Chapter IX

Talk of Something that tenderly watches, while the shadows glide down in the yard, That shall go with my soldier to battle--and stand, with my picket, on guard. