spectacle ! transport ! delight ! 
 
 POCAHONTAS. 
 
 Scene. — A group of half a dozen Indians, and Pow- 
 hatan in the foreground, with a large club in his hand. 
 Captain Smith hound, hands and feet, lying with his 
 head upon two stones. 
 Powhatan [7^aising his club']. — 
 
 TJgh ! when the wolf strays in the snare, 
 
 The hunter has his prej"- ; 
 No more the wolf shall seek his lair, 
 Or prowl the hunter's way. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 107 
 
 [ With a scream, Pocahontas rushes before her father, 
 weeping, and throws her arms about him. PoW' 
 hatan drops his club, and regards her savagely. 1 
 Pocahontas. — 
 
 Oh, father, set the white man free, 
 
 Hold back the lifted blow I 
 Let not the lightning scathe the tree 
 The winds have pinioned low. 
 
 Powhatan [sternly^. — 
 
 Begone ! and get you to your mates, 
 
 As birds flee from the storm ; 
 A squaw's weak hands are useless weights 
 
 To check the warrior's arm ! 
 
 Pocahontas [clinging to his right arm']. — 
 These hands have plumed thy eagle crest, 
 
 And wrought thy tufted crown! 
 The dove shall flutter at thy breast 
 
 Until thou strike it down. 
 My father, spare the white brave's life, — 
 
 I cling thine arm to speak ; 
 My veins are with the same blood rife 
 
 As that which paints thy cheek ; — 
 Oh, hear her plea ! Thj' daughter prays, 
 
 And when the sachems smoke 
 Around the council fire's bright blaze, 
 
 Thine own decree revoke ! 
 This guiltless blood will taint the breeze 
 
 That climbs its skyward path ; 
 How shall Powhatan then appease 
 
 Our great Manitou's wrath ? 
 Powhatan. — 
 
 The braves inclose the council fire, 
 
 Its secrets are their own, 
 You know not of Manitou's ire. 
 
 What signs to squaws are shown ? 
 Pocahontas [vehemently']. — 
 
 The signs that streak the cloud's black fold 
 
 With livid, zig-zag fire. 
 That make the Indian maiden bold 
 
 To stand before her sire 1 
 
108 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 The signs that walk across the sky 
 
 And through the sunset's gold, — 
 They say the pale-face shall not die, 
 
 That I thine arm shall hold. 
 Powhatan hears the young squaw plead, 
 
 Will he not grant her prayer? 
 Oh, sachem, give thy daughter heed, 
 
 And spare the captive there ! 
 
 Powhatan. — 
 
 Powhatan's word is like the life 
 
 Powhatan's body holds. 
 And I have sworn to sheathe my knife 
 Among his scalp-skin's folds ! 
 
 \_Pointing to Smith.'\ 
 Pocahontas [^pointing upward]. — 
 
 The eyrie bird swoops down to prey 
 
 Upon the tame hawk's head ; 
 The white dove soars across his way — - 
 He tears her breast instead. 
 \She kneels by Smith''s side, and lays her head on his.'] 
 As unto him thou would 'st have dealt, 
 
 Deal unto me the like. 
 M3' scalp shall dangle at thy belt, 
 And now, my father, strike 1 
 Powhatan [^noved']. — 
 
 The Eagle will not wet his beak 
 
 In his own nestling's blood; 
 Powhatan hears his daughter speak, 
 And what she saj^s is good. 
 
 [^Regarding her proudly.^ 
 The Eagle's spirit lives in thee, 
 Thou hast his dauntless eye I 
 
 \^ To his attendantii, haughtiy.'] 
 TJnbind and set the captive free. 
 The pale-face shall not die ! 
 \^ He folds his arms while they unbind Captain Snnth 
 who kneels to kiss the princesses hand.] 
 [ Curtain falls.] 
 
S^HOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 109 
 
 i5£ lUTY OF FACE AND BEAUTY OF SOUL; 
 OR, WHAT I WOULD BE. 
 
 CHAEACTEES. 
 
 Jui.i \NA, a gay yoang girl. 
 
 CiiR STOPHER, Juliana's brother, who would be a wit. 
 
 Mar r, would be a genius. 
 
 I.:zz_E, a sedate young lady who strives to be, and to do good. 
 
 [All seated to,(i:ether on a veranda, the girls examining a print 
 of Cleopatra while the young man is engaged in reading.] 
 
 Juliana [_still gazing on the picture']. — Qneen of won- 
 drous beauty I it's no marvel that kings and princes, 
 priests and generals, bowed at her shrine, and were 
 made captives to her fascinations. I would give all the 
 world to be as beautiful. 
 
 Chris, [without raising his eyes from his book]. — 
 " Handsome is that handsome does," my fair sis. 
 
 Juliana. — No one asked yoic to speak. Boys are 
 always interfering ; and then j'ou need not say any 
 thing, for you know you had much rather be seen in 
 the street with handsome girls than homely ones. 
 
 Chris. — And for a very good reason, pretty one. 
 Being a truly affectionate brother, I, of course, should 
 prefer the society of such as would remind me of " The 
 girl I left behind me," at home. Besides plain looking 
 girls are more generally sensible. [ Winking to Lizzie.] 
 And sensible girls would not be seen walking with me. 
 
 Juliana [in an offended tone^. — Talk as much as 
 you please about sense, I know, and you know, too, 
 that beauty is more thought of than any thing else. The 
 high and low, learned and illiterate, young and old, 
 rich and poor, all bow to the sceptre of Beaut}''. Even 
 King Solomon, the wisest man that ever ruled a king- 
 dom, wrote a great deal on the subject. 
 
 Chris. — Ahem! so he did, little one. " Favor is de- 
 ceitful, and beauty is vain ; but a woman that feareth 
 the Lord, she i^hall he praised," so said King— 
 S-o-l-o-m-o-n. 
 
no SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Juliana [with sjnrit']. — I wish father would make 
 you go out to work with Patrick ; the house is no place 
 for boys. 
 
 Chris, [laughing']. — Just so, I thought, petite Nan- 
 nie, so I came out here to sit and take the air. Besides, 
 mother tells me, that " the society of intelligent unci 
 refined young ladies, improves a verdant lad more than 
 anything else," so I am trying its effect, and think I 
 can perceive an improvement. But girls [addressing 
 Mary and Lizzie], why don't you speak ? The veranda 
 is open for discussion. 
 
 Juliana. — I suppose they're afraid of having you for 
 an opponent. Of course, you would be. The phrenolo- 
 gist said: "you were always on the contrary side," and 
 he spoke the truth then 
 
 Chris, [interrupting']. — If he didn't when he said 
 your bump of vanity was plus seven. 
 
 Juliana. — You don't give the girls any chance to 
 .speak. Come, Mary, please tell us what you would 
 rather be ; and Lizzie, too. I'll keep still, and as for 
 Chris, Ae's improved so much, there'll be no danger of 
 your being interrupted by him. 
 
 Mary [laughing]. — We all know Lizzie delights in 
 doing good more than any thing else, (wish I could say 
 the same of myself,) but 1 thought it was generally known 
 that genius was my hobby. I almost worship genius 
 wherever found, and would give the best half of the 
 world to be a genius of some kind — either a poet, artist, 
 or a celebrated vocalist. Why, I've almost a holy rever- 
 ence for every word Lord Bryon has uttered, (despite 
 his faults and follies). Then there's Charlotte Bronte, 
 Kate Hayes, and our own Hatt3' Hosmer. [A pause.] 
 
 Lizzie. — Yes, dear Marj?^, we need not go to the Old 
 World for fine specimens of genius, while our glorious 
 Whittier lives (Freedom's noblest poet), and hezvillUve 
 f)r evermore ; for the good and true never die. Their 
 influence is as lasting as time, their " thoughts that 
 breathe, and words that burn" are immortal. 
 
 Mary. — That is true, Lizzie ; Whittier's genius is a 
 uoble one. Then there is our own " Anna Dickinson," 
 Tif whose talent, virtues, and genius we may be justly 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. Ill 
 
 proud, and in point of physical beauty I think she will 
 not suffer in comparison with Egypt's vaunted queen. 
 
 Juliana. — That's just what I say. Geniuses are 
 always beautiful. 
 
 Chris, [^shutting his book and jumping up']. — If 1 may 
 be allowed to speak 
 
 Mary and Lizzie [speaking at once and laughing']. — 
 Certainly, "the veranda is open to discussion." 
 
 Chris. — I presume you all accord to Dr. Watts 
 great genius ? 
 
 Girls \in one breath]. — Yes, we do. 
 
 Chris. — And have heard the story about his physical 
 delurmity ? 
 
 Juliana. — Nol 
 
 Lizzie. — What is it? 
 
 Mary. — Please tell us. 
 
 Chris. — He w^as a small, plain-faced, illy-formed man, 
 and, at one time, was in company, among whom were 
 some strangers, and he was pointed out to one of them 
 as " the author, Dr. Watts." When the stranger ex- 
 claimed, in astonishment, " What ! that the great Dr. 
 Watts I That little, insignificant man !" Whereat, the 
 doctor drew himself up, and with upraised ai'ms, re- 
 peated slowly and distinctly, these impromptu lines : 
 " Were I so tall as to reach the pole. 
 And clasp the heavens with a span, 
 I must be measured by my soul, 
 
 The mind is the standard of the man." 
 And that's what I call genuine wit. 
 
 Lizzie. — Coupled with true greatness, Christopher. 
 
 Juliana. — Yes ; Chris, is always harping upon wit. 
 Artemus Ward is his hero. \_Laughing.] 
 
 Chris. — I never shall have for m}^ heroine an infatU' 
 ous woman. Though she be as beautiful as an angel, I 
 should know 'twas a " fallen one." [With emphasis.] 
 
 Mary. — We must give to every one his just due. 
 Cleopatra was talented and highly accomplished, as well 
 as beautiful in person — and 'tis for that I admire her— 
 her rare gifts of intellect. What say jon, Lizzie, to 
 that? 
 
 Lizzie. — I am reminded at this moment, of words 
 uttered by a little boy. He had heard read " Byron's 
 
112 SCHOOLDAV DIALOGUES. 
 
 Address to the Ocean," when he turned to his mother, 
 and said, "It is grand, it is beautiful, mother, but 
 there's no God in it." And I would that all lovers of 
 literature were as discerning in regard to the excellencies 
 and defects of the authors they read, as was that little 
 boy. There should be an evident aim to benefit, as well 
 as to please the imagination of the reader ; as a friend 
 remarked the other evening upon the writings of T. S. 
 Arthur, that, " though there was a sameness in his 
 stories, still she liked them, for he seemed to have an 
 aim, and that was what she wanted to see in a writer." 
 And I think it may be said of that excellent writer, as 
 was said of one in former years, that "he never wrote 
 one line which, when dying, he w^ould wish to blot out." 
 We should live to do good. 
 
 Chris. — You express my sentiments exactly, if I am 
 a harum-scarum youth ; but it's my opinion the more 
 wit one possesseth, the more good he can accomplish. 
 
 Mary. — I indorse Lizzie's sentiments, too, and I 
 don't know who ca7i "do good," if a real genius can't. 
 But they're not always good. 
 
 Juliana. — Well, I'm not going to give up beat, with- 
 out one word more. What's the first question asked 
 when a stranger's name is introduced ? Isn't it " how 
 does he look 5"' " is she, or he, handsome ?" etc. 
 
 Chris. — With all due respect for the opinion of my 
 sister, I must say no ; who would ever think of asking 
 if N. P. Willis and Professor Longfellow were pretty 
 men [in a dejDreciating tone'] 1 We all know they have 
 beautiful souls, and Whittier says, the " Good are 
 always beautiful." [I believe it is Whittier.] Mary 
 must correct me if I'm wrong. [_Mary nods assent.'] I 
 had 'much rather see a plain house well furnished, than 
 to see a splendid structure unfurnished, or but poorly 
 furnished. Who would want to stand out of doors all 
 the time to look at the outside of a house? I should 
 want to enter into the inner sanctuary, and find some- 
 thing on which to feast mi/ soul. You see I'm getting 
 sentimental [humorously]. Well, it's all the effects 
 of the company I've been in, but [looking at his watch] 
 the hour for my recitation is near, and I must leave, 
 though with reluctance, for I'm convinced mother is 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 113 
 
 about right in regard to her opinion of society. [And 
 wishing the girls a very pleasant afternoon, bows, and 
 retires.'] 
 
 Lizzie. — I tliiuk, Julie, you are not altogether in 
 fault. We are too apt to inquire how a person looks. 
 But I think it's more a habit we have fallen into, than a 
 fixed principle, though we all like to see a fine face and 
 form. But if there is not a corresponding beauty of 
 mind and soul, we are sadly disappointed. There 
 occurs to memory one, of whom I never heard the 
 question asked, "how did she look?" 'Tis the sainted 
 Mary Lj^on ; we each know of her self-sacrifice, devotion 
 to her calling, and the great good she accomplished. 
 And I am sure that either of you would rather have the 
 same said of you, when you've passed away from earth, 
 than that you were merely a great genius, or a celebrated 
 beauty ? 
 
 Mary. — Yes, Lizzie, I would. 
 
 Juliana. — I suppose so, if there could be but one thing 
 said of me. 
 
 Lizzie. — "For the eye and cheek will fade, 
 Mary [repeats']. — Beauty owns immortal grace; 
 Lizzie. — Throned she sits within the soul, 
 Mary. — That is beauty'' s dwelling-place.^^ 
 Lizzie. — Yes ; the form so admired to-day for its 
 comeliness, will in a few years decay and moulder in the 
 
 dust; "but the soul, immortal as its sire " 
 
 Mary and Lizzie [in concert]. — "Shall never die.'" 
 Lizzie. — Then, since all of earth must perish, may we 
 each strive to possess what never fades — the beauty of 
 the soul. [Scene closes.] 
 
 UNCLE ZEKE'S OPINIO:^ 
 
 CHARACTEES. 
 
 Processor. Trachkr. Patriot. Poet. 
 
 Unci.k Zeke (an old fasliioned farmer quite aged). 
 Seth Spriggins, a Green Mountaineer. 
 
 Uncle Zeke. [sitting apjjarently in deep reflection, 
 Cd^imencp^ talking]. — Well, I havn't got much longer 
 
11-4 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 to live, and I don't care. There's nothin' much -worth 
 liviii' for in this world now, the wa}'^ things is goiu'. 
 This country my father fought and bled and died for, 
 on Bunker's Hill, is no longer the happy, harmonioua 
 republic they then established ; but a great, over-grown, 
 sickly thing, bavin' within itself the elements of its own 
 destruction. Ever since I heard the Charter Oak had 
 fell, I have knowed its doom was sealed. Alas ! it is 
 droopin', witherin', dyin'. It is torn limb from limb by 
 internal factions ; its best friends is its greatest enemies. 
 
 Patriot. — What is the matter, Uncle Zeke, that you 
 should be letting off your superabundant steam in that 
 fashion ? You, one of our best men, the son of that 
 brave little band that shed their blood so freeh^ and 
 gave our nation the deathless name it then acquired ; 
 you, sir, to turn recreant to the principles they there 
 defended ; you, who stood by her in her adversity'', to 
 forsake her in her prosperitj^ when she stands the 
 pride of the continent, the chief luminary of the world 
 Nobl}'^ did her sons establish her name ! nobly have 
 their sons protected and improved their patrimony I 
 
 Teacher. — Yes, nobly ! and in what way more nobly 
 than in designing and perfecting the admirable system 
 of common schools we possess — the secret of our pros- 
 perity, the talisman of our success. 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — There you have it ! Common schools. 
 Common humbugs ! Instead of havin' schools to larn 
 the boys readin', ritin' and siferin' and such like, that 
 '11 be some good to 'em, they larn 'em nateral flosity 
 and watermolog}'- and sintacks, and I don't know what 
 kind o' nonsense, what is no manner o' use to 'em, 'cause 
 nobody understands it but them college-bred milk-sops 
 that come among honest people and pertend to teach, 
 and then run away with the old folkses' money, and the 
 boys' brains, and the gals' hearts, and then chuckle and 
 shake their bony sides over their victories. 
 
 Proeessgr. — How absurdl3'- you talk, uncle ! Every 
 one admires our superior S3^stem of education; it is one 
 of our great national institutions which have won for 
 us a deathless reputation among the nations of tue 
 earth. Take awa}'^ our common schools, and you 
 deprive us of one of the richest blessings we enjoy ; 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 115 
 
 the very life-blood of our prosperity ; the principles for 
 which our forefathers fought, and the sweet, rosy- 
 cheeked maidens of seventy-six taxed their energies to 
 secure. 
 
 Seth Spriggins. — My Arcles I Maidens of seventy- 
 six I Well, if ever I heard wimmen as old as that called 
 maidens afore ! I wonder when yeou'd call 'em wimmen. 
 When 'Squire Dorgwood, from Orange county married 
 old Sall3^ Stubbs daown to Bennington, nobody called 
 her a gal ; every body called her an old woman, and 
 she was only seventy-tew, that was [counting his Jingtrs] 
 four year younger than your maidens, tew. Her face 
 was as wrinkled as a dried apple, and abeout as rosy. 
 
 Patriot. — Astonishing I Astonishing I 1 that one of 
 our free and enlightened Americans, in '62 should not 
 revere the very figures that express '76, saying nothing 
 of the idea of failing to recognize the plain mention of 
 an era rife with so mau}"^ associations so dear, so 
 thrilling, so exalting to every member of our gloiiCus 
 Union. 
 
 Poet. — 
 
 Let her banners flutter proudly 
 
 On every flagstaff, spire, and tower ; 
 Let her statesmen discant loudly 
 
 On her greatness, honor, power ; 
 Let true hearts with ardor burning 
 
 Strive her virtues to increase ; 
 And while others war are learning 
 
 Teach her children love and peace. 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — Sickenin'love pieces are plenty enougu 
 now, I calkelate. You can't take up a paper, nor book, 
 nor nothin' without it's full of love pieces ; and afore 
 children is big enough to have nateral love feelins, they 
 get their heads so full of this love-r.onsense, they never 
 have none of the nateral love feelins at all. The love 
 them books tells about is no more like love than the 
 hooped flyaways we see now-a-days is like the neat, 
 pretty, slim, red-faced gals that I used to court when 
 I was a young chap. 
 
 Teacher. — Oh, Uncle ! you are getting crazy. Think- 
 ing about 3'Our old courting days has bewildered you. 
 We are not speaking of love pieces, but of love and 
 
116 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUEa. 
 
 peace. Peace, freedom from war, rest ; not piects a 
 part. 
 
 Uncle Zeke.— Oh, dear, sus ! That's all, is it ? 
 
 Teacher. — That's all. We know there is much trash 
 published ; but we can't stop that without suppressing 
 profitable literature, also ; and all we can do is to 
 counteract its influence by diiFusing morality, religion, 
 and science. 
 
 Professor. — Morality and religion are the effective 
 agents. Science, the root from which they derive their 
 support. Science has dethroned heathenism in many 
 cases. It is driving superstition before it, and will 
 eventually prostrate it to rise no more. The lightning 
 which our ancestors looked upon in dismay as it flashed 
 from cloud to cloud, has been brought from its sublime 
 throne, by the hand of science, and is now one of man's 
 most useful and obedient servants. The vapor which 
 arises from heated water, which, in olden times was 
 looked upon only as a curiosity as it dashed the lid 
 from the caldron in which it was boiling, is now the 
 motive power that impels us across the ocean in splendid 
 palaces, or hurls us over the country with electric 
 speed. The planetary system, which was regarded with 
 wonder and dread by the ancients, who worshiped its 
 various members as deities, is now only a vast concourse 
 of worlds rolling through the immensity of space. 
 Science has done all this, and yet j^ou despise it. it is 
 the centre of gravity around which our country revolves ; 
 the very essence of its existence. 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — I guess, old chap, you'll have to preach 
 a longer sarmint than that afore j^ou make this old 
 child believe that 'are nonsense. With all your larnin' 
 I don't believe 3rou'll get one inch nearder the stars 
 than I will, or stan' a flashof lightnin' a bit longer after 
 it hits you. 
 
 Patriot. — That may all be so, uncle, but don't say 
 any thing more against our Union. Let us rapidly 
 review her progress since she came into existence. 
 Then she consisted of thirteen little stars on her flag; 
 now that cluster has multiplied and increased till a fiery 
 constellation of thirt3^-seven blazes amid its silken folds, 
 ■jesides territories almost boundless that have no repre- 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 117 
 
 sentation there. Empires may crumble ; kingdoms may 
 fall ; t3'ranny spring up, flourish its little hour, and tlien 
 fall to the ground ; but our republic must flourish and 
 increase while time and space endure. 
 
 Poet. — 
 
 Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones. 
 
 Seth. — Who knows but it was time shook aour stable 
 daown ; I thought it was the wind. 
 
 Teacher. — Not a horse stable, but the adjective 
 stable, permanent, fixed. 
 
 Seth. — Ourn wasn't a hoss-stable nor an adjective 
 stable nuther ; it was the calf stable at the back end of 
 the barn. There was three calves in it, and the red one 
 got killed, and the spotted one got its head onjointed, 
 and its tail smashed a-most off, so it died before we found 
 it the next mornin'. 
 
 Teacher. — I think there was one calf escaped that 
 disastrous end, or you wouldn't he here to talk such 
 nonsense. 
 
 Seth. — Oh, yes ! The black one didn't get hurt a-bit. 
 
 Professor. — Such ignorance as tliis individual mani- 
 fests is intolerable ; unworthy the enlightenment of the 
 present century. 
 
 Seth. — Ef I ain't worthy this censure, I can dew 
 vrithaout it. I don't want yeou nor your censure nuther. 
 
 Teacher. — He isn't speaking of censuring you. 
 
 Seth [^ayigrily']. — He did saj^ censurin', tew ; I hearn 
 him. 
 
 Teacher. — You can say it means what you like : that's 
 just the way. 
 
 Professor. — It is useless to attempt to convince the 
 ignorant of any thing that is not perceptible to the 
 senses; therefore 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — Who can convince any body of any 
 thing other than by their senses. If their senses isn't 
 wantin' why can't you convince a dog or cat or a boss 
 of any thing as well as a man. 
 
 Professor. — By the senses we mean the faculties of 
 hearing, seeing, smelling, etc. ; not intellect. 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — I don't know what intelleck is; but I 
 know neighbor Dobson's Bill could hear and see aim 
 
118 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 smell as well as any body, and he hadn't no sense at 
 all. 
 
 Professor. — I love to respect the aged where the 
 case will admit at all : but this is too flagrant a viola- 
 tion of reason to allow respect or mildness ; it is insuf- 
 ferable. 
 Poet. — 
 
 Concealed within the marble block 
 
 The polished statiie stands ; 
 Yet only issues from the rock 
 
 Beneath the sculptor's hands; 
 Just so the mind, the living mind, 
 
 Hidden in darkness lay; 
 No light burst from its powers, confined. 
 Till education cleared the way. 
 
 Seth. — Haow mighty knowin' you think you be ! 
 That rhymin' ain't nothin'. I can make better varses 
 than them by a jug full. I know some a good 'eal better 
 than that feller's. 
 
 Professor. — Please recite them. 
 
 Seth. — There ain't a sight of them ; only tew. 
 
 Professor. — Say them then. Do you understand that? 
 
 Seth. — Yes, easy 1 Well, listen 
 
 I went daown to Cap'n Blake's 
 And there I seen his darter : 
 I never seen a prettier gal, 
 
 Or one what acted smarter. 
 Her eyes is like two lightnin' bugs, 
 
 Her lips like lemon candy ; 
 Her cheeks is lilie a robin's breast. 
 And ear-rings, aint they dandy ? 
 Professor. — Well done ! You seem to possess some 
 faculties notwithstanding. Quite a poet. 
 
 Seth. — I don't know whether I've got any or not. 
 I've got a good many things in my trunk; I guess 
 there's some amongst 'em. 
 
 Professor. — What a paragon of ignorance ; and yet 
 that iudividual is under the influence of the tender pas- 
 sion, judging from his poetic eftusions, and probably 
 contemplates entering into matrimony. 
 Seth. — What sort of money ? 
 
 Professor. — Yes I say you probably contemplate 
 eatering into matrimony. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 119 
 
 Sei'H. — I daon't know exactly, but I guess I'd take 
 any thing that would f ass. I wonder if a hody'd let 
 me have a chance to earn it. 
 
 Teacher. — Were j^ou ever at school, sir ? 
 
 Seth. — Oh, yes ! I went to school three afternoons, 
 but the first the master wasn't there, and the next he 
 was drunk, and the last he kept talkin' to Kate Robbius, 
 and didn't larn us nothin'. 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — Well, I went to school a good 'eal 
 when I was a boy. I went three winters day-times, and 
 one, evenin', too ; and I guess that was a school. There 
 was no jimnastiums and excesses there; none of 3'our 
 new-fashioned fooleries. If the boys didn't behave, 
 they got the ferrel ; and if the gals didn't carry 'em- 
 selves straight, they had to stan' upon the bench till 
 they felt cheap, I tell you. 
 
 Teacher. — And that was the school system you 
 admire. What branches did you learn ? 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — We larned readin' and ritin' and 
 siferin'; and that was plenty for common folks to know. 
 Ministers ort to know a little more so as to expound 
 the scriptures a little ; but for boys to larn big words 
 and high branches, and the gals to larn drawin, paintin', 
 music, thumpin' the pianour, and pinchin' the guitar, 
 instead of spinnin', weavin', nittin' stockings and makin' 
 close, is the ruination of all of 'em ; and when the people 
 is ruined, the nation is ruined, brag on it as you please. 
 
 Professor. — The use of machinery has superseded 
 the old-fashioned spinning-wheel and hand loom ; they 
 are only relics of by-gone days. The day is fast ap- 
 proaching when the buzz of the spinning-wheel, and the 
 clatter of the loom shall be heard no more in our land 
 for ever. The piano and guitar have taken their places, 
 and our maidens may learn music, and our sons science, 
 while steam performs the labor they formerly were 
 obliged to do. 
 
 Teacher. — The Lyceum is now about to go into 
 session, gentlemen. Please step into the next room. 
 [Exit all but Uncle Zeke.'] 
 
 Uncle Zeke. — Jes so, Mr. School-master, but if 
 yeou'll wait till I see em in their precious mess of torn- 
 
120 
 
 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 flumpei'}' yeou'll wait till yeou're graj^er than yeou neow 
 be. \_Exit Uncle Zeke, calling to John to drive around 
 the team. Noise, as if the old gentleman was climbing 
 into an ox-cart, and the oxen restless.'] 
 
 THE SPELLING CLASS. 
 
 fThis piece can be spoken by either sex, or by both, Dy 
 changing names. A large boy or girl should be selected 
 as teacher.] 
 
 PUPILS. 
 
 JODN. 
 
 Samuel. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 James. 
 
 Daniel. 
 
 JOSIAH. 
 
 William. 
 
 Joseph. 
 
 Caleb. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Henry. 
 
 Patrick. 
 
 Scene 1. — Pupils playing on the stage ivhen the 
 curtain rises. 
 
 Teacher. — Now, boys, I want you to form into a 
 class, and spell the lesson I assigned you. 
 
 All the Boys. — Yes, ma'am. 
 
 Teacher. — Peter, you may go to the head of the class 
 this evening. 
 
 Michael. — Teacher, Pat Flannigan's head. He trap- 
 ped Jim Barnhill last evening. 
 
 Caleb. — No, Pat Flannigan's not head though ; I'nj 
 head, I guess. I trapped Pat at the word conglomerate 
 didn't I, Josie ? 
 
 JosTAH [slowly']. — I don't know, I wasn't in school 
 yesterday. 
 
 William. — Teacher, I was third last evening, and 
 now Joe Davis won't let me in my place. 
 
 Teacher. — Joseph, let William in his place. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 121 
 
 Henry. — Well, I wasn't foot, either, when we spelt 
 last, for I marked my number on this paper, and I was 
 fourteenth. [^Holding up the paper.'] 
 
 Teacher [^counting the class']. — Why, you are twelfth 
 now, and last evening you say you were fourteenth. 
 
 Henry. — Well, but I wasn't foot. 
 
 John. — Please, ma'am, Dan Lutz is pinching me. 
 
 Teacher. — Daniel, walk to the foot of the class. 
 
 Peter. — Teacher, shall I go head ? 
 
 Teacher. — Yes, I told you to go there when I called 
 the class up, didn't I ? 
 
 Peter. — Yes, ma'am. 
 
 Caleb [^as if crying]. — It's not fair. I was head. 
 
 Teacher [holding up a stick]. — Quiet, now, or you'll 
 get a good flogging. 
 
 James. — Please, teacher, Sam Snodgrass is standing 
 on one foot. 
 
 Teacher. — Samuel, stand erect. The class will all 
 pay strict attention. Peter, where is the lesson for this 
 evening ? 
 
 Peter. — On page forty-nine, lesson fourth, section 
 seventeenth. 
 
 Joseph. — John Barnhill told me, that we were to get 
 the last section on i)age forty-eight. 
 
 Samuel. — And Dan Lutz told me that Bill Smith 
 told him that we were to get the first two sections on 
 page fifty. He said that Josie Lichtenberger heard the 
 teacher say so. 
 
 Teacher. — Did you hear me saying so, Josiah ? 
 
 JosiAH [^slowly]. — No, ma'am, 1 wasn't in school yes- 
 terday. 
 
 Teacher. — Joseph Davis has the right place. He 
 will go to the head of the class, and Peter may take his 
 place at the other end of the class. 
 
 Henry. — Why ! I'll be ahead after awhile, if them 
 fellers keeps coming down here much more. 
 
 Teacher. — Quiet, there. Attention all. Joseph, spell 
 Jie first word. 
 
 Joseph. — Teacher, I don't know what the first word is. 
 
 Teacher. — Well, if you only have a little patience I 
 will pronounce it for you. 
 
 Caleb \'hand up] — I know what the first word is 
 
122 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Teacher. — You keep quiet, until j^ou are called upou 
 to speak. The first word is commutation. Spell, Jo- 
 seph. 
 
 Joseph. — C-o-m, com, y-o-u, you, comyou, — 
 
 Teacher. — Next. 
 
 William [^drawling']. — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, commu, 
 t-a, ta, commuta, s-h-i-o-n, shun, commutation. 
 
 Teacher. — William, you must get your lesson better 
 the next time. 
 
 William. — Please, ma'am, I have no book. Some- 
 body stepped on it, and the skin came off. 
 
 Teacher. — The cover, you mean, don't you ? 
 
 William. — No, ma'am, I mean the outside of the 
 book, the skin. 
 
 Teacher. — Well, what did yon do with the inside of 
 the book ? 
 
 William. — Why, it looked so ugly, that one evening 
 last week, as 1 went home, I threw it into the creek 
 down there. 
 
 Teacher. — You deserve a good whipping; but we 
 must continue the spelling. Patrick, you s.pell ? 
 
 Patrick. — Plase, mar'm and I don't know the 
 w-u-r-r-d. 
 
 Teacher. — James, spell. 
 
 James. — C-o-m, com, m-u, mu, t-a, ta, t-i-o-n, tion, 
 commutation. 
 
 Teacher. — That is right ; go up. 
 
 James [^goes up and William trips hirri]. — Teacher, 
 Bill Smith tried to throw me down. 
 
 Teacher. — William, you will take your seat. John, 
 do you spell the next word, molasses. 
 
 John. — M-o, mo, [_smacks his lips'] m-o, mo, l_smacks 
 them still louder'] m-o-l-e, mole [still smacking.] 
 
 Teacher. — What is the matter ? 
 
 John. — I can't spell that word ; it's too sweet. 
 
 Teacher. — Josiah, you can spell it. 
 
 JoiSiAH \_whose head has been turned in an opposite di- 
 rection, now faces the teacher, and spells slowly]. — S-u, 
 su, g-a-r, gar, sugar. 
 
 Teacher. — That is not the word. 
 
 JosiAH [slowly]. — Why, John said it was so uweet he 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 123 
 
 could not possibly spell it, and I thought he meant 
 sugar. 
 
 Teacher. — I don't believe you are paying attention. 
 
 Caleb. — Teacher, I know how to spell the word. 
 
 Teacher. — Spell it, then. 
 
 Caleb [_uery earnesf]. — C-a-n, can, d-y, dy, candy. [Be 
 goes lip.'] 
 
 Teacher. — Hold on; that is not the word. Go back 
 to your place. You all deserve to be punished severely 
 for your neglect in preparing this lesson, and your indif- 
 ference in the recitation. Let me hear you define a few 
 words. Henry, what is the meaning of the word exter- 
 minate ? 
 
 Henry. — Exterminate, means that natural reflection 
 subsiduary upon longitudinal molusc, when the conspi- 
 cuous generality of ideas, encompass the plausibility 
 consequent upon the gelatinous machinations of pneu- 
 matics, during the precise admonitions of an avaricious 
 duadecagOD : or, in other words, the incomprehensible 
 gyrations of antiquated logar3'thms, when in a state of 
 lubricating gymnastics, produced from the exhilarating 
 effervescence of hydraulic aspirations, flowing from the 
 ambiguous castigations in the colossal amphitheatre of 
 redundant asseverations, while renewing the categorical 
 receptacles of an ignited concatenation. 
 
 Teacher. — "Very well done, Henry ; I am pleased to 
 see that you studied the lesson so well. 
 
 Michael. — Teacher, I don't exactly understand about 
 that avaricious duodecagon. 
 
 Teacher. — Henry, please explain those words for the 
 satisfaction of the class. 
 
 Henry. — Why, an avaricious duodecagon, simply 
 means a black spotted cat with a iong white tail. 
 
 Teacher. — Now, Samuel, brighten up, and give me a 
 short definition of the word procrastination. 
 
 Samuel. — Well, the literal meaning is systematically 
 that phenomena of auxiliary conceptions, which by their 
 egotistical perplexities affiliate with the aromatic plausi- 
 bilities of an analytical stove-pipe, that has for its ori- 
 gin the unavoidable periphery by which it is metamor- 
 phosed into an exaggerated chrysalis of oleaginouiS in- 
 visibility 
 
124 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Teacher. — That is excellent. I knew there was some- 
 thing in you, if only the rigJit method was taken to 
 extract it. The audience wJl readily see the import- 
 ance of pupils being thoroughly conversant with Ian 
 guage, so that they will be able at all times to dissemi 
 nate that light among those around them, which shoukl 
 characterize the enlightened era in which we live. iSow, 
 boys, we will close the lesson for the present, hoping 
 that you are all more sensibly impressed with your 
 duties. Continue in the course you have commenced, 
 and you will become great men and women. 
 [Boys leave in confusion.'] 
 
 THE TWO TEACHERS. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Clara, a faithful teacher, who loves the employment. 
 Ltzzie, one who dislikes teaching. 
 
 Scene. A School-room. Clara stands by a desk read- 
 ing, while a group of Utile ones are preparing to 
 leave. Before they go, they take an affectionate leave 
 of the Teacher. 
 
 [Lizzie enters hastily, as if she had been walking a 
 
 long distance.'] 
 
 Clara [starting foricard]. — Why, good afternoon, 
 Lizzie! Your school must have l)een out early; for 
 now it is only half past four, and you teach four miles 
 away. I expected you to-night, but not so soon. 
 
 Lizzie. — I dismissed school a little after three. There ' 
 you needn't look so terrified ! I guess the scholars 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 125 
 
 were glad enough to get away. I am sure I v/as 1 
 Oh ! it did seem so good to get out in the pure, fresh 
 air, away from the noise of the children. But come, 
 Clara, let us dismiss such dismal things as school, 
 scholars, and teaching, from our minds. Let us "drive 
 dull carr away" with jong. \_Taking a singing book 
 and sitting doion.'] Dear me, I'm so tired ! I am glad 
 there's no school to-morrow ! Let us sing, " Rain on 
 the Roof." You sing alto and I will soprano ^sounding 
 key']. 
 
 Clara \Jialf impatiently']. — No, not now, Lizzie, 
 please ; I want to talk a little while. 
 
 Lizzie. — Well, my dear, I suppose you are going 
 to lecture me. Proceed! I'll bear all your good talk 
 with the patience of a martyr. \_Folding her hands 
 demurely.] 
 
 Clara [_soherly,] — By what you said of your glad- 
 ness to get from school, etc. etc., I am afraid \liesi- 
 ta.ting]. To come to the point, Lizzie, do you like 
 to teach school? 
 
 \_The mischievous smile died out of Lizzie'' s face, as 
 she arose quickly and said in a hurried tone :] 
 
 Lizzie. — Like to teach school? What a question ! 
 Clara, did you, could you, think I did? \_S2oeaking 
 slowly j Ask the little bird, that carols its free, joyous 
 song on the tall tree, free to act at its own sweet will, 
 ask it if it likes its prison cage as well as its covert of 
 green leaves. Ask the babbling brook, which wends its 
 wa_y, singing merrily as it goes, if when imprisoned in 
 the still pond, its poor, suffering heart does not long to 
 break its prison bonds and go on its way, rejoicing in 
 its wild freedom. Ask the little child, sporting among 
 the clover blossoms and singing birds, if it enjoys the 
 close walls of home as well as the green and flowery 
 fields. I, who love freedom so dearly, and love, oh ! so 
 well, to Tnase over the lettered page, and forget the \)Xis.y, 
 bustlinp- vrorld — how can I be content lo ttajh school? 
 \G~'owi>''i excited.] To be imprisoned in a low, dingy, 
 
126 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 dirty school-room, shut out from all that is bcautifui 
 and pleasant, and have to teach mischievous little 
 witches how to read, write, and spell ! 
 
 Clara [speaking smyrised']. — Why, Lizzie, how you 
 talk! I am perfectly surprised; calm yourself, do ! 
 
 Lizzie. — Well, you may be surprised, but it is so I 
 mean just what I say. What is there pleasant about it ? 
 Where, in the name of common sense, are the charms ? 
 And then the boarding around [contemptuously'], I de- 
 clare, it makes me sick ! 
 
 Clara [smiling']. — A strong case, truly. Indeed ! 
 you are quite a lav»ryer. I am sorry to say, that I believe 
 you are in earnest, by the way j^our e3'^es glow and burn. 
 Thei'e is a dark side to every picture. You knew^ this 
 before : why then did yo-a teach ? 
 
 Lizzie. — Why, did you say ? Why ? Why does Siwy 
 one teach ? To earn money, of course. If it were not 
 for that, do you think I'd staj^ one week longer? 
 
 Clara. — You have much to discourage you ; so has 
 every teacher. But, I hope, before long, the people will 
 awake from their lethargy, and begin to act. vVlready a 
 light has been kindled on the Hill of Science by a few, 
 faithful, true, noble souls, and soon the beacor ra^^s will 
 light adown the hill, into the valley below-. Tnen there 
 will be more interest manifest ; we will have pleasanter 
 school-rooms, and more encouragement. I am sorry your 
 main object in teaching is to earn money. Although we 
 could not afford to teach without recompense, yet this 
 should not be the main object ; but oh ! I fear it is with 
 many. 
 
 Lizzie [scornfully']. — What then should it be ? 
 
 Clara. — Our reward consists not merely in dollars 
 and cents, and not alone in an approving conscience, 
 but in the pleasant smile, and the lighting of little 
 faces at our coming, if we have done our duty and 
 made our school-room attractive. 
 
 Lizzie. — How can I make my old, dingy school-room 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 127 
 
 attractive ? I guess it would need considerable re- 
 modeling. 
 
 Clara. — Not merely, my dear, in adorning it with 
 flowers, evergreens, pictures and mottoes to gratify, 
 please, and instruct the children ; but in your kind 
 smile, and heartfelt sympathy, and interest in their 
 studies, sports, joys, and sorrows. Oh ! Lizzie, the 
 mission of the teacher is a great and holy one, and 
 woe to those who attempt it thoughtlessly. Their 
 prayer ought dail}^ to rise to him who is ready to 
 help, for strength to rightly perform their numerous 
 duties. They have immortal minds to sway. The in- 
 fluence and example of a teacher are remembered for 
 ages, aye, through all eternity. 
 
 Lizzie. — Thank you, for your words, Clara. I have 
 never thought of the subject in that light before. 
 
 Clara. — Oh ! Lizzie, may 3'ou often think of it care- 
 fully, soberly, and msij success crown all your rightly' 
 directed efforts! But come, let us go to Mrs. Addison's. 
 Supper and Lucj^ will be waiting for us [_smih'ng'] : and 
 you dislike school-room and confinement so, I ought not 
 to have kept j^ou here so long. 
 
 [ They go out together.'] 
 
 MEMORY AND HOPE. 
 
 Scene. — A Poet — a hoy in plain clothing seated at a table, 
 leaning his head on his hands — pen, ink, and paper 
 before him. 
 
 Poet. — Write, write, write; I must write a poem, for 
 thoughts come thick and fast. But why should I write ? 
 Memorj is a haunting ghost I would fain have laid for 
 
128 SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 ever. Hope is a delusive phantom I have parted with 
 for the last time. " Hope and Memory, ye were once fair, 
 but are nothing to me now !" \_His head sinks lower, 
 and he seems to sleep.'] 
 
 [^Enter Hope and 3Iemory. " Hope in a white dress 
 
 with a wreath of white buds in her hair, and a 
 
 bouquet of half bloum flowers in her hand. 
 
 Memory in dress of gray or drab barege, with a 
 
 scaif of dark blue material thrown over her head, 
 
 half shadowing her face ; in her hand a bouquet 
 
 of full blown roses and withering leaves. Memory 
 
 turning to Hope, says .-] 
 
 Memory. — Oh, my sister, look at him wrapt in deep 
 
 thought or gentle slumber I He feels my influence and 
 
 knows it not. [She waves her flowers over him, ex- 
 
 f^uiming ;] 
 
 " Float, sweet odors, about his brow, 
 And beautiful be his visions now." 
 [_Hope makes a gesture for Memory to stand aside, 
 approaches the Poet, and waves her flowers over 
 him and says :] 
 
 " Awaken, brother, and fix your gaze 
 Where flowers unclose when sunshine plays." 
 Poet [starting up]. — Who are 3^e that come into my 
 presence thus, with your sweet picture-like faces, and 
 voices like those I have heard in dreams ? Speak and 
 tell me ! 
 
 Memory. — One who loves you — who watches by your 
 pillow through the still night-watches, who is with you 
 in that shadowy border land between sleeping and wak- 
 ing, whose hand points ever away, away to the sweet 
 evening times of long ago ; one who leads you away 
 from the present along the fair, bright tracks where ail 
 is lovely. 
 
 Hope [drawing nearer'].- — One whose smile beams 
 upon 5"ou unceasingly, whose hand beckons 3'ou on 
 where a sweet May-like atmosphere enspheres gardens 
 of loveliness. There flowers fade not — there no dark 
 clouds hover — there the spirit floats upward with the 
 song of the lark — there even the midnight is glorious 
 with stars. You have no friend like me ? 
 
 Poet. — Bjgone, begone ! yon smile to deceive me 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 129 
 
 oh, Hope I You show me the past, oh, Memory, only 
 to make ray present more bitter 1 Away, I have clone 
 with you both I 
 
 Hope. — Oh, hear me ! To-morrow 
 
 Poet. — 'I ell me not of to-morrow. To-morrow never 
 comes 1 
 
 Hope. — But to-morrow is always just before you. 
 Memory. — And j^esterda^^ ever near. Oh, the many, 
 many beautiful yesterdays I have to show you, lovelier 
 now than when they passed away. 
 
 Poet. — They passed away — Oh, sorrowful echo, — tliey 
 passed away ! 
 
 Memory. — But thou hast kept their smiles, their 
 bright beaming smiles, and all the fresh lips and cheeks 
 with their glow unfaded, and such sunshiny hair, and 
 eyes with their love-light more tender than of old. 
 Thou would st not lose all these ? 
 Poet. — I have lost all these. 
 
 Memory. — Nay, not so ; they are now more near thee. 
 Time and space can no longer divide ; they come in a 
 moment. 
 
 Poet. — Their shadows come. 
 
 Memory. — But how real ! They were once thine. 
 They are thine for ever. Flesh or spirit, the same. 
 They are still thine. 
 
 Poet. — I would I could forget ! 
 
 Hope. — Listen to me, look toward the future. How 
 bright, oh ! how bright ! 
 
 Poet. — I wish not to look there. Thou canst show 
 me nothing now. I know thee too well. 
 
 Hope. — Oh ! think of the green fields, the fresh winds, 
 the unfolding flowers, the springing grass — all things 
 full of glad life. The songs of birds as they build their 
 nests, the laugb^^er of children as they play along sunny 
 lanes and in green lields. 
 
 Memory. — There are fair forms and sweet faces, 
 welcoming voices, and hands kindly extended for thee, 
 sunshine to gild, showers to refresh, and over alia rain- 
 bo \y. 
 
 Poet. — Hush, hush, hush ! [_He sinks down in a chair, 
 ■ akes a pen, and writes.'] 
 
 Hope [^turning to Memory~\. — What can we do for 
 9 
 
130 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 him ? I have been his ever true friend. I showed hiia 
 t]je same pictures long ago that thou showest him now. 
 Thou knowest all thy yesterdays were once my to-mor- 
 rows. 
 
 Memory. — Aye, sweet sister, 'tis so ; and this poet is 
 our special care. What strange whim has seized hiin 
 that he would discard us both ? 
 
 Hope. — It is with to-day he is dissatisfied. I showed 
 him all while it lay in the future, and he chose it then, 
 calling it fair — very fair. 
 
 Memory [laughing']. — See, sister ! see, he writes. Oh 1 
 I have such a curiosity to see a poem where neither 
 thou nor I shall be inwoven. 
 
 Hope. — Be quiet. He has walked abroad in this to 
 day, and has written of it now, doubtless. 
 
 [Foet, with an earnest face, thinking himself alone, 
 reads his poem.] 
 
 THE READERS. 
 The maiden read the spring time's idyl through, 
 Each day's fresh page a fairer picture showing, 
 Flower-clustered branches, and nest-building birds 
 
 And cloiids in the blue sky with rose light glowing ; 
 The rivulets ripple over mossy stones, 
 
 And what the winds told to the listening leaves 
 "When the dew touched them, and when moonlight brought 
 
 The sweetest dream of heaven earth e'er receives — 
 The violet's passionate, pure prayer of love — 
 
 I'hrilled her lieart's chords ; its sinless worshipper. 
 The arbatus, fair as light, and bright as life. 
 
 Its Eden memories told again to hev. 
 Yet scarcely smiled she all the while, 
 
 Her heart was yearning toward a far-off grave, 
 Where slept her soldier youth — bitter thought ! 
 'J'hese flowers he loved so may not deck his grave. 
 [iZe pauses, clasps his hands, and sighs. Hope and 
 Memory aside.] 
 Hope. — 1 am there, and my dear poet has forgotten it. 
 Memory. — And I. How blind he is ! but he proceer'.s. 
 Listen to the second verse ; see if we are exiled from 
 it. \_Poet jDroceeds.] 
 
 The mother read the sweet-rhymed poem, 
 
 How royally rich was every page she turned ! 
 The rose was crimson with the hue of triumph, 
 The stars above as freedom's watch-fires burned. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 131 
 
 JBut summer winds were sighinar, ever sighing ; 
 
 Anil bead-like dew-drops rosaries were of tears, 
 For 'I'ennessee's soft winds and low-toned waters 
 
 Blend dirge-like in the strain her spirit hears. 
 There, far away, he sleeps, her gallant darling, 
 
 Her hope, her pride, her bravest and her best — 
 Her blue-eyed first-born hushed to sleep so fondly, 
 
 It seems but yesterday night, upon her breast. 
 
 Hope. — We were both there 1 
 
 Memory. — Yes, hand in hand ! 
 
 Hope. — What would that mother's heart be without 
 me? I show her country's future ! 
 
 Memory. — And how could she spare me ? I still give 
 her back her darling as I can, either as a babe or as a 
 hero, beautiful, oh, how beautiful ! 
 
 Hope. — I point upward toward him, too — lead her 
 even into the glorified presence of the gentle, brave- 
 hearted boy, who learned how sweet it was to die for 
 one's country, ere his sun had journeyed half way to its 
 noon. But listen 1 [_Poet reads on.'] 
 
 And one in manhood's prime read the proud antiiem 
 
 Of autumn, ah I the tale was fitly told ! 
 Of the bright mission in the laden orchards 
 
 When fruit and leaves of bronze and red and gold 
 Made pretty pictures under the fair heavens, 
 
 That through the Indian summer atmosphere 
 Smiled on the earth so fond ; the soul upreaches 
 
 To meet the angels, for they seem so near ; 
 And 'midst those angels one is crowned with laurel ; — 
 
 That soldier son in Gettysburg that fell, 
 And autumn winds sigh softly, " It is finished ;" 
 
 And that fair angel whispers, "It is well !" 
 
 \_He pauses."] 
 
 Memory. — Ah. I how much of that is of me 1 
 
 Hope. — How much is of me ! 
 
 Memory. — My voice is in the autumn wind that whis- 
 pers "It is finished I" 
 
 Hope. — And mine is in the angel whisper " It is 
 well." 
 
 Memory. — And yet he knows not that I am with him 
 •ever. 
 
 Hope. — And dreams that he has bidden me farewell 
 
132 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Hope and Memory [together]. — Listen 1 [Poet pro- 
 ceeds.'} 
 O'er the calm-worded eulogy of winter 
 
 The gray-haired grandsire bent with earnest eye ; 
 And one by one, like snow-flakes floating, floating, 
 
 Came thoughts of how lo live and how to die. 
 Oh, Life, of tiiee the thoughts were real, earnest; 
 
 Oh, Death, of thee the thoughts were calm and high; 
 Life's end and aim the Truth, our God, oiir Country, 
 
 Death but the entrance to eternity. 
 
 Hope to Memory. — Oh, sister, there we softly blend 
 together I 
 
 Memory to the Poet. — Oh, Poet, call us each again 
 yonr friend 1 
 
 Poet [advancing and clasping a hand of each']. — Oh, 
 yes, for ever, ever, and for ever, let your sweet smilea 
 upon my pathway blend 1 
 
 A CONTENTIOUS COMMUNITY. 
 
 Scene. — A country school-house, in which all the voters 
 of the district have assembled to discuss some interest- 
 ing topic relating to school matters. 
 
 School Director. — Will some of the gentlemen who 
 iave been pleased to call this meeting, be kind enough 
 to state to us its object ? 
 
 ^airplay. — Mr. Merrysoul, Brother Orthodox, and 
 m3"self signed the notice calling this meeting, in behalf 
 of our singing master, who is desirous of openuig a 
 school among us this winter; as the gentleman is pre- 
 sent, perha])S he had better speak for himself 
 
 Music Teacher. — I have been desired to teach a class 
 in vocal music, in this neighborhood ; and the school- 
 house being the usual place of assembly, as well as the 
 most convenient and central room, 1 applied to the 
 director to obtain the use of the house, and was denied 
 it. Knowing this to be contrary to the wishes of the 
 community, a number of my 3'oung friends have united 
 with me in requesting these gentlemen to call a meet- 
 
SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 133 
 
 iiig to ascertain the opinion of the majority upon the 
 subject. 
 
 School Director. — In refusing the use of the house 
 for this purpose, I not only acted in accordance with 
 my own convictions of right, but followed the advice of 
 several of our oldest citizens, who think with me, that 
 the school-house should be used for school purposes only. 
 
 Fairplay. — This school-house, Mr. Chairman, was 
 built by the community here for the accommodation 
 of the wants and necessities of the neighborhood. It 
 has been our custom from time immemorial to hold not 
 only day school, but Sunday school, singing school, and 
 religious worship in the house; and I can see no reason 
 why a few persons should now seek to deprive us of our 
 long-established right. 
 
 School Director. — The long prevalence of a custom 
 does not, in my opinion, prove it to be right. We have 
 used the school-house long enough for such purposes ; 
 it is time now to build another house to hold meetings 
 in, and take care of our school-house for the use of the 
 children. 
 
 Orthodox. — That is just what we wanted to do last 
 summer, when we presented a subscription paper to you, 
 Mr. Chairman, and you refused to sign a cent. 
 
 School Director. — The house you proposed to build 
 did not suit my taste. It was not expensive enough. 
 
 Merrysoul. — I believe Brother Orthodox, in his plan, 
 was trj'ing to cut his coat according to his cloth ; he 
 knew it would be impossilile to raise money enough to 
 build a cathedral, and so he proposed to put up a plain 
 church. 
 
 Wideawake. — The church Brother Orthodox pro- 
 posed building was a frame, I believe ; perhaps that 
 was one reason why our worthy director did not like it, 
 as he is the owner of that extensive brick-yard over 
 yonder. However, the church is not built yet, and we 
 want to have singing school this winter; and I, for one, 
 am in favor of having it in the school-house. 
 
 Orthodox. — If I understand our worthy director 
 aright, he would like also to exclude us from using the 
 house for religious worship ? 
 
134 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 School Director. — I am opposed even to having 
 preaching in the school-house. 
 
 Hardshell. — I don't mind having preaching in the 
 liouse provided the right kind of preachers are invited 
 to preach there. 
 
 Merrysoul. — I am not a member of any church; but 
 for my part, I can not see why one denomination should 
 be allowed the use of the house and not another. AVe 
 all helped to build it, and I can not see why it should 
 not be free for every denomination, and for singing 
 school, too, as long as the propertj^ is well cared for. 
 
 Hardshell. — Well, if it came to excluding all or ex- 
 cluding none, I would allow preachers whose doctrines I 
 did not approve to use the house, rather than have our 
 preachers shut out from it. But this thing of singing 
 schools I don't like. I shall not vote for our school- 
 house being used for it ; nor will I allow my children to 
 attend if these youngsters succeed in getting it up. 
 
 Merrysoul. — Why, Brother Hardshell, you seem to 
 forget that David says, " Make a joyful noise unto the 
 3 ord." David was verj'^ fond of singing, and recom- 
 uiends it highly to all Christians. 
 
 Music Teacher. — I can not conceive why Brother 
 Hardshell is so opposed to young folks learning to sing. 
 It is, I am sure, a healthful exercise and a pleasant 
 pastime. A good singing school has a favorable influ- 
 ence on the morals of a communit3^ 
 
 Hardshell. — I never learned to sing notes, and my 
 children shan't. It will only make them inattentive to 
 their books at school ; and while I am losing their time 
 from work to allow them to go to school three months 
 in the 3'ear, I can not afford to have them waste their 
 time, and divert their mind from their other studies. 
 
 School Director. — I reckon Brother Hardshell 
 thinks that it would make the boys and girls lazy, and 
 might create a desire to waste their mornings and even- 
 ings. If I mistake not, his childreu have to toe the 
 scratch pretty close. 
 
 Hardshell. — That's so, gentlemen ; if anybody lives 
 with me they have to go to work, and no mistake. If I 
 give my bo^^s six hours out of the best of every day to 
 ZC to school, they must work the harder between times 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 135 
 
 and on Saturdays to pay for it, or I wont get my 
 share of work out of them afore they are twenty-one. 
 
 TiGHTFiST. — Mr. Chairman, this is a digression. We 
 had better proceed to tlie business on hand. I am much 
 opposed to having another singing school in the house 
 this winter, because they use up the wood we liave to 
 supply for the day school. 
 
 Music Teacher. — I would say a word here, Mr. 
 Chairman, if you please. If I remember rightly, our 
 singing class furnished a cord of wood last winter, and 
 onl^^ met three times before the weather set in so bad 
 that we thought best to adjourn until the roads had 
 settled a little. When we commenced the school again, 
 our wood-pile had disappeared ; but, as it was warm 
 enough to do without a fire, the class made no com- 
 plaint about the matter. If we have the use of the 
 house this winter, we expect to fui*nish all the wood we 
 burn. 
 
 TiGHTFiST. — Besides this, Mr. Chairman, our benches 
 were all badly broken up last winter, and, as they have 
 been replaced by new ones, I am opposed to admitting 
 these singers into the house again. 
 
 Merrysoul. — I happen to know something about 
 that, Mr. Chairman ; for on several occasions I had to 
 bring some nails and a hammer to repair the benches 
 broken by the children during the day, before we could 
 accommodate our class at singing school. The carpen- 
 ter that Mr. Tightflst employed to fit up our school 
 benches last year, did a very poor job, and the children 
 soon found out its weakness. 
 
 MuLEBRAiN. — I don't like these musical gatherings. 
 They always keep up such a singing that I can't go to 
 sleep of a night for them ; and my wife says that they 
 keep her and the baby awake, too. 
 
 Obstinate. — I am of Mr. Mulebrain's opinion ; for I 
 have been at his house more than once when they had 
 singing over here ; and, though they did not care to go 
 to sleep as early when they had visitors, I don't think 
 these singers have any right to be disturbing the quiet 
 of the neighborhood by singing sc«hools, two or three 
 times every week. 
 
 Faieplay. — The truth of the matter seems to be this : 
 
136 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 there are a few individuals in the neighborhood who are 
 opposed to singing scliools, and they wish to make all 
 the rest of us knuckle down to tliem. 
 
 School Director. — The chief object of singing schools 
 seems to be to gather the youngsters together for fun 
 and social chit-chat. 
 
 Hardshell. — And to try their horses in going to and 
 from the meetings. 
 
 Wideawake. — Perhaps Brother ITardshell forgets 
 how natural it was for him to ride in a trot when he was 
 young; but one would hardly think that as long as he 
 limps along with that cane in his hand he would, forget 
 some of his later sprees. 
 
 Hardshell. — Now, friend Wideawake, you must not 
 be too severe with an old man if he should be indiscreet 
 enough to crack a whip as thoughtlessly while driving 
 a pair of fractious colts as a 3-oke of sober oxen. 
 
 Orthodox. — We must not be too hard, my friends, 
 on Brother Hardshell. We aJl know that there was a 
 reason for that runawa}^ scrape ; and I hope that our 
 brother will profit by the narrow escape he had and let 
 "OM Tanglelega''^ alone hereafter. 
 
 Hardshell. — Brother Orthodox touches a tender 
 point there. I have always been used to having a drop 
 at raisinji'S and log rollings; and I don't think we could 
 get along without it. JViereover, we have Paul's advice 
 to take a little " for our stomach's sake and for our oft 
 infirmities," and the Lord knows 1 have infirmities 
 enough. 
 
 School Director. — Gentlemen, you are digressing 
 again. Please return to the matter under considera- 
 tion. 
 
 Tightfist. — I think, at least, the law should be taken 
 to prevent these youngsters from riding along the road 
 in groups and frightening and running over people's 
 cattle. They almost ruined a heifer for me last summer. 
 
 Fairplay. — I think it would be well if the law would 
 take hold of men who have hundred-acre farms, and 3'et 
 make a barn-yard of the public highway ; not only ob- 
 structing it, but endangering the lives of peaceable citi- 
 zens who may be riding by on a gentle trot, while some 
 sillj' calf takes it into its head to -^ross the road immedi- 
 
SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 137 
 
 atf ly in front of the rider, as cows and calves invariably 
 do when suddenly startled by the quick movement of a 
 horse. If I mistake not, a steady, inoffensive lad almost 
 broke his neck over the heifer referred to. 
 
 Orthodox. — Wh}'', bless me, gentlemen, here we are 
 off at a tangent again. Be calm, gentlemen. Pon't let 
 us get too warm. I think, perhaps, we had better de- 
 cide the matter by a vote, without wasting more time 
 about it. 
 
 Several Yotces. — Question ! — Question ! — Question ! 
 
 School Director. — There is no motion before us, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Fairplay. — Mr. Chairman, I move that we grant this 
 gentleman the privilege of teaching singing school in 
 the school house, provided the school furnishes its own 
 firewood and takes care of the property. 
 
 Merrysoul. — I second that motion. 
 
 School Director. — Gentlemen, 3'ou have heard the 
 motion. Those in favor of singing school being kept 
 here, will please signifj' it by rising to their feet. 
 
 [Twelve voters rise to their feet.'] 
 
 School Director. — Those of the contrary opinion, 
 please rise. 
 
 [Seven voters rise."] 
 
 School Director. — The yeas have it. 
 
 Hardshell. — I thought it required a two-third vote 
 to carry such questions. 
 
 School Director. — The majority rules. 
 
 Tigiitfist. — 1 want to know who is to be responsible 
 for the care of the house. 
 
 "Music Teacher. — The one who has charge of the 
 singing school will be responsible for the proper and 
 careful use of the house and its furniture during the 
 singing school. 
 
 TiGHTFiST. — The director must demand security. 
 Let him give security, and he can have the house. 
 
 Fairplay and Merrysoul [both together]. — 1 will go 
 his security 
 
 Hardshell. — I think, Mr. Chairman, that it is a great 
 pity that old and respectable citizens like us. should be 
 
138 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 thus trampled upon by these young upstarts, I intend 
 to lay this matter before the School Commissioner, and 
 I, for one, protest against your giving up the key for 
 this purpose. 
 
 TiGHTFiST. — I also enter my protest, and more than 
 this, Mr. Obstinate, Mr. Mulebrain, and myself, intend 
 to form ourselves into a committee of three, to see that 
 this thing does not go on — peaceably, at any rate. 
 
 Several Voices. — If the minority intended to rule, 
 why did you. not tell us so before you put the thing to 
 a vote ? 
 
 Wideawake. — Come, come, gentlemen, this will never 
 do. We will soon come to blows at this rate. If we 
 can not have peaceable possession of the house, we will 
 not have it at all. My best room is open to you, Mr. 
 Music Teacher ; and, indeed, ray whole house, if it is 
 needed. I shall take great pleasure in listening to and 
 joining in your melodies. 
 
 School Director. — If there is no other business 
 before the meeting, we may as well consider ourselves 
 dismissed. 
 
 [^Exeunt Omnes.'] 
 
 LOST AND FOUND. 
 
 Father. — Here, Jennie, is a nice hood I found on 
 ^ifth Avenue ; is it not one of the best sort ? 
 
 Jennie. — Certainly it is ; but who could have lost it ? 
 
 Father. — I suppose we will likely find an owner ; but 
 isn't it strange that any one would lose a hood ? 
 
 Jennie. — Was it not rolled up ? 
 
 Father. — No. 
 
 Jennie. — Well, father, you knov/it has been warm of 
 late, and I suppose the lady has taken it off her head 
 and been carrying it under her arm. 
 
 Father. — Well, Jennie, take care of it, and I think I 
 will advertise it. 
 
 Jennie. — Why, father, I should think the owner would 
 lio thgt. 
 
SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES 139 
 
 Father. — Well, search the papers ; peAaps it is al- 
 ready in. I must go to 1113' shop. 
 
 [Father goes off. Jennie get?, a paper. Ente'i 
 Miss Midweil.'] 
 
 Jennie. — How do you do, Miss Midweil ? 
 
 Miss MiDWELL. — Well, thank you. Are you reading 
 the paper ? 
 
 Jennie. — Yes ; I just took it up. 
 
 Miss Midwell. — Well, I will not hinder you. I just 
 called to tell yon Anna Wilkin wi.shes you to go and 
 see her at her uncle's. 
 
 Jennie. — Well ! I hope I shall be able to do so. She 
 is a noble looking lady, though I feel rather bashful in 
 her presence, they are so rich. 
 
 Miss Midwell. — Oh, Jennie ! don't think of the 
 wealth of a person, when she is kind and sociable. 
 
 Jennie. — Perhaps I should not ; but I wish I had a 
 nice hood to wear. 
 
 Miss Mid^vell — Oh ! we were down at Hunter's store 
 the other day, and they have such beautiful ones. 
 Mother could not resist the temptation, and bought one 
 for Lettie. You can suit yourself there, certainly ; but 
 good-by, I am talking so long. 
 
 \_Miss Midwell leaves, and father enters.'] 
 
 Father. — Any advertisement of that hood, yet? 
 
 Jennie. — None that answers this one. I sent for the 
 other papers ; the same advertisement is in them all, but 
 does not mention Fifth Avenue. 
 
 Father — I am very desirous the owner should have 
 it. 
 
 Jennie. — Yes. But since there is no owner appears, 
 sufDpose I wear it. Anna Wilkin sent for me to vist 
 her at her uncle's, and I can't think of wearing my old 
 one there. 
 
 Father. — Put it on, Jennie, and let me see it. Is it 
 a handsome one ? 
 
 Jennie. — Oh! very. 
 
 Father. — Is it not too handsome for you to wear? 
 You know, Jennie, that I am not rich. You do not 
 know that I am in debt, and it thei*efore would not be 
 proper for you to wea" an expensive article 
 
140 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Jennie. — People will think it is a present. 
 
 Father. — Even that I should not like. We should 
 dress according to our circumstances. 
 
 Jennie. — A great many people, no richer than we are, 
 wear very nice hoods. 
 
 Father. — I am very sure, Jennie, that no one whose 
 good opinion is of any value, would think better of you 
 for dressing expensively. This striving to imitate others 
 is no mark of a dignified person. 
 
 Jennie. — But what are we to do with it if I do not 
 wear it ? See, father I doesn't it look well ? It fits me 
 exactl}'-. 
 
 Father. — Yes ! it is very pretty ; but I wish the owner 
 had it. Are you sure it is suitable for you ? 
 
 Jennie. — Oh, father! it is exactly what I want. Some 
 good fairy sent it to me, no doubt. 
 
 Father. — But I fear the Merchant's company that I 
 expect to join, will not take me in if they see signs of 
 extravagance on you. 
 
 Jennie. — They nearly all know us, and I think will 
 not be concerned about a hood. 
 
 Father. — Well, I will not object to your wearing it, 
 if you are happy in doing so. 
 
 Jennie. — Oh ! thank you for 3^our consent. I'll be 
 ofi'now to see Anna. \_Jenme goes off to Aniia.'] 
 
 Jennie. — Good evening, Anna. 
 
 Anna. — Quite well. I'm glad to see j^ou, Jennie. I 
 trust we will liave a good talk that will be profitable 
 and interesting to us both. 
 
 Jennie. — I hope so. 
 
 Anna. — Are you acquainted with Fanny Bloom ? 
 
 Jennie. — Slightly. Is she not rather reserved ? 
 
 Anna. — She is a noble girl ; at least I always thought 
 her one of the most lovely girls that- 1 know. It is a 
 great pleasure to find a person acting out her own con- 
 victions, and living according to her means, without 
 dressing in a certain way because her neighbors do, and 
 ncA'er consulting circumstances at home. 
 
 Jennie. — Yet, one does not like to be entirely differ- 
 ent from other people. We judge of others by these 
 outward things. 
 
 Anna. — I confess that my pride would take that di- 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 141 
 
 rection ; but whe T see vulgar people striving to be 
 fashionable, looking as if they carried all their posses- 
 sions on their back, having no higher aim than to dress 
 gay and expensive like their neighbors, I feel like dress- 
 ing in serge and hair-cloth. My soul is sick of this mean 
 am])ition. How little they know of the true meaning of 
 life ! 
 
 Jennie. — Y-e-s. 
 
 j^NNA. — I am afraid you will think me rather severe ; 
 , but I feel very deeply on this subject. I long to be a 
 preacher of faith. 
 
 Jennie.—" Of faith !" 
 
 Anna. — Yes ; of faith in something nobler and more 
 satisfying than self and this outward world. Of faith 
 in a Heavenly Father who gives to each his peculiar lot 
 and duties. We are spoiling the beauty of his plan b}^ 
 striving too much to appear as other folks do. Pure 
 and simple tastes are gratified at little expense, and a 
 free and loving spirit gives itself forth to cheer, to com- 
 fort, and help others. 
 
 Jennie. — Dear Anna, your soul-stirring words have 
 reached my heart. Indeed, I feel all the time as though 
 you were alluding to something about me. 
 
 Anna. — I wish to give no offence by merely giving 
 my opinion. 
 
 Jennie. — Not at all. But this hood, I presume, j'ou 
 think is too costly for me ; and I, too, am convinced that 
 it is. Indeed, all the gems that are on it, only make me 
 discontented. I shall not wear it any more. 
 
 Anna. — But why not wear it since you have it? 
 
 Jennie. — Father found it, and I insisted on wearing 
 it. But the poor reproach me for doing so, the rich 
 ridicule me, and my heart condemns me. If I could 
 only find the owner how gladly I would restore it! 
 
 Anna. — I have something to tell j^ou, Jennie. 
 
 Jennie. — AVhat is it ? 
 
 A>"NA. — That is my hood 
 
 Jennie. — Yours ! 
 
 Anna. — Yes. I knew it at once when you came. 
 
 Jennie. — Oh, Anna 1 what an angel you are ! ITow 
 could you bear me in your presence ? How you must 
 Uave despised me ! 
 
142 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Anna. — I am glad to have you here, and hope I may 
 never des])ise you. 
 
 Jennje. — I wish I could be as good as you are. 
 
 Anna. — You can ; what can any of us do in this life 
 but repent and strive, and look upward to One who knows 
 all, and j-et does not cast us off? 
 
 Jennie. — I do repent, I do strive. I shall look u.pward 
 as my only hope. A little more about the hood and I 
 must go. I am so glad to find the owner, it will do me 
 good to see you Avear it. 
 
 Anna. — No, Jennie, don't talk about me wearing it ; 
 I give it to you ; you may do what you like with it. It 
 has given j'ou pain ; perhaps in some way it may give 
 you pleasure. 
 
 Jennie. — How shall I reward you for all your kind- 
 ness to me ? 
 
 Anna. — I am rewarded in the highest way ; do not 
 mention reward. 
 
 Jennie. — If you insist on my accepting it, I think I 
 will get it exchanged for something more " suitable," as 
 father says. 
 
 Anna. — Very well, just as you please. Your father 
 will think well of you for doing so, no doubt. 
 
 Jennie. — Certainly he will ; and I must tell him 
 soon what you have done for me. Good-by, dear Anna. 
 
 Anna, — Good-by, Jennie ; may we always love each 
 other I 
 
 THE TRI-COLORS. 
 
 [Three little girls stand hand in hand under the canopy of 
 the Star Spangled Banner, each with a small flag in her hand. 
 The representative of Red, to be dressed in that color, with 
 'OSes forming a wreath, and a bouquet : White and Blue, dressed 
 appropriately, White with lilies in bouquet, and white flowers 
 in a wreath, and Blue, with violets.'] 
 
 Red, White, and Blue [^speaking in concert ] : — We 
 are three true-hearted, loving sisters. Our fame has 
 «pread over the earth, and foreign nations are proud to 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 143 
 
 bonor us. We float together, kissed b}' the rain, sun, 
 and dew, from the mast head of the ships, that sail on 
 the wide, blue sea ; and we are ever welcomed and ap- 
 plauded, in every clime, and by every nation. As we 
 near the port, many voices shout with joy and gladness, 
 and the eye of the home-sick weary wanderer fills with 
 tears of joy and welcome. Wherever seen, the heart 
 of the patriot throbs with joy, for we bring thoughts 
 and memories of that land where so many true men and 
 women live, and where right and justice ai'e calmly 
 conquering wrong and oppression. 
 
 Red [^i^tepinng forward']. — /am found in the glowing 
 western sky, when the sun sinks to rest, and bathes the 
 tree-tops and hills with glorious golden light. I bring 
 visions of cheer and plenty as I linger among the 
 orchards, and paint the mellow apple, and the luscious 
 peach ; and I enliven the landscape in autumn with my 
 tints on the leaves in the forest. But I dwell in sweet- 
 est loveliness in the fragrant rose, which blushes amid 
 the dark green foliage, and gladdens the heart of ever}^ 
 lover of beauty ; and on the fair cheek of youth and 
 health. 
 
 White. — / float in fairy forms in the pure clouds 
 which rest against the vast, blue dome above us, and I 
 hide m}^ head with the modest lihj. I am ever an em- 
 blem of innocence and purity ; I enfold the beautiful 
 form of the babe, whose innocent soul looks out from 
 wondering e3'es on our strange world, and I drape the 
 limbs of the dead, who lie cold and still in their purity. 
 I fall in snowy folds around the young bride, and 
 whisper to her of love, and joy. My sister [turning to 
 Red], I am with you, and we dwell together on the 
 rounded cheek of 3'outh. 
 
 Blue. — Dear sisters, while the liiy and roee, as 3'oui 
 emblems, are blending in perfect loveliness on the fail 
 cheek of youth, health, and beauty, I am sparkling in 
 the ever-speaking eye, which tells its own language 
 of sorrow and grief, joy and gladness. I am seen in 
 the modest sweet-scented violet, which meekly bows its 
 head to the world, and half hides its beauty from thf» 
 careless gaze. 
 
144 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 [^Acjain, in concert, with clasped hands, and in an 
 
 exultant, joyful tone.'] 
 
 But we are proudest, and happiest, when all together 
 
 ^e form the colors of Our Country. We dwell in the 
 
 dear old flag, which now floats over a peaceful, loxnng 
 
 people. Oh ! the glorious flag, 
 
 " Long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave." 
 
 [T7ie three unite in singing.'] 
 
 "Oh! Columbia, the gem of tbe ocean." 
 
 [The effect is the prettiest if the whole school eacb have a 
 fsmall flag concealed nnder their desks, and then join in the 
 song, and at each chorus, " Three cheers for the red, white, 
 and blue," wave their flags.] 
 
 ANNIE'S PARTY. 
 
 CHAEACTERS. 
 Uncle John, Annie, P'annie, Nannie, 
 Dora, Flora, Faith. 
 
 Scene. — A bevy of little girls, hands joined in a ring. 
 Uncle John reading a paper. 
 
 [_All — swinging in a circle and singing."] 
 
 RiDtr round rosy in Uncle .John's garden, 
 
 Unci'» John is very sick, what shall we send him ? 
 
 \ Uncle John covers his face with the paper as if 
 asleep.] 
 
 Three good wishes, three good kisses, and a slice of gingerbread. 
 
 What shall we send it in ? 
 
 In a golden saucer. 
 
 Whom shall we send it by? 
 
 By the Governor's daughter, 
 
 One that 's down last tell whom she loves best. 
 
 All. — Oh, it's Fannie Day 1 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 145 
 
 Fannie. — I don't like this play : let's play something 
 else. 
 
 Annie. — What shall we play ? I never can think of 
 any thing to play when I have a party. 
 
 Dora. — Button! 
 
 Flora. — Dear me, that is so old 1 
 
 Annie. — 0, I'll ask Uncle John. He knows every 
 thing. TTncle John — [taking the paper from his facel 
 — do tell us something to play, that's a darling 1 
 
 Flora, Nannie. — O do, please I 
 
 Fannie. — We ca n't think of anj' thing. 
 
 John. — I'm very sick, Annie. 
 
 Annie. — 0, that's too bad ! I'll call mother. 
 
 John. — No need of that. There were just now a rosy 
 ring of fairies out in the garden, and they promised to 
 send me some beautiful presents. I presume they will 
 cui-e me. 
 
 Nannie. — Dear! dear! Isn't he the funniest man you 
 ever saw ? 
 
 John. — Perhaps you don't believe it! Such beauti- 
 ful fairies — with blue ribbons, and green ribbons, and 
 red ribbons, and pink ribbons — ail turning round and 
 round. You will soon see the Governor's daughter come 
 in with my pi'esents. I 'm very fond of gingerbread. 
 
 [All laugh."] 
 
 Dora. — I shall die laughing ! 
 
 John. — Miss Dora, will you look out of the window 
 and see if she's coming. 
 
 [A knock at the door. Enter a fairy with a tray.'} 
 
 Fairy. — [Curtesying very low.'] — The flower-fairies 
 of 3'our garden, hearing of j^our illness, have sent yon 
 this little token of their sympathy ; and in return for 
 your kindness in giving water to the drooping flowers 
 when they were fainting for cooling showers, the}' desire 
 to grant you three good wishes. 
 
 John. — It is very good of the flower-fairies to be so 
 grateful, 1 am sure, and if I had known I was doing a 
 kindness to such a beautiful young lady as yourself — 
 
 Annie. — Fie, Uncle John 1 
 10 
 
146 SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 John. — Excuse me, young ladies, I did not intend to 
 sligiit you, for I am sure you are as charming as fairies, 
 and to prove my regard for you, will you tell me what 
 to wish for ? 
 
 Annie. — Wish for as much gold as can be piled in this 
 room. 
 
 John. — That's modest, I'm sure. 
 
 Nannie. — Wish to be President of the United States. 
 
 John. — Too much honor. 
 
 Fannie. — Wish to be the wisest man in the world. 
 
 Dora. — Wish to be the happiest man in the world. 
 
 Flora. — Wish for all the candy and nuts and raisins 
 we can all eat. 
 
 [ They all laugh.'] 
 
 John. — That's nice for me. But here's a little one 
 that has not spoken a word this evening. What do you 
 think is the best wish in the world ? 
 
 Faith. — Mother says we must always pray to be con- 
 tented with what we have,' and then we shall be happy. 
 You better wish to be good and contented. 
 
 John. — Little Faith is right. Miss Fairy, you can 
 report to Queen Mab, that I wish to be very good and 
 very happ,y; there are two wishes. I will take a basket 
 of apples and candy for the third. [_Exit Fairy.'] 
 
 Annie. — What a beautiful fairy ! 
 
 Flora. — I do hope she will send us the apples and 
 candy. 
 
 Annie. — But you must be very good, you know, Uncle 
 John ; so now tell us what we can play. 
 
 John. — How would you like to speak pieces ? 
 
 Dora. — Wouldn't that be splendid ! 
 
 Fannie. — What can we speak ? 
 
 Nannie. — Any thing we know. 
 
 Faith. — Will Uncle John speak a piece too ? 
 
 Annie. — Of course. 
 
 Dora. — We shan't excuse him. 
 
 John. — I 'in very sick. 
 
 Flora. — No, the gingerbread cured you. You can't 
 play sick any more. 
 
 John. — I will see how I feel by-and-by. Perhaps — 
 
 Dora. — 0, isn't he the goodest uncle in the world ? 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 147 
 
 Faith. — Annie must begin. 
 
 [_They all sit down, and Annie comes to the front of 
 the stage.'} 
 
 Annie, — 
 
 Uncle John is verj sick, 
 And what shall we send Lim t 
 
 Flora [laughing']. — not that I 
 
 Annie. — 
 
 There was an old woman went up in a basket 
 
 Seventy times as high as the moon ; 
 What to do there, I could not but ask it^ 
 
 For in her hand she carried a broom. 
 "Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I, 
 " Whither, whither, whither so high ?" 
 " To sweep the cobwebs from the sky, 
 And I '11 be back again by-and-by." 
 
 Dora. — That was first rate. Now, Nannie. 
 
 Nannie. — 
 
 Dear sensibility, la ! 
 I heard a little lamb cry baa, 
 Says I, "So you have lost your ma !'• 
 "Baa!" 
 
 The little lamb, as I said so. 
 
 Frisking about the fields did go, 
 
 And frisking, trod upon my toe. 
 "0— ohl" 
 Fannie. — 
 
 Three little mice sat down to spin. 
 
 Pussy passed by and she peeped in. 
 
 " What are you at, my fine little men ?" 
 
 " Making coats for gentlemen." 
 
 " Shall I come in and bite oflf your thread f" 
 
 " No, no. Miss Pussy, you '11 bite off our head." 
 
 Dora. — I can't think of any thing. 
 Annie. — Nonsense I I've heard you say lots of 
 pr»tty verses. 
 
148 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Dora.— Shall I say " Children in the Wood?" 
 All. — 0, yes! That 's splendid. 
 Dora. — 
 
 My dears, do you know, 
 
 That a long time ago, 
 
 Two poor little children, 
 
 Whose names I don't know, 
 Were stolen away on a fine summer's day, 
 And left in a wood, so I've heard people say. 
 
 And when it was night how sad was their plight ! 
 The sun it went down, and the moon gave no light ; 
 They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried, 
 And the poor little things — they laid down and died. 
 And when they were dead, the robins so red. 
 Brought strawberry leaves and over them spread, 
 And all the day long they sung them this song, 
 •* Poor babes in the wood I Poor babes in the wood ! 
 Ah I don't you remember the babes in the wood?" 
 
 Annie. — Now, Uncle John. 
 Dora. — Yes, you must speak now. 
 Flora. — I shan't say one word till you do, and Faith 
 won't. 
 Faith. — No. 
 John. — Then I suppose I must. 
 
 [ Coming forward with a bashful air, and making a 
 stiff school-boy^s bow.^ 
 
 You'd scarce expect one of my age 
 To speak in public on the stage ; 
 And if I chance to fall below 
 Demosthenes or Cicero, 
 Don't pick me up, but let me go. 
 [^Bows again and retires. All laughJ} 
 
 Annie. — Now, Flora. 
 Flora — 
 
 What does little birdio say 
 
 In her nest at peep of day ? 
 
 •* Let me fly," says little birdie, 
 
 *' Mother, let me fly away." 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 149 
 
 Birdie, rest a little longer, 
 Till the little wings grow stronger, 
 So she rests a little longer. 
 Then she flies, she flies away. 
 
 What does little baby say 
 In her nest at peep of day ? 
 Baby says, like little birdie. 
 
 Mother, let me fly away. 
 Baby, sleep a little longer. 
 Till the little limbs are stronger. 
 If she sleeps a little longer, 
 
 Baby too, shall fly away. 
 
 Faith.. 
 
 I want to he an angel, 
 
 And with the angels stand, 
 A crown upon my forehead, 
 
 A harp within my hand. 
 There, right before ray Saviour 
 
 So glorious and so bright, 
 I'd make the sweetest music. 
 
 And praise him day and night. 
 
 \_All the girls come to the front of the stage with 
 their right arms round each other^s waists, and 
 sing the preceding stanza, and this ;] 
 
 I know I 'm weak and sinful, 
 
 But Jesus will forgive ; 
 For many little childn^n 
 
 Have gone to heaven to live ; 
 Dear Saviour, when I languish 
 
 And lay me down to die, 
 Oh send a shining angel 
 
 To bear me to the sky. 
 
 Uncle John. — The apples and candy are waiting in 
 the next room. 
 
 [Exit aU."] 
 
1^0 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 THE RECLAIMED BROTHER; OR, THE CHAIN 
 
 OF ROSES. 
 
 CHARACTEES. 
 Henry Barton. James Smith. Ellen Barton. 
 
 Scene 1. — A country store-room. Henry Barton and 
 James Smith discovered. 
 
 Henry. — I'm glad you dropped in this evening, Jim, 
 All the customers are gone now and we can have a nice 
 little talk, all by ourselves. 
 
 James. — I notice you have been kept very busy, and 
 I suppose you are very tired by this time ; therefore I'll 
 not stay long. Are you going down to singing school 
 to-morrow evening ? 
 
 Henry. — I'm afraid I can't get away. Mr. Hagan is 
 in the city, and it is probable he will not be home until 
 late to-morrow night. If he should get home early in 
 the evening I can go. 
 
 James. — I suppose you intend to take Lizzie Hall if 
 you go ? 
 
 Henry. — ^Don't know yet— I guess I can't^f you have 
 any notion of going that way to the singing, go ahead ; 
 I'll not be in yonv way. But. Jim, what do you say, 
 will you have a drink of brandy ? 
 
 James. — Brandy ? No, indeed ! I never drink liquor 
 of any kind. I hope you hav'n't taken to drink. 
 
 Henry. — Oh, no, not at all ; but I take a little some- 
 times for the good of my health. 
 
 James. — Oh ! is it possible ? Henry you are treading 
 on dangerous ground. Beware ! 
 
 Henry. — Pooh, don't be alarmed ! I can take it or I 
 can let it alone. Come, take a little drop, James ; I 
 have a bottle of first-rate stuff behind the counter. 
 
 James.— Well, you may keep it there ! Don't bring 
 it out on my account, for I assure you I'll not touch it, 
 
 Henry. — Well, you needn't get crankey about it ; I 
 «vont insist on you. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 161 
 
 James.— I tell you again, Henry, you are treading on 
 dangerous ground. You think there is no danger, but 
 I know there is. I once heard a lecturer say that when 
 a young man commenced to drink he wove a chain of 
 roses around him which, in time, became a chain of iron 
 that could not be broken. 
 
 Henry. — Bah ! Such talk always disgusts me. Do 
 you think I hav'n't a mind of my own, and am able to 
 drink or let it alone as I please ? 
 
 James. — I acknowledge that you may be able now to 
 drink or let it alone as you please : but tell me, isn't it a 
 great deal easier to take it than to let it alone ? 
 
 Henry. — Well — yes — no, I can't say that it is. 
 
 James. — It may be as easy now to let it alone as it is 
 to take it, but if you keep on drinking the time will 
 come when you can not let it alone. Yovt will come to 
 \ike it more and more, and the chain will be drawn tighter 
 and tighter around you, and it will be impossible for you 
 to break it. 
 
 Henry. — Do hush, James ; I don't want to hear any 
 sermons this evening. 
 
 James.— I have commenced, and I want to say a few 
 words more. You and 1 have always been good friends, 
 Henry, and I hope we will be so still. Let me, there- 
 fore, advise you to take warning now. If you go on in 
 your course you will break your sister's heart and bring 
 down your aged mother in sorrow to the grave. They 
 do not know that you are in danger. They look upon 
 you with pride ; but, tell me, what would they do and 
 what would they say if they knew you had a bottle con- 
 cealed in the store ? 
 
 Henry. — Well, to tell the truth, I suppose they 
 wouldn't like it very much. I reckon they would get 
 up a little scene ; but then they are always troubling 
 themselves about things that don't concern them. I 
 think I am old enough to take care of myself. 
 
 James. — Well, I suppose it is useless for me to talk 
 to you any further on the subject. I see you are deter- 
 mined to take your own course. I v^^ill leave you ; think 
 over what I have said — think of the chain of roses which 
 surrounds you now and think of the chain of iron which 
 will soon surround you. Good-night. 
 
152 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Henry. — Hold on, Jim — don't he in a hnrry. Stop 
 and take a pull of Ijrandy. 
 
 James. — I say again, beware ! Good-night. 
 
 Henry. — Good-night. [_Exit James.'] 
 
 Henry. — Well, he's a puritanical sort of a follow. He 
 thinks I'm in great danger, but I know I am not. 
 There's no use in a person being frightened before he is 
 hurt. Well, I'll shut up shop and be off to bed. 
 \_Cur tain falls.'] 
 
 Scene 2. — A room. Ellen and Henry Barton 
 discovered. 
 
 Ellen [iceeping]. — Henry j^ou came home last night 
 intoxicated. How long must it go on thus ? You 
 promised me faithfully after our mother died, and after 
 you were discharged from Mr. Hagan's employ, that you 
 would never taste intoxicating liquor again. Have you 
 kept 3'our promise ? Ah, if you knew how I feel when 
 yon come home intoxicated, I know you would ncA'er 
 drink again. 
 
 Henry. — Don't lecture me to-day, Ellen, I feel badly 
 enough and there's no use in giving me any further 
 trouble. I know I have done wrong, but it seems I 
 can't keep from falling when temptation is thrown in my 
 way. But don't talk to me ; Ellen, my head is aching 
 fearfully and I want to be quiet. 
 
 Ellen. — I must talk, Henry. I beseech you, if j^ou 
 have any love for me, if you have any regard for the 
 memory of our patient and loving mother, who is now 
 in Heaven and who knows your every action, that you 
 determine in your heart that 3'ou will nevermore touch 
 the intoxicating bowl, and that you will strive faithfully 
 to keep your promise, and then ask God to deliver you 
 when tempted and he will do it. Oh, do not — do not, I 
 beseech you, go on in the course you have marked out. 
 It will bring ruin on yourself — ruin of both body and 
 Boul ; whilst 1, who have always looked upon you with 
 pride will be led to despise 3'ou. 
 
 Henry. — What's the use of making a'ows and prom- 
 ises when they are made only to be broken ? 1 know I 
 am doing wrong but 1 can't help it. 
 
 BiLEN. — But you can help it if you are only deter- 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 163 
 
 rained and if 3'ou strive mightily and ask Gu'\ to help 
 you. If you do so you can overcome and rtaist all 
 temptations, no matter how strong they may be. 
 
 Henry. — 1 used to think I could but I don't think so 
 now. If any person had told me yesterday that 1 would 
 be drunk before another day had gone round I would 
 have considered him a fool. I had not tasted liquor for 
 three months and I felt strong again. I believed I had 
 entirely broken away from the band of iron that held 
 me, and I felt and moved as a new man and as one who 
 rejoiced in his strength. But in an unlucky moment I 
 fell. As I was passing the tavern j^esterday evening I 
 met my old friend Jack Martin. He asked me to drink. 
 At first I refused, but he insisted — " for friendship's 
 sake," he said, and it seemed I couldnH resist. After I 
 had taken the first glass it was very easy to take another 
 and another, and I didn't stop until I was beastly drunk 
 and had to be brought home by some of my friends. 
 Oh, I heartily wish there was no liquor in the world, or 
 that I had the power to keep it from my lips 1 
 
 Ellen. — Give me your promise once more, Henry, 
 that you will strive to resist the demon intemperance, 
 and that you will put your trust in God and ask him to 
 help 3'ou. I know it is very hard to break away when 
 the habit has once been formed, but it is worth while to 
 try when there is so much at stake. Give me your 
 promise again and I will pray for you — I will pray that 
 you may always be able to resist temptation, and that 
 you may live the life of a true and a good man. 
 
 Henry. — Well, I give you m}^ promise again, but it 
 seems wrong to promise when my promises are so often 
 broken. But I promise 3'ou that I will never touch the 
 accursed bowl again. 
 
 Ellen. — Strive to keep your promise, dear brother, 
 and all will 3'et be well. -\_Gur tain falls.'] 
 
 Scene 3. — Same as second. James Smith and Ellen 
 and Henry Barton discovered. 
 Henry. — Five years ago, James, you discovered that 
 I was learning to drink. You had called in at Mr. 
 Hagan's store to see me and there discovered that the 
 wine cup was luring me on to destruction. You warned 
 
154 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 me to leave off and not break my mother's heart. You 
 told me that a chain of roses was being wound around 
 me which would soon become a chain of iron. 1 heeded 
 you not but went on in my downward career. A few 
 months afterward I was discharged from Mr. Hagan's 
 store, and a short time after that my sainted mother died 
 sorrowing over her wayward son. I am employed again 
 in Mr. Hagan's store and have regained the confidence 
 of my employer. All I regret is that I did not take 
 your advice that night in the store, and save my mother 
 and sister the world of suffering they endured. 
 
 REFORMATION. 
 
 CHAEACTEES. 
 
 PgI/Ice Officer. Superintendent of Eeform School. 
 
 Teacher. John White, the boy. 
 
 James Carr. John White, the man. Old Nab. 
 
 Part 1. 
 
 Scene. — Reform. School — Superintendent in office, writ- 
 ing—James Carr sitting opposite, reading. Enter 
 officer with boy, having long, uncombed hair, very dirty 
 and ragged. 
 
 Officer. — Good-morning, Mr. Superintendent ! Here 
 is another youngster to add to your numerous family. 
 \^Hands Superintendent the commitment, which he 
 proceeds to read. In, the mneantime the culpi'it 
 walks up to James Gai'r, and with a heavy blow 
 with his fist knocks him off his chair. Both gen- 
 tlemen pull him away rather roughly. Carr be- 
 gins to cry lustily.'] 
 Sup. \_shaking him']. — What do you mean by such 
 conduct as that, sir ? 
 
 Boy. — I know'd that feller outside ! He was put 
 here for whipping his mother. He and I used to be 
 "kinches" and went "snucks" on tappin' tills. Ono 
 night he "blowed" on me, and I made up my mind to 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 155 
 
 "lam" him the fast chance, and I've done it, only I 
 want to get another lick at him 1 
 
 Sup. — Well, sir, we don't allow such conduct here. 
 And if 3^ou are guilty of it again, 3'ou will be severely 
 punished. Step up here, now, and answer my questions. 
 Mind you, tell me the truth, too, for I shall know in a 
 moment when you tell me a lie. What is your name ? 
 
 Boy.— " Yaller Jack I" 
 
 Sup. — That is not your right name, sir ! 
 
 Boy. — Yes, 'tis; the boys all call me "Yaller Jack." 
 
 Sup. — I want your right name — the one your mother 
 calls you. 
 
 Boy. — I hain't got no mother. The old woman calls 
 me John White. 
 
 Sup. — What old woman ? 
 
 Boy. — The one I lives with when I aint trampin'. 
 She says she's my aunt, but I guess she lies. 
 
 Sup. — What is this woman's name, and where does 
 she live ? 
 
 Boy. — They call her " Old Nab." She lives in Horse- 
 tail court, down by Water street. 
 
 Sup. — What does she do ? 
 
 Boy. — Drinks rum, mostly. You see, I and Sal Lake 
 board with her, and she sends Sal out every morning to 
 beg and steal. She used to send me, too, but I've got 
 so big now she can't come any of her games over me. I 
 go on my own hook. 
 
 Sup — Did you ever work ? 
 
 Boy. — Yes, I set up ten-pins in Mike Dunn's alley for 
 two months, but I got tired of that, and Mr. Smith's 
 hostler gave me a job in the stable ; but I stole his rum 
 one night, got drunk, and sot the hay afire, so I got 
 cleared out. 
 
 Sup. — Were you ever arrested before ? 
 
 Boy. — Yes, a good many times. 
 
 Sup.— What for? 
 
 Boy. — Oh, for stealing and fighting. Old Jones got me 
 " jugged," once, for setting fire to his barn, 'cause he 
 horse-whipped me. I'll pay the old rascal yet. 
 
 Sup. — Did you ever attend school ? 
 
 Boy. — ^I went half a day once, but the teacher didn't 
 come. 
 
156 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Sup. — Do 3'ou know your letters ? 
 
 Boy. — No ; but I know how to play cards. 
 
 Sup, — Did you ever go to church or to Sabbath 
 school ? 
 
 Boy. — I was inside a church once, with Pat Mooney. 
 We got through the winder, and got a whole lot of 
 books ! 
 
 Sup. — How old were you when your father and mother 
 died? 
 
 Boy. — Mother died when I was a little shaver. 1 
 don't think I ever had any father ! 
 
 Sup. — Come here, and let me examine your pockets. 
 [Overhauls his pockets and jy^Hs out several plugs and 
 papers of tobacco, a pipe, a pack of cards and a bottle 
 of gin. Sends Carr for teacher, ivJio soon makes his 
 appearance.'] Mr. Ha^'den, 3^ou will please take this 
 boy and see that he is thoroughly washed and has his 
 hair cut. Then burn those rags and have some clean 
 clothing put on him. 
 
 \_Exit boy and teacher by one door ; by opposite door 
 enters an old, fat, red-faced Irish woman, half 
 drunk. She goes directly to the officer and shakes 
 her fist in his face.] 
 
 Old Nab. — Och, ye mnrtherin' spalpeen ! What have 
 ye done with me b'3' ? Sure and couldn't the little in- 
 nocent go afther a little dhrop of ile for his old aunty's 
 lamps without 3'our stalin' him ant. bringin' him to this 
 horrible place. Bad luck to ye ! 
 
 Officer. — You must talk to that gentleman [_point- 
 ing to Superintendent^. The boy is in his charge now. 
 
 Old Nab [courtesying']. — I beg yer honor's pardon, 
 but where is me b'y ? I came to take him home wid we ; 
 and he has as beautiful a home as iver a b'y had in the 
 wurrld. 
 
 Sup. — Wh}^ madam, the officer saj^s he caught him in 
 the act of house-breaking. The boy himself says you 
 taught him to beg and steal. This is the kind of oil j^ou 
 sent him after, [holding up the bottle,'] and your face 
 looks as if you had " struck oil," a little too often. 1 
 shall keep the bo}^, and if he behaves well, you will be 
 permit'f^^ed to visit him in the course of two Vv^eeks. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 157 
 
 Old Nab. — Och, ye two murtherin' villains ! I'll sa 
 if I can't have me Wy, the little darlint that I liave so 
 tinderly brought up in the buzzum of the church I I'll 
 sa Father Mahooney this blissed day, I will, and bad 
 luck to yez. 
 
 [_L'xit Nab and Officer. Enter John WJiite, j)resent- 
 ing quite a different appearance in his new suit.] 
 
 John ^admiring himself^. — Aha! I'm somebody 
 now, aint I ? 
 
 Sup. — You certainly look much better, and I hope 
 }-ou will try hereafter to be a better bo}^ To-morrow 
 you will attend school, and work in the shop. Your 
 privileges Avhile here, and the length of time you remain 
 here, will depend entirel}^ u})on your own conduct. You 
 are not to be kept here for punishment, but for reforma- 
 tion. Your past offences will be overlooked. Here our 
 rules forbid j'our sweai'ing, fighting, or lying. For 
 either of these offences you will be punished. On Sun- 
 day, you will attend church and Sabbath-school, and if 
 you improve fast while here, you will in a few months be 
 permitted to go out to a good home. 
 
 John. — I'll try to behave. 
 
 Sup. — That is right. " I'll try" does wonders some- 
 times. 
 
 Part 2. 
 
 Scene. — Interval of twelve years. Schoolroom in same 
 institution. Enter Superintendent, accompanied by a 
 young man whom he introduces to the teacher. 
 
 Sup. — Boys, I take pleasure in introducing to you Mr. 
 John White, who was formerly an inmate of this institu- 
 tion, but who is now engaged in study for the ministry. 
 You will please listen attentively while he entertains 
 you with a few remarks. 
 
 John. — My 3'oung friends : — Twelve years ago I came 
 to this institution a poor, worthless outcast. Having 
 lost my parents when quite young, I was thrown friend- 
 less and homeless upon the world. I was picked up in 
 the street by an old drunken woman, who took me to 
 her miserable hut and taught me to beg and steal that I 
 might contribute to her support. I soon became an apt 
 
168 SGHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 pupil. I found the transition from one crime to anothei 
 gradual and easy. Stealing, swearing, and Sabbath 
 breaking were my principal accomplishments. I was 
 finallj'^ arrested and brought here. That was the first 
 step toward my salvation. Here, for the first time, was 
 I decently clad. Here I was taught to read and work. 
 In the Sabbath-school, of which you are members, I was 
 first taught the wa}^ of life and that I had an immortal 
 soul. Here I found true friends, and these friends I 
 have gratefully remembered through all the subsequent 
 years of my life. When I came, I determined to reform. 
 I obeyed the rules and improved my time. In less than 
 a year a place was found for me with a wealthy and 
 benevolent gentlemen, and ever since his house has been 
 my home. Bo^^s, this is your golden opportunity ; 
 strive to improve it. Listen to the teachings here im- 
 parted to you. Resolve that the past shall be for- 
 gotten in the good deeds of the future. By so doing, 
 you will become useful members of society, and qualified 
 to take your parts in the great Battle of Life. 
 
 \_The boys all rush up to him as he concludes, to 
 shake hands, and the curtain falls.'] 
 
 SEEING A GHOST. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 Nellik. Sue. Margaretta. 
 
 Scene. — Nellie and Sue sitting together in the evening, 
 employed on some kind of fancy work. 
 
 Sue. — I don't believe, Nell, there ever was such a thing 
 as a ghost, you may say what you please. I never shall 
 be afraid of encountering one. 
 
 Nell. — I hope you never will, but I believe there must 
 be something in ghosts, or else there never would have 
 been so many stories about them ; beside, my Uncle Tom 
 slept in a haunted house once, and a ghost came into his 
 room and stood over the bed. My Uncle Tom always 
 spoke the truth. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 159 
 
 Sue. — I don't doubt but that he thought he saw one, 
 but I do doubt that he did, for I believe it was a ghost 
 only of his imagination. 
 
 Nell. — Well, my mother once saw one walking in the 
 grave-yard, and surely you wont think that imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Sue. — Well, I believe it was either imagination, or 
 some one who attempted to frighten her. 
 
 Nell. — Well. I think you are obstinate enough, and 
 that nothing will convince you except experience ; which 
 I hope you may never have. 
 
 Sue. — If I should see any thing which resembled a 
 ghost, I should be sure it was some one trying to 
 frighten me, and I would find out if they we^e possessed 
 of ghostly properties. 
 
 Nell. — I hardly think you would be as brave as the 
 young lady who went into a tomb for the purpose of 
 trying her courage, if you do think you would not fear 
 a ghostly appearance. 
 
 Sue. — Why, what happened to her ? 
 
 Nell — Well, she took up a skull and commenced ex- 
 amining it, when a sepulchral voice sounded near, and 
 said, "That's mine!" So she dropped the skull and 
 took up another, and began an examination, when a 
 voice said, " That's mine !" Instead of displaying fear 
 she called out in a firm voice, " You fool, you haven't 
 got two skulls." She had recognized the voice as be- 
 longing to one person. 
 
 Sue. — Oh, dear ! I never want to go into a tomb any 
 way, or touch a skull ; but I'll risk all the ghosts. I'm 
 glad I am not as superstitious as you are. 
 
 Nell. — So am I ; for I am frightened always when I 
 am alone in the evening, for fear I shall see a ghost. 
 
 Sue. — How silly ! Who put such ideas into j^our head 
 in the first place? 
 
 Nell. — My Uncle Tom is always telling ghost 
 stories. When I was a a little bit of girl he used to take 
 me on his knee and tell me most dreadful stories, till I 
 cant help believing in ghosts. 
 
 Sue. — I am really sorry for yon, Nell ; but do try and 
 banish such superstition. 
 
 Nell. — I have tried a great many times, but it does 
 
160 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 ao good. The other night I vras obliged to walk alone 
 a short distance in the dark, and on seeing something 
 white, I was so frightened that I coukl scarcely walk, 
 and I felt as if I should soon faint, when brother Will 
 overtook me, and said my would-be ghost was only a 
 white calf. 
 
 Sue. — I believe all ghosts, if seen in the daytime 
 would be as far from any thing unnatural as that poor 
 calf. 
 
 Nell. — I have often thought what I would say should 
 1 see such an apparition ; but I presume it would all flee 
 from me when the ghost appeared. 
 
 Sue. — I presume so. 13ut what do you think you 
 would do ? 
 
 Nell. — I think I would talk to the white object in a 
 coaxing manner, for I have heard they will leave much 
 sooner than if one speaks harshly to them. 
 
 Sue. — Indeed ! So you would use gentle means to 
 rid yourself of their presence? 1 would do no such 
 thing, I assure 3^ou. 
 
 Nell. — What would 3'ou do, then ; command them ? 
 I have heard that they will be sure to haunt one who 
 uses them unkindly. 
 
 Sue. — You hear great things, and such as I do not 
 believe. But I wouldn't command them, I would only 
 run to them and divest them of their white drapery, 
 so that I might see who wished to pla^^ a trick on me. 
 
 Nell. — What if you should see it vanish away be- 
 fore you could touch it ! Then would you believe in 
 ghosts ? 
 
 Sue. — Certainly. 
 
 Nell. — Oh, Sue! the clock has just struck nine, and 
 I told mother I would be home at half past eight ; but, 
 really, it is so dark, and I am alone that I feel afraid. 
 
 Sue. — I will go with you and pi'otect you from all the 
 gaosts, for you know I am not afraid. 
 
 Nell. — I am so glad. Let us go now, for mothei 
 will be so anxious. But, hark ! what was that noise ? 
 
 Sue. — 1 heard nothing but the wind. Don't be so 
 timid. 
 
 Nell. — Listen ! there, you certainly heard that. 
 What was it ? 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 161 
 
 Sue.— Nothing I Oh ! look ! look 1 
 
 [_Door opens nloivly and a person wrapped in a sheet 
 walks slowly into the room.'] 
 
 Nell. — Sue! Sue! you're not afraid; make it go 
 way. [/S'ue crouches behind her chair. "] 
 
 Sue. — Coax it, Nell. Oh! I'm fainting. 
 [ The ghost approaches nearer.'] 
 
 Nell. — My dear, kind ghost, wont you please — 
 Oh-h-h 1 
 
 \_The ghost approaches still nearer to Sue and stands 
 still.] 
 
 Ghost. — Never deny my existence again. 
 [Goes out slowly.] 
 
 Nell. — It is gone, Sue; but oh 1 wasn't it dreadful? 
 
 Sue. — More terrible than I ever saw before. I siiall 
 oelieve in ghosts after this. 
 
 Nell. — Who could help it ? How I shudder to think 
 of it? I phall not go home to-night. 
 
 Sue. — You must go alone if you do. 
 
 Nell. — And that I'll never do. [Enter Ifargarette.] 
 
 Nell. — Oh, Margarette I we were so terrified a moment 
 ago. Sue nearly fainted, and I felt my senses leaving 
 me. 
 
 Margarette. — Why, what was the matter? 
 
 Sue. — We saw a ghost. 
 
 Margarette. — Oh I don't talk so foolishly. There 
 are no ghosts in this house, I assure you. You are very 
 imaginative, to-night. 
 
 Nell. — No; we certainly saw one. I should think you 
 might believe what both of us say. 
 
 Sue. — It came so near me that I could have touched 
 it, and it was a ghost. 
 
 Margarette. — Girls, I did think j'ou possessed of a 
 little courage ; what j-ou thought a ghost was only my- 
 self with a sheet wrapped about me. 
 
 Nell. — No, no ; it must have been a ghost. 
 
 Margarette. — If you can not believe me, I will play 
 ghost again. 
 
 Sue. — Don't, I beg of you. It must be; but how fool- 
 ish I acted. Why did I not run after you as 1 said I 
 should and find out it was you ? 
 11 
 
162 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUKS. 
 
 Nell. — Well, if people can imitate ghosts as welf as 
 that, I shall think that there are not quite so many 
 after all. 
 
 Marqarette. — I hope j^ou will think so, and not be 
 so timid after this. I think this will teach Sue not to 
 boast of her courage again. 
 
 Sue. — Indeed it will. Come, Margarette, let us both 
 go home with Nell. [All go out.'] 
 
 TEE MOTTO ; OR, EXAMPLE. 
 
 Scene 1. — Two little girls seated at a work-table, one 
 sewing, the other arranging a box of zephyr worsteds 
 and silks. The name of the eldest Mary, the youngest 
 Fannie. 
 
 Fannie. — Sister Mary, our teacher told us yesterday, 
 that it was very nnchristian-like to speak evil of the ab- 
 sent. Do you think it is ? 
 
 Mary. — Yes, Fannie, I think it very wrong ; and you 
 know mamma never speaks evil of any one. 
 
 Fannie. — Well, then, I think that ladj^ who called to 
 see mamma this morning is not a Christian, for she said 
 so much evil about the governess of her children. Do 
 you think she is ? 
 
 Mary. — Indeed I don't know whether she is a Chris- 
 tian or not ; but I know my sister Fannie is speaking 
 evil of her, and the Bible forbids evil speaking of any- 
 body. 
 
 Mother [who had entered the room unperceived, and 
 heard part of the conversation']. — Do you know in what 
 part of the Bible it is forbidden, Mary ? 
 
 Mary. — Yes, mamma, here it is [turning over the 
 leaves of a small pocket-testament, and reads aloud] : 
 James, fourth chapter and eleventh verse — " Speak not 
 evil one of another." 
 
 Mother. — Well, Fannie, you wished me to find you 
 a text for your marker ; now I will give you this one to 
 work. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 163 
 
 Fannie. — But, mamma, do you think it is so very, 
 very wrong to speak evil ? [Looking up inquiringly in 
 her mother's fo.ce.'] 
 
 Mother. — I do, indeed, my daughter, think it exccvid 
 ingly sinful. It is a violation of the moral law of God. 
 
 Fannie. — But, mamma, when Mrs. Flipp was here this 
 morning, and spoke so much evil about her governess, 
 you did — [stopping, she looks down, and blushes']- 
 
 Mother. — You do not mean to say, Fannie, that 3'our 
 mother joined in the slander ? 
 
 Fannie. — Oh, no ! No, mamma ! You did not speak 
 one word of evil, but [and again she looks down, col- 
 ors, and is silent']. 
 
 Mother. — But, what ? Don't be afraid, my love, but 
 speak out candidly. 
 
 Fannie. — Well, mamma [looking up timidly], you did 
 not look displeased, and you smiled two or three times. 
 
 Mother. — Did I, m3' love? Then I did very wrong 
 I will try to be more careful for the future, and endeavor 
 to show by my manner and words, as well as by silence, 
 that I think evil-speaking is a crime — and, as such^ 
 should be discouraged by all Christian people. 
 
 Mary. — Mamma, would it not be a good idea to have 
 an Auti-Evil-Speaking Societ}- ? 
 
 Mother [smiling].— A think it v^'ould, my dear; and 
 suppose we begin one in a small private way. We three 
 will form a little baud, and do all Ave can to overcome 
 this fault in ourselves and others. What do you say ? 
 
 Mary. — Excellent ! 
 
 Fannie [exclaims at the same moment]. — Delightful 1 
 
 Mary. — And, mamma, we'll appoint you President 
 [laughing]. 
 
 Mother. — Well, Mary, I accept the office, and ap- 
 point you Treasurer. 
 
 Mary. — Treasurer, mamma ! Why, will there be any 
 money to keep ? 
 
 Mother. — There may be, although I hope there will 
 not. 
 
 jMary. — I don't understand you, mamma. 
 
 Mother. — Y/ell then, Mary, as I am President, I am 
 going to make it a penalty of five cents flue for every 
 time we speak evil. 
 
164 SCHOOLDAY DIALOOUES. 
 
 Fannie. — 1 know, mamma, you will never have any 
 fines to pay. 
 
 Mother. — I am not quite so sure of that, Fannie; 
 but I think this will act as a cheek, and make us more 
 watchful. We will each have a small box, and the con- 
 tents will be given to tlie poor. 
 
 Fannie. — And may I give mine to poor old Sally, 
 mamma ? 
 
 Mother. — Certainly, my dear, if jow wish it ; and I 
 want you to remember, Fannie, if you ever take her 
 gifts which your transgression of the law of love has 
 earned for her, that 1 have known her for twenty years, 
 and have never heard her speak one unkind word of any, 
 although she has suffered a great deal from the unkind- 
 ness of others. [Then, turning to her eldest daughter, 
 she said ;] Do you know, Mary, I have often thought 
 that this poor woman would be a noble example for some 
 who can boast of education and high position. And 
 now, my daughters, as we are formed into a society, its 
 name, as Mary suggested, shall be " The Anti-Evil-Speak- 
 vng Societ}^ ;" and its motto — what shall it be ? 
 
 Fannie. — Oh, please mamma, let it be the text you 
 have given me to work. 
 
 Mother. — Yes, Fannie, we can not have a more suita- 
 ble one — so our motto shall be: " Speak not evil one 
 
 OF ANOTHER." 
 
 {_At this moment the pai^lor-dMor opened, and two 
 morning visitors were announced — Mrs. Dash and 
 Miss Brilliant. A few common-jjlace remarks en- 
 sue, which the teacher of the dialogue can easily 
 supply.'] 
 Mrs. Dash. — I presume, Mrs. Belmont [the mother of 
 the little girls'], you have heard the all-absorbing " sensa- 
 tion" wliich is going the rounds — the elopement of Col- 
 onel Fast's son with his chamber-maid ? 
 Mrs. Belmont. — No, I have not. 
 Mrs. Dash. — No! Well, you are '"late!" But it is a 
 treat to come, for it is ridiculous in the extreme, and I 
 am qu\te sure Miss Brilliant will relate the story in her 
 inimitable style of portraying the ludicrous. Will you 
 Qot, my dear ? 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 165 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — If Miss Brilliant will first do me a 
 favor, I shall be greatl^y obliged. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — Certainly, Mrs. Belmont; j-ou have 
 but to make the request. 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — Thank yon, dear Miss Brilliant, my 
 daughters have to go to their studies, and Mary has 
 expressed a great desire to hear you sing the exquisite 
 anthem, which so charmed us all at Mrs. Cardini's, on 
 Thursday evening last. \_Saying which she rose and 
 opened the piano.'] 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — It will give me the greatest 
 pleasure to oblige Miss Mary, who I hear is a very 
 talented musician in embryo, \_timiling, she seats her- 
 t:elf gracpfuUy at the instrument, and sings with great 
 feeling, the anthem ''I know that my Redeemer liveth.'^] 
 
 Mrs. Dasii [who rises and glances at her watcli 
 before the last note has scarcely died away'].—l fear 
 we will be late for our appointment at one, as I see it 
 wants but twenty-five minutes of the time; so do, my 
 dear Miss Brilliant, give us the storj' as quickly as pos- 
 sible ? 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — Oh, not noic ! Mi's. Dash, [implor- 
 ingly,'] indeed I can not tell it at present. 
 
 [Overcome ivith her emotions she bursts into tears. 
 Little Fannie throws her arms a7'0und her and 
 whispers in childlike simplicity ;] 
 
 Fannie. — Don't cry. Miss Brilliant, please don't cry 
 any more. [Miss Brilliant returns her co.ress and wipes 
 her eyes.] 
 
 Mrs. Dash — Oh ! I beg pardon most sincerely. Miss 
 Brilliant; I did not know 3'ou had changed j^our mind, 
 and I hope, Mrs. Belmont, you will excuse my being the 
 innocent cause of getting up "a scene;" it is what I 
 always studiously aim to avoid — no one can dread ex- 
 citements more than I do — pray, excuse it, Mrs. Bel- 
 mont. 
 
 Mrs. Belmcnt. — You have done nothing, Mrs. Dash, 
 for me to excuse ; and as to Miss Brilliant's feelings, 
 those sublime words aflTeeted her too deeply to recite a 
 frivolous, slandering story so soon after ; she has en- 
 deared herself to my heart and gained my esteem. 
 
 {^The ladies now pjroceed to the hall, and as Mrs. 
 
166 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Dash advances, Miss Brilliant returns and whtS' 
 - pers to 3Irs. Belmont.^ 
 Miss Brilliant. — Can I see you alone in an hour, 
 if I call ? 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — Certainly, my love — come. 
 
 Scene 2. — 3Irs. Belmont is seated alone in her parlor. 
 Miss Brilliant enters. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — My dear Mrs. Belmont, I was 
 anxious to see you alone to explain my extraordinary 
 conduct, 3^ou must have thought me very childish ? 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — Not at all, my love, I do not wonder 
 at your feeling so deepl}^ such words, as you sung. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — 15ut I have sung them man3i' times, 
 before, and was never so affected by them. In the 
 first place, when I came here this morning, it was with 
 a deep feeling of mortification. The last call Mrs. 
 Dash and mj'self had made, she persuaded me to tell 
 the ludicrous story of which they spoke to you. I did 
 tell it, and as she would haA^e said, in my "inimitable 
 state," of course I had the plaudits of the fashionable 
 gossips present, and felt elated; but just as we were 
 about retiring, the ladies, thinking usout of hearing, their 
 conversation turned upon myself. One lady made the 
 remark — "Miss Brilliant is a most inimitable mimic." 
 " Yes," replied another, " and I suppose we will be taken 
 off, at her next call." " I was reading" said a third, " a 
 few days ago, what an old author said about a talent 
 for ridicule — 'If it is indulged in for amusement, it is 
 foolish ; if for revenge, it is wicked.' " Mrs. Dash was 
 busily engaged in conversation with the lady of the 
 house, and did not hear the remarks ; and I did not 
 tell her, for 1 believe people seldom speak of that which 
 nrortifies their pride. When I was requested to tell 
 you the same story, and j'ou prevented it, I can truly 
 say, I was deeply grateful, for I did not want to tell the 
 story, but did not know how to get out of it. Now tell 
 me, my dear Mrs. Belmont, had you not a design in 
 asking me to sing the anthem ? if you had, you took a 
 most admirable plan ! 
 
 Mrs. Belmont.— Yes ; I had a design in it, I feel 
 
 i 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 167 
 
 myself religiously bound not only to abstain from evil 
 speaking myself, but to discourage it in others when- 
 ever I can. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — You will scarcely believe me, Mrs. 
 Belmont, when I assure j'ou, that although I have £0 
 freely indulged in this habit of ridicule and slander, I 
 have always disapproved of it, and even when my 
 praises have been the loudest. I have recently despised 
 myself, for making mei*riment, like a buflbon, at the 
 expense of others. 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — I can very readily credit that those 
 were your feelings, for you were acting out your lower 
 nature, and neglecting to develop your higher capacities ; 
 and at the same time when we transgress any of the 
 moral laws, there is a conscious feeling of degredation 
 which humbles us in our own estimation, and this is a 
 wise check from our Maker. 
 
 Miss Brilliant — When I seated mj'self this morn- 
 ing at the piano, it was with such a keen feeling of mor- 
 tification, and with such a sincere wish to renounce for 
 ever this abominable practice, that I saw the beautiful 
 words of tlie anthem in a light I never viewed them 
 before, and I longed to have strength from heaven to 
 resist the wrong, and do right for the future. And 
 these emotions, when Mrs. Dash asked me to tell the 
 story, were the cause of my strange behavior. 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — I can not tell you, my dear j'oung 
 friend, how happy this statement has made me, for 
 you, thus feeling your own weakness, and looking abo\-e 
 for your strength, will obtain the " wisdom" spoken of 
 in James, 3d chapter, and 17th verse. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — And will you not, my dear Mrs. 
 Belmont, be my friend and counsellor, and help me to 
 begin life anew ? 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — I am your sincere friend, and if I am 
 capable of giving you counsel or aid at any tirne, I will 
 most cheerfully do it ; but your greatest help must come 
 from on high, for the Maker of the human heart is surely 
 the most powerful Regulator of its emotions, and " from 
 the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh." \_Mrs. 
 Belmont then rose, and handing the marker partly ivorked 
 bu little Fanny, said'} : I and my children have formed 
 
168 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 ourselves into a hond, which we haA'e playfully called 
 the " Anti-evil Speaking Society," and the motto which 
 Fannie is working on tliis marker is to be, " Speak not 
 evil one of another." We are all pledged to do what 
 we can to discourage evil speaking in ourselves or 
 others, and every time we transgress, we will have to 
 pay a fine of five cents. This will act as a check, and 
 to remind us of our duty. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — Oh, that is a most admirable idea ! 
 an Anti-evil Speaking Society — and original, I suppose. 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — No, it originated with Mary; she 
 suggested it, and I suggested the fines. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — I wish 3'oa would let me join it, 
 Mrs. Belmont, for I need all the checks I can have, to 
 overcome my besetting sin. 
 
 Mrs. Belmont [laughing']. — With all my heart, my 
 dear. The children have made me President, so I'll 
 enroll j^our name at once. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — Well, Mrs. Belmont, it is the first 
 time that I ever felt a wish that the i)oor should not be 
 benefited. I really hope they wont get a cent from me, 
 but I fear they will get dollars. 
 
 Mrs. Belmont. — If there is not one cent finds its way 
 to the box as a fine, I propose, as the President, that we 
 place dollars for the poor in another box, as a thank- 
 offering for being delivered from so gross and degrad- 
 ing a crime ! I can call it by no better name. 
 
 Miss Brilliant. — Our motto at a distance, may do 
 very well for others, Mrs. Belmont, but as for me, I 
 must have it very near me all the time ; so I will just 
 call on my way home [rising'] and hand this to the 
 jeweler, [taking a heavy plain gold ring from her finger,] 
 and have these words engraved upon it — " Hpeak not 
 evil one of another. ^^ 
 
SCHOOLDAT DIALOGUES. 169 
 
 CHOOSING A TRADE OR PROFESSION. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 Hall. Swain. BEAi>f. Meeks. Teacher. 
 
 Hall. — Say, Swain, who, that is now in this school, 
 will make the greatest figure in the world ? Do vou 
 think there is one that will ever be President of the 
 United States ? 
 
 Swain. — Your questions, Hall, are easier asked than 
 answeied. You know as well as I who are the best 
 scholars, who are the best in the ball alley, and who 
 are the most popular every where about the school. 
 
 Hall. — Do you believe there is one that will ever be 
 a member of Congress, a governor of some State, or 
 even a member of the Legislature ? 
 
 Swain. — I do not know about that. Time often 
 brings about wonderful things. Lincoln never attended 
 as good a school as this ; and perhaps 1 might say the 
 same of Washington. But these great and good men 
 made the best use of such opportunities as were in 
 their reach. The}'- were more studious than some in 
 this school. 
 
 Hall. — Now, Swain, I know that you intend to be 
 something in the world ; what would you like best to 
 be? 
 
 Swain. — I think that I shall be w^ell satisfied with 
 farming. 
 
 Hall. — What 1 with all the scientific learning that 
 
 you w.U acquire in [liere use the name of the 
 
 school where this piece is spoken.^ and perhaps a college 
 course besides, and A. M attached to your name, would 
 you then condescend to be nothing but a country clod- 
 hopper ? 
 
 Swain. — Don't speak in such disrespectful terms of 
 that business which is the main source of every bodj-'s 
 living. Before you talk so, learn to live without eating 
 or wearing any thing that has grown on a farm. Some 
 of our best men have been larmers. Some of the best 
 governors and members of Congress have been invite^' 
 
170 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 to those exalted positions from rural homes. When 
 a man is thus honorably promoted from a secluded 
 home, if he have the benefit of a good scientific and 
 literary education acquired in his 3'outh at some 
 good institution, how great his advantage I And tlien 
 DO one leads a more honorable and independent life 
 than the farmer. If he be a scholar, and take delight 
 in scientific and literary pursuits, he can find entertain- 
 ment with his books, while his crops are growing. 
 Think of Washington, who, after gaining the independ- 
 ence of his country and aiding in establishing a new 
 form of government, then retired from public life and 
 engaged in agriculture. 
 
 Hall. — I see the force of your reasoning. [Enter 
 Dean.'] 
 
 Dean. — What now, Swain? 3'ou seem to he giving a 
 touch of the sublime ! 
 
 Swain. — I was just setting forth some of my ideas 
 about farming as a business. 
 
 Hall. — Yes, Dean, and he has almost persuaded me 
 to be a farmer. 
 
 Dean. — It would be well if many people who are look- 
 ing to some profession that they imagine will be genteel 
 and dignified could be altogether persuaded to be satis- 
 fied with life on a farm; even some now in this institu- 
 tion. 
 
 Hall. — Do 3'ou include me in that list ? 
 
 Dean. — I mean no personalities, but future time and 
 circumstances will disclose what position you and others 
 in this school are best adapted to fill. 
 
 Hall. — Now, since the subject is fairly opened, tell 
 me, Dean, what business would you like best ? 
 
 Dean. — I'll tell you some time. [JEnter Weeks.'] 
 
 Meeks. — Talking about business, are you ? well, then, 
 let me join your company, and hear some of 3'our ideas 
 about the pursuits of life. 
 
 Swain. — All right, Meeks, what have you in view? 
 
 Meeks. — I am not yet fairly decided about that. I 
 intend first to get a good education, and then see what 
 prospect opens for me. What do you intend to do, 
 Hall? 
 
 Hall. — I intend to graduate ; then pitch into legal 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 171 
 
 studies, and after practicing law for a few years, I will 
 aim for going to Congress. 
 
 Dean. — It will be well for you, if your means are 
 equal to the wants of your ambition. You may very 
 much miss your aim. 
 
 ]1all. — You know the saying — " He who aims at the 
 Run may not reach his object, but he will be likely to 
 shoot higher than if he aimed at something on the 
 earth. ' So if I never roach the Senate, I shall expect 
 to attain some position higher than common life. 
 
 Dean. — You would do well to bear in mind the fact 
 that some of our would-be-great men have used them- 
 selves up in just such ambitioiis schemes as you now 
 entei'tain, and then did not attain the grand object of 
 their wishes. If every man went to Congress that 
 wishes to go, Washington City would not hold tliem all; 
 but if none were allowed to go, but such as are well 
 qualified, I believe that there would be many vacant 
 places in the Capitol. 
 
 Meeks. — Hold on, or you may discourage him iu his 
 grand pi'ojects. 
 
 Dean. — Well, then, I will change the subject. I sup- 
 pose that you look to the ministry. 
 
 Meeks. — I will not say that I do, nor that I do not. 
 I intend, after graduating, to proceed as Providence 
 opens the way. 
 
 Swain. — That is sensible, Meeks. I hope the right 
 thing for you will soon be opened to you. 
 
 Hall. — If he looks to the ministry, why not decide 
 on it now, and then look to the pastorship of a good 
 church, or perhaps a bishoprick ? 
 
 Swain. — Time enough to think about that after a few 
 years of successful pastorship in a common church, or 
 a few years of circuit-riding. He might be very useful 
 ai either capacity. 
 
 Dean. — Well, it takes all kinds of people to fill the 
 world. We must have farmers, mechanics, merchants, 
 and professional men. All are useful in their places. 
 
 Hali. — The most of our students are looking to 
 some of tlie learned professions. I suppose that I shall 
 have the pleasure of calling 3' ou Doctor Dean sometime. 
 
 Dean.- -Wait till you see that on my sign, and 
 
172 SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 the emblems of a physician's oflSce in my windows. 
 [^Unter teacher.^ 
 
 Teacher. — Young gentlemen, I have overheard a 
 part of your conversation about the choice of business. 
 A judicious choice in this particular will be one of the 
 greatest things of 3'our lives. If you wish for some of 
 my ideas about it I will tell j'ou what they are with 
 pleasure. 
 
 Meeks. — I would like to hear you. 
 
 All the others. — Go on ! Speak on ! 
 
 Teacher. — I believe that all persons are designed to 
 be useful in some way; and every person in his pupil- 
 age should strive to ascertain what this particular voca- 
 tion is likely to be. Your studies should develop your 
 abilities and capacities, and your learning should qualify 
 3'ou for future usefulness, and for living in such a way 
 that the world will be the better for what 3-ou shall have 
 done in 3'our lifetime. A man's life is a failure when 
 after his death it can be only said ot him that the world 
 has not been benefited by his having lived in it. Consider 
 now the character of the difterent pursuits of life, and 
 what is necessary for success in each of them ; and your 
 ability and adaptation in them, as well as their respec- 
 tive uses ; then ma}^ j^ou expect to learn where and how 
 you can be most appropriately employed. It is wise to 
 trust in Providence. When your merits and 3'our ac- 
 quirements become well known, ^-ou may be invited to 
 some dignified and honorable position in church or state 
 that you do not now anticipate. To whatever 3'ou look 
 do not despise labor. Farmers and mechanics are the 
 bone and sinew of a nation. They should be educated 
 as well as any others; they, too, can enjoy scientific and 
 literary pursuits as well as any people. Do not despise 
 labor because 3'ou have a scientific education. Do not 
 foist 3'ourselves into some of the learned professions 
 because they appear to 3'ou genteel and dignifie<l. 
 Some of them are now too much crowded. The Chiis- 
 tian ministry is truly a noble and glorious calling. It 
 may not advance you to wealth, but by it you will do 
 good for 3'our fellow-beings, and have the blessinr; of 
 heaven to rest upon 3'ou. Other professions and all 
 trades lo^k mainl3^ to the acquisition of wealth ; and i 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 173 
 
 neel not now speak of the demoralizing influence of in- 
 oi'dinate ambition for this. But I will remind you that 
 a rational education v/ill counteract this and all other 
 evil influences in the ditferent vocations of life. 
 
 It is not for me to dictate what should be your chosen 
 vocation, but j'our natural inclination, your acquired 
 learning, and the judgment of your wise friends who 
 will sometime see your merits, will direct you to the 
 place that j'ou should fill. Young gentlemen, I now 
 leave the subject with you ; think about it and act ac- 
 cording the best of your judgment. [_Exit Teacher.'] 
 
 Dean. — There, fellows, what think you now about 
 choosing a trade or a profession ? 
 
 Swain. — The more I think of agriculture as an 
 employment, the more interest I feel in it. I en- 
 dorse the language of my favorite poet : — 
 
 "Oh, knew he but his happiness, of men 
 The happiest he ! who far from pubhc rage, 
 Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, 
 Drinks the pure pleasures of the Eural Life." 
 
 That's the life for me. \_Exit Swain.] 
 
 Meeks. — As for me, I hope to see my way to honor 
 and usefulness when I finish my scientific studies 
 But now I feel an inward monition that saj's, Live not 
 in vain ! Live to do good ! But I can not now say 
 much about it. [Exit 3Ieeks.] 
 
 Hall. — Swain and Meeks seem to be quite set on 
 leading a humble career; and how eagerly they swal- 
 lowed the teacher's discourse ! 
 
 Dean. — They talve quite a common sense view of 
 trades and professions. What do you think now about 
 your schemes ? 
 
 Hall. — Not discouraged ! A few years after I 
 
 graduate at [here use the name of some college 
 
 often talked about where this piece is spoken] perhaps 
 5 on will hear from me. 
 
 Dean. — AVhen you reach the pinnacle of your glory, 
 fornemljer those who were once your fellow-learners in 
 this school, and then come and visit me in my humble 
 abode. [Exeunt.] 
 
174 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 CHILD-PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 LiLLiE. — 1 shan't stand it! I wont 1 I do declare 1 
 It is the most absurd thing I ever knew 1 If it is not 
 enough to provoke a saint! ! 
 
 MiNA. — What is that, Lillie ? Did you saj^ you were 
 going to be a saint ? 
 
 LiLLiE. — No ! any thing but that ! 
 
 MiNA. — Why I Did you not say you felt like a saint? 
 
 LiLLiE. — How should I know how saints feel ? It is 
 bad enough to feel like one's self, and I know that I feel 
 very much provoked! 
 
 MiNA. — Wh}^ that is funny 1 
 
 Lillie. — W^ell, I don't see any fun in it ! 
 
 MiNA. — But, see here, Lillie ; tell me what 
 
 Lillie. — Don't talk to me ! I am too much vexed! 
 
 MiNA. — But, Lillie, do tell me — what has annoyed 
 you so much — come ! What is it ? You will tell me ? 
 Won't 3'ou ! 
 
 Lillie. — Whj^ ! people treat me so ! ! 
 
 MiNA. — Do they ? That is too bad ! What have they 
 done ? 
 
 Lillie. — Why, they think at our house that I am 
 nothing but a little snip of a girl ! They think the}' 
 can say any thing to me ! I am of no consequence at 
 all! And here 1 am, nearlj'^ ten years old ! And j'^ou 
 see how very tall, and womanly looking I am ! I think 
 it is abominable ! 1 
 
 MiNA. — Well, so it is, Lillie ! 
 
 Lillie. — Oh, yes ! I must be good ! I must not be 
 rude ! I must do every thing, just so 1 and yet, when I 
 want any thing — Oh ! I am only a little girl ! ! 
 
 MiNA. — It is too bad ! 
 
 Lillie. — Don't you tell any body, Mina ! There ia 
 my sister Bell — (now, if she is a young lady, why 
 shouldn't I be ?) She went off to Saratoga with trunks 
 lull of dresses and mantles and shawls, waterfalls, Gre- 
 ci'in curls, nets, (oh, beauties 1) two new bracelets, em- 
 broideries, handkerchiefs, and all kinds of bright ribbons, 
 and every thing nice 1 — and I 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 175 
 
 MiNA. — But Bell is eight years older than you are, 
 you know ? 
 
 LiLLiE. — That is nothing 1 Age has nothing to do 
 with it 1 If it had, why doesn't mother go off and dresa 
 and ride and have good times? But here I am, ex 
 pected to behave like a lady, and I ought to be treated 
 like one ! 
 
 MiNA. — Well, is that all? Have you told me all 
 your troubles ? 
 
 LiLLiE. — No ! not half 1 There is my brother George, 
 ae talks to me as if I was good for nothing but waiting 
 on other people. Just a little mite ! Calling out Lillie, 
 here ! or, Lillie, there ! Bring me this ! or, bring me 
 that I I don't mind running up and down stairs for 
 liim, and helping him, for he is real nice, and bringing 
 him his slippers and his papers and his dressing-gown 
 and his cigars and his cane and his books and his 
 Florida water 1 But then, why doesn't he take me out 
 riding with him in his new wagon ? Why doesn't he ask 
 me to walk in the park ? Why don't I sit up late at 
 night in the parlor ? I think 1 deserve it — don't 3'ou ? 
 
 MiNA. — Wh}^ don't you speak to your brother and 
 sister, and tell them how you feel ? 
 
 Lillie. — Yes! That is just what tries me sol George 
 gives me a paper of candy, and says I look so small — 
 that it sounds cunning to hear me talk! And Bell says, 
 Pshaw 1 child ! run away, and play with your dolls I You 
 must not think about such things for years to come! 
 
 MiNA. — What does your mother sajf ? 
 
 Lillie. — Oh ! mother says I am only making trouble 
 for myself — that these are my happiest days. But, 
 dear me I how can that be ? 
 
 MiNA. — I guess she is right, Lillie ! That is just 
 what my mother says ! 
 
 Lillie. — Well, I don't believe it! If people mean 
 what they sa}^ why don't they act it? If they are hap- 
 piest at home, why don't they stay at home? If fine 
 clothes are such a care and trouble, why do they have 
 them ? If sitting up late at night injures their health, 
 vihy don't they go to bed at eight o'clock, like me? If 
 jellies, and creams, and pickles are so very good for 
 older people, I don't see how they can be so very bad 
 
176 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 for mc ? Oh, I don't tliiiik a few years ought to make 
 such a difference ! And I tell you I am not going to 
 stand it ! It is not right ! If I am nothing but a child, 
 let me act as a child ! And if I am a little womrm, 
 then treat me as a woman ; and I shall never be sacis- 
 fied until they dol 
 
 THE NOBLEST HERO. 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Mr. Manly, the schoolmaster. 
 
 Mrs. Truman. 
 
 Frank Truman, ^ 
 
 Joe Martin, 
 
 Henry Mo r ley, >■ Scholars. 
 
 Clark Richmond, 
 
 Lewis Hermann, 
 
 Scene 1. — School-room, class standing. 
 
 Mr. M. — Now, boys, I promised you a new study for 
 Monday, and as it is Friday I will give you the sub- 
 ject now. It is — What Constitutes the True Hero — 
 and you m.ay, if you choose, give an example of the no- 
 blest hero of whom you have ever read. 
 
 Frank. — May we ask our friends about it, or must 
 we find out for ourselves ? 
 
 Mr. M. — I prefer that you should find out for your- 
 selves. 
 
 Henry. — We may look in books, may n't we ? 
 
 Mr. M. — Certainly. Any books which you can find 
 to give you any light upon the subject. It is the hour 
 for dismissal; put away 3'our books, and when 3'ou come 
 out be sure to lock the door. [Eait Mr. M.'] 
 
 Clark. — Who under the sun is the greatest hero ? I 
 can't guess. 
 
 Lewis. — You're not expected to guess, 3'ou're to 
 think. 
 
 Joe. — It is not very hard. I think I know mine 
 already. 
 
 Fhank. — I should know mine if I thought Mr. Manlj 
 
SCiTOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 177 
 
 ^eant what we are thiukiug of. But he smiled so oddly 
 when he told us the subject, that I suspect he means 
 more than we think he does. 
 
 Clark. — Well, come home ; we can talk it over after- 
 ward. I am as hungrj^ as I can be. [^Exit all.'] 
 
 S^ENE 2. — A parlor simply furnished. Mrs. Truman 
 and Frank Truman sitting at a table. Frank in deep 
 thought. 
 
 Frank. — Mother 1 
 
 Mrs. T. — Well, Frank 1 what is it? You seem to be 
 more thoughtful than usual. 
 
 Frank. — Yes, mother ; because our new teacher gave 
 us such a queer subject for our lesson next Monday 
 morning. 
 
 Mrs. ^T.— Well, what was it, Frank ? 
 
 Frank. — It was — What Constitutes a True Hero— 
 and I can not make up my mind; and we are not per- 
 mitted to ask anybody. 
 
 Mrs. T. [^smiling']. — Well, Frank, then I am afraid I 
 can not help you. 
 
 Frank {leaning his head on his hand, thinks ; but 
 suddenly jumping up exclaims'].— I have it ! I have it, 
 mother! {Buns from the room.] 
 
 Mrs, T. — I am sure I hope he has, as he has tried so 
 hard. lExit Mrs. T] 
 
 Scene 3. — Monday morning, the street before the school- 
 house. Enter Henry and Lewis at ojyposite doors. 
 
 H;^-NRY. — Well, Lewis, have you your hero? 
 
 Lewis. — Yes, indeed, Henry. It did not take me long 
 to think who I should have. 
 
 Henry. — AVell ! where are the others? It seems to 
 me they'll be late if they don't hurry. 
 
 {Enter Frank, Clark, and Joe.] 
 
 Lewis. — Here the}^ are ! Good-morning 1 
 
 Joe. — Got your hero, Lou? 
 
 Lewis {slapjnng his jacket]. — Yes, all right; safe 
 here in my jiocket. 
 
 Clark. — He must be a lorecious small hero if he is 
 in that pocket. 
 12 
 
178 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 Lewis. — He may turn out bigger than yotiis, who 
 knows ? though he is in such a small space. 
 
 Frank. — Yes, Lou is right ; it is not always the 
 largest bundle which contains the most valuable article. 
 [Unter Mr. ilf.] 
 
 Henry. — Well, here is Mr. Manly. 
 
 Mr. M. — Good-morning, boys 1 
 
 All. — Good-mornincc, sir. 
 
 Mr. M. — I hope your heroes are all chosen? 
 
 All. — Yes, sir ; we are all ready. \_Exeunt all."] 
 
 Scene 4. — ScJiool-room. Boys seated. 
 
 Mr. M. — Well, boys, I'll call upon each in turn for 
 his idea of what constitutes a hero, and for your chosen 
 one. Well, Joe, you may speak first. 
 
 Joe. — I think, sir, that heroes should have great tal- 
 ents, and should never be afraid of any one ; but should 
 conquer all their enemies. 
 
 Mr. M. — Well, certainly, you are quite- right, as far 
 as 3'ou go ; but have j'ou not omitted any thing ? 
 
 Joe. — I could not think of any otlier necessary quality, 
 sir. 
 
 Mr. M. — Well ! we will hear what the others say ; bat 
 who is 3'our hero ? 
 
 Joe. — Alexander the Great. 
 
 Mr. M. — Truly j'ou have chosen a great conqueror ; 
 but I am afraid he lacks some qualities which I should 
 wish my hero to have. Is^ow, Clark, tell us your defini- 
 tion. 
 
 Clark. — I think, sir, that a hero should be generous 
 and forgiving; but, at the same time, firm and un- 
 daunted, a Jul should love his country more than his 
 life. And 1 have chosen Washington. 
 
 Mr. M. — Very well, indeed, Clark, j'our definition is 
 good, and 3^our choice is a noble one. Now, let us hear 
 Henry. 
 
 Henry. — I, sir, have chosen Cromwell ; but I fear he 
 is not the right kind of hero, as I think he fought for 
 himself quite as much for the liberty of the English 
 from Charles the First's tyranny. Though I did not 
 think of that before Clark spoke. 
 
 Mr, M.— I believe you are right, Henry, though it is 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 179 
 
 a disputed point whether he did all for himself or not. 
 Now, Lewis, who is your hero ? 
 
 Lewis. — I, sir, chose Washington, but as Clark has 
 taken him, I will choose Abraham Lincoln, who was so 
 kind and merciful, so just and good that he can stand 
 side by side with Washington in our love and respect. 
 
 Mr. M. — Very well, indeed, Lewis. I am much 
 ]ileased that j'ou should have chosen him. Now, Frank, 
 tell us your thoughts, we have heard all the rest. 
 
 Frank. — I, sir, thought for a long time over all the 
 heroes of ancient times, but none suited me ; they all 
 wanted something. Then I thought of the Bible verse : 
 "He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty ; 
 and he that ruleth his spirit than he thattaketh a city." 
 I took that as my definition, and I add to it generosity, 
 self-devotion, and self-sacrifice. 
 
 Mr. M. — Truly, Frank, you are right. For [turning 
 to the audience,'] 
 
 " The noblest Hero of the whole 
 Is he who can himself control." 
 [^Exeunt omnes.'] 
 
 WOMEN'S mGHTS. 
 
 CHAEACTERS. 
 
 Five Boys. 
 
 PoM.Y Si-MPSON, a tall, slender spinster. 
 
 Nancy Lawrknce. a strong-minded lady. 
 
 Granny 8nari„ a slender spinster, with a blue cotton handker- 
 chief bound tightly around her head, and tied in a bow knat 
 behind. 
 
 Simon Vii.df.rblows, a small, inferior-looking old bachelor. 
 
 [All seated near a desk, excepting the boys, who are in the 
 back part of the house.] 
 
 Polly Simpson prising']. — The first thing in order will 
 be to choose some one to preside over this meeting. I 
 nominate Sister Snarl for president. 
 
 Nancy Lawrence. — I second the nomination. 
 
 Polly Simpson. — It is moved and seconded that Sis- 
 
180 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 ter Snarl be president of this meeting. If this be ycr 
 minds, please manifest it by saying a^'e. 
 
 All. — Aye ! aye ! 
 
 Polly Simpson. — 'Tis a vote. Sister Snarl will now 
 take the desk. 
 
 \_Granny nr w marches to the desk, while Polly takes 
 a seat at her elbow'] 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Sister Simpson will now read ye the 
 resolutions. 
 
 Polly Simpson \jHses and reads']. — Resolved, That the 
 awful state our country is in, bids us wimmen folks do 
 something right off'. 
 
 Resolved, That as, under the present rule of the men, 
 we are alreadj' in a deplorable condition, which grows 
 worse and worse every day, we wiranien folks will take 
 matters in hand, seize the reins of government, and 
 make better steerage than they do. 
 
 Resolved, That to put a stop to this war, and to make 
 peace, which shall be thorough and endurable, and to 
 bring down vittals and things, so as not to have so man^T^ 
 paupers for the town to sui)port, we will go to the bal- 
 lot-box at the next annual town-meeting, and elect, if 
 possible, competent women to take charge of the public 
 business. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — If it be yer minds to accept these, 
 you'll please say aye. 
 
 All. — Aye ! aj^e ! 
 
 Granny Snarl. — It's a vote. Sister Simpson will 
 now continue her remarks. 
 
 Polly Simpson [liemming and bowing, and clearing 
 her throat, proceeds to speak]. — Fellow-citizens : This is 
 an awful state that our country is in just now, and 
 every thing is growing worse and worse. Goods, and 
 such like, are so dreadful high that we'll soon be unable 
 to live at all, and it's all owing to the mismanagement of 
 the men folks. Now, if we wimmen folks take things in 
 hand, and follow these resolutions, things will soon get 
 to going straight along, and then decent folks can live. 
 The men folks \'\?cvq mismanaged i\\Q business long enough, 
 but the wimmen folks must manage it hereafter. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Mrs. Lawrence will now express her 
 viev's of the subject. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 181 
 
 Nancy Lawrence. — You all know that what Sister 
 Simpson has said is true Our country is in a deplorable 
 condition, just on account of the mismanagement of the 
 men folks now-a-days. Why, when my tirst husband, 
 Mr. Whitecoml), was alive, I was happy, and had the 
 good times. Ah ! I then had a kind companion ; he 
 knew how to manage an' keep all strings a-pullin'. But 
 times, alas ! have changed. I now have to look out, not 
 only for number one, but for number two, also. I have 
 to work like a dog, an' see to all the business myself, 
 'cause if I didn't ever}' thing'd go to rack and ruin. 
 It's no use to arguefy the p'int — no use at all — some- 
 thing's got iohe done, and that something right straight 
 off, as Sister Simpson says. I've no more to sa} . Let 
 deeds, not words, be our battle-cry. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — We will now hear what Mr. Vilder- 
 blows has to say on the subject. 
 
 Simon Vilderblows. — Things is going on to ruin as 
 fast as they can go, fellow-citizens, an' I'm most dread- 
 fully afeard it's owing, as has been told you, to the mis- 
 management of us men folks. I, for one, approve of 
 letting the women rule. Do this, and my word for't, 
 things will get cheaper, and poor folks like us'U have 
 some chance to live. Yes, my friends, pork is gettin' 
 to be monstrous high. Bimeby we shan't have enough 
 to put into baked beans, and then what shall we do ? I 
 don't know what we shall do unless we put in pitch-knots 
 instid of pork. Western pork, they say, is fattened on 
 rattlesnakes, and who wants to eat serpents 'long o' 
 their tea an' coffee ? As to raising our own pork, why, 
 corn, p'taters, an' sich like, is so awful dear and skerse, 
 that if it so happens we do have a little to spare, we're 
 obliged to take it to bu}' West Injee goods, and so forth. 
 Then if we kill our hogs in the full of the moon, it'll 
 shrink, yon know, and there, again, is a loss. I raised 
 a nice spring pig this year, and t'other day, as we's most 
 out o' meat, and he'd got to bo fat's a poirpoise, I 
 thought best to kill him. So I put on the water a-heat- 
 in', got the scaldin' tub an' other things ready. Well, 
 says I to John, my hired man, it's now full moon, an' 
 some say'f you kill hogs on the full they won't shrink. 
 But, however, says I, bein's the moon's so fur off. I'm 
 
182 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES, 
 
 pesky afeard she wont keep the pork from shrinking. 
 But, John, there's one thing I do know, says I, and that 
 is, if we scald him at just liigh tide, he wont lose an 
 ounce by skrinkin'. Yes, says John, I know this to be 
 tiue, for I've often seen it tried. Well, suj's I, I tell 
 you what I'll do, John ; Til let my sister — you know mj' 
 sister, Widder Small, fellow-citizens, what keeps house 
 for me — I'll let her take the almanac, an' watch the 
 clock, an' when it's just high water, she'll sing out, an' 
 we'll stick and souse the critter. So, to suit me. Sis- 
 ter Small stuck a mark in our almanac — ^3'our old Kob- 
 ert B.'s — where it told the high tide, an' took her station 
 at the door. Well, when 'twas about high tide, John 
 and I lugged out the water to the tub, an' caught the 
 hog. Pretty soon Sister Small sings out " High tide 1" 
 Ton that 1 stuck him with a butcher-knife and he bled 
 like a serpent. In with him, says I. We then give him 
 a rousin' scaldin' an' dressed an' weighed him. Well, 
 next day I weighed him agin, an', dear me! don't you 
 think, he''d shrunk ten j^ounds and a half! Something's 
 to pay, says I. Into the house I hurried, and says I, 
 Sister, get me the almanac, and let me see where you 
 found, where't tells high water. The almanac was got. 
 I looked into it where she'd put a mark, an' as true's 
 my name is Simon Vilderblows, if she hadn't made a 
 mistake an' got a last year's one ! This explains it all, 
 says I, and I've lost jest ten and a half pounds of nice, 
 sweet pork by sister's not been keerful 'bout lookin' at 
 the date. The schoolmaster happening along I told him 
 my misfortins, an' he only smiled and said 'twas, done 
 by evaporation. I told him he had better stick to his 
 Albrega, an' not talk of what he did'nt know nothing 
 about. My friends, I've nothing more to say, I feel 
 that we are in a good cause, an' desarve success. 
 
 Polly Simpson [^rising']. — I should be pleased to hear 
 something from our president. Sister Snarl, can't you 
 say something for the good of the cause ? 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Men folks, women folks, an' feller- 
 citizens' greetin 1 [^She atop s and blows her nose with 
 a ragged red 2:)0cket-handkerchief when the hoys roar 
 aloud^ Stop yer larfln' up there'n the back seat ! Ye 
 «m't but little better than heathen ! Wont some one 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 183 
 
 what's a friend to woman's rights go an' larn them tar- 
 nups what manners is, an' stop their disturbin' this 
 meetin' ? 
 
 Simon Yilderblows. — I hope you bo3's will be civil 
 there on the back seat. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Feller-citizens, I would like to say 
 a good deal, but you see I've got a terrible cold [_she 
 coughs'] ; got it a killin' my hog, which, by the way, was 
 a buster, for he weighed two hundred and thirty pounds 
 arter he's dressed and his liver taken out. Hogs like 
 that are skerse in these diggins, you'd l)etter believe 
 \the boys laugh']. There now I it's jest as Sister Simpson 
 has often said, the risin' gineration is -an awful set of 
 bein's. They don't know a mite better than to come to 
 sech a solemn an' interestin' meetin' as this an' laif, an' 
 haw haw, an' hee hee, jests if 'twas a circus, panorandle, 
 or nigger concert. I've been afeared all along that if 
 we wimmen folks didn't take the reins in our own hands 
 the re 'd be war an' bloodshed an' every thing else that's 
 bad. And jest what I'se afeard on has come to pass ; 
 we've got inter trouble with our mother country, an' 
 ilear only knows when 'twill eend. I haint had a good 
 dish o' Young Hyson this six mouths ; an' what's more, 
 I never shall, unless we wimmen folks rise rite up an' let 
 em know who's who and what's what. Then, as Sister 
 Simpson, an' Sister Lawrence, and Brother Yilderblows 
 have jest said, coffee's riz, sweetening's riz, an' every 
 thing else we have to buy has riz accordingly ; and, fel- 
 low-citizens, they'll keep goin' up, till bimeby we shall 
 be on the town, and then who'll take keer o' the poor? 
 And what's to he done ? methinks I hear 3^e all ax. I'll 
 tell ye what's to be done. Let the wimmen take charge 
 on the government, put in some good lady, like Sister 
 Simpson, here, for Town Clark, an' sech wimmen as Sis- 
 ter Lawrence for Seleckmen and then if the men folks 
 wants any of the small offices, sech as hog-reef or sur- 
 veyor, why, we'll let 'em have 'em provided they'll swear 
 to support the constitution of the United States. Do 
 this, and you'll see how quick sugar, molasses, and other 
 West Injee goods would come down! I shan't ask for 
 any office myself, 'cause I haint got much of a school 
 edication, and I don't want to take sech responsibility 
 
184 SCnOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 on niy poor shoulders : but then ye know my vote'll tell. 
 Now, something has got to be done right a way — the 
 sooner the better, Sister Simpson an' myself have talked 
 the matter over and made up our minds to do some- 
 thing. 
 
 Boy. — The President will pardon my interruption, I 
 rise to move that a contribution be taken up to defray 
 the expenses of this meeting. 
 
 Another boy. — 1 second the motion. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Yer real kind, j-e be! We'll now 
 take a vote. All who's in favor of passin' round the 
 hat to git money to pay for firewood, lights, an' sech 
 like, will please say aye. 
 
 All. — Aye ! aye ! 
 
 Granny Snarl. — 'Tis a vote, sartin's the world. The 
 gentleman who's so kind as to think of payin' expenses, 
 will he please carry round the hat, while Sister Simpson 
 reads that little ditty she's writ for the occasion ! [Boy 
 takes round the hat.'] Sister Simpson will now deliver 
 the ditty. It's proper nice I kin tell ye, I've heard it 
 once. 
 
 Polly Simpson [reads in a loud, sharp voice'] 
 
 ODE in behalf of WIMMENS RIGHTS. 
 
 The men are real obstropolus, 
 
 Tliey wont mind their own biz- 
 Iness, and tliat's the reason wliy 
 
 That tea and lasses both has riz : 
 And every thing that we do eat, 
 
 And every thing that we do wear, 
 Have got to be so awful high — 
 
 AVhat shall we do, I do declare ! 
 
 Molasses once was four and six ; 
 
 But now two dollars we nuist give; 
 And liquor, too, is such a price 
 
 'J'hat tavern-l^eepers scarce can live ; 
 And when last Sunday I'se at church, 
 
 I heard Parson Jenkins m his 
 Sermon say, that flour and corn, 
 
 And ev(try liind of thing has riz. 
 
 Now don't you see the reason is 
 
 The men are so obstropokis — 
 They will not let tJie wimmen vote, 
 
 And thing" is growing worse and worse. 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 185 
 
 Now, we mast rise and let 'em know 
 Wliat our rights be : and then, I guess, 
 
 That all kinds of West Ingee goods 
 In prices will grow less and less ! 
 
 Now we have all met here to-night — 
 
 Sisters Lawrence, Snarl and I, 
 And Mr. Vilderblows. and all 
 
 The rest of us — to see and try 
 To lay some plan to ease our lot 
 
 And make things cheap, and make a law, 
 Whereby all fighting shall be stopped, 
 
 And never have another war. 
 
 Now every woman that does live 
 
 In any part of Greensboro,' 
 Must rise on next town meeting day, 
 
 And to the ballot-box must go : 
 And then must vote — and then, I guess, 
 
 Once more will have a good, brisk biz- 
 Iness, and shall no longer hear, 
 
 That every kind t)f thing has riz. 
 
 [T7?,e boy who carried round the hat, now deposits its 
 contents on the desk (contents being a promiscuous 
 mixture of buttons, nails, chips, and just five large 
 coppers), and says to the President ;] 
 
 Boy. — The amount of money is not so great as I 
 hoped to get, but still there's sufticient to pay the ex 
 pense of oil and candles. And here let me say, I feel 
 assured, that when the community shall awaken to a 
 full sense of the importance of the glorious cause in 
 which 3'ou, our honored President, and your patriotic 
 colleagues, have so nobly engaged, they will rally around 
 your bright banner, and put forward this great work 
 toward its final consummation. That your praiseworthy 
 and disinterested efforts may be crowned with ultimate 
 success, is the heartfelt hope of your humble servant. — > 
 [^Bowing, retires.'] 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Bless ye! you're a noble-hearted 
 creetur I \_Putting the money in her pocket, and with her 
 hand sweeping the buttons, etc., off the desk."] If all the 
 men-folks was sich as you be, there'd be no need of us 
 wimmen-folks takiu' matters in hand. 
 
 Polly Simpson. — The President had better put the 
 funds in the handr of the collector, and let him settle the 
 
186 SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUES. 
 
 bills. He has already proved himself an honest and 
 patriotic soul. Let him be our treasurer, by all means. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Oh, I kin take keer on the funds 
 myself 
 
 Polly Simpson. — But 'twould be better to do as 1 
 have suggested. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — I tell ye I kin take keer of it my- 
 self 
 
 Polly Simpson. — I know you'd take care of it, and iu 
 such a way as wouldn't benefit the society. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — What's that ! D'ye think I'm in- 
 clined to cheat the public ? \_Granny shakes her fid.'] 
 
 Polly Simpson. — 1 haint said it. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Well, ye mean it, if ye haint said it. 
 
 Polly Simpson. — Yes, madam, I do mean it, and 
 say it, too. I wouldn't trust you any further than I can 
 see you. I've heard, 'fore now, of people's stealin' lard 
 and flax ; but I wont call names, for that aint my natur. 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Yer a miserable, low-lived, sharp- 
 nosed, old scamp ! You not onl}^ want wimmen's rights 
 in gineral, but ye mean to take away my rights, too. 
 Accuse me of stealin' right afore folks,, do ye? I'll fix 
 ye, you old Satin, one o' these da,ys ! 
 
 Nancy Lawrence. — I call the "house to order ! 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Better call that old pirate to order 1 
 
 Polly Simpson. — I call the president to order ! 
 
 Granny Snarl. — Call me to order, he}^ ? Now comes 
 the time for reckonin' old lady ! [springing toioard Polly.'] 
 
 All. — Order ! order I order ! 
 
 All. — Adjourn ! adjourn 1 adjourn ! 
 
 THE ORPHAN'S TRUST. 
 
 Scene. — A gipsy camp in the background. A young 
 girl discovered in the act of withdrawing her hand 
 from that of the Gipsy Queen. 
 
 Gipsy. — 
 
 Not care to know yom' future, blue-eyed maiden? 
 Who loves you. whom you love, and whom shall wed? 
 What laces, satins, jewels, he will give you ; 
 Wbat acres, palaces and rentals, Zeave you; 
 
SCHOOLDAY DIALOGUKS. 187 
 
 How rich must be her thoughts, how treasure-laden ; 
 To crowd such common hopes and dreams from that young, 
 golden head 1 
 
 Maiden. — 
 Ah ! gipsey, but I love ! I love, dark sister ! 
 The hand 1 worship robed this earth with bloom: 
 His glory clothes each far off, wandering planet ; 
 Yet loving eyes in tiniest flowers may scan it, 
 And, with sweet fervency of heart, adore ! 
 Thus my sweeet mother taught me; living, dying: 
 And, passing hence, so wide she left the door 
 Of that fair upper world, I scarce have missed her, 
 Or grieved her 'midst the songs of Heaven with crying: 
 So smiles Our Father's grace, e'en on the darksome tomb 1 
 
 Gipsy. — 
 Thvlce happy maid ! my love is all unneeded, 
 Where faith and love like thine, assure the heart ! 
 Yet deem by sooth, for common human feelings. 
 Your starry gems have true and bright revealings. 
 And, though full oft, through idle scorn unheeded, 
 The voice of God and fate, speaks through my mystic art I 
 
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 pression. 
 
 General principles and practical processes are pre-= 
 sented for the cultivation of strength, purity, and flexi=^ 
 bility of Voice, for the improvement of distinctness and 
 correctness in articulation, and for the development ®f 
 Soul Power in delivery. 
 
 The work includes a systematic treatment of Gesture 
 in its several departments of position, facial expression^ 
 and bodily movement, a brief system of Gymnastics 
 bearing upon vocal development and grace of move= 
 ment, and also a chapter on Methods of Instruction, for 
 teachers. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon receipt 
 of price. 
 
 The Penn Publishing Company 
 
 1020 Arch Street, Philadelphia 
 
SHOEMAKER^S 
 
 The National School 
 
 of Klocution and Qtatoty 
 
 ODD FELLOWS' TEMPLE 
 
 Broad and Cherry Streets 
 Phitadelphia 
 
 PERSONS wishiiigf to obtain practical training; and 
 artistic culture in Elocution and Oratory should 
 attend this institution. 
 
 It is the oldest chartered school of expression in 
 America. 
 
 Its students and gfraduates, numbering; thousands^ 
 are to be found in all parts of this country and 
 Canada, occupying; prominent positions as Public 
 Readers, Teachers of Elocution, Clergymen, Lecturers, 
 Actors, etc. 
 
 Instruction thorough in all that pertains to a well- 
 rounded elocutionary education. 
 
 A corps of eminent teachers, each a specialist in his 
 own department. All facilities first-class. 
 
 In addition to the regular Day Classes there are 
 special Evening and Saturday courses. 
 
 Special Summer course. Private instruction. Grad- 
 uating courses one and two years. Illustrated catalogue 
 giving full information sent on application. 
 
 Principals / ^^' J* ^^ SHOEMAKER 
 
 I GEORGE B. HYNSON, ESQ. 
 
 C 118 
 
-^^0^ 
 
 
 V 
 
 
 
 
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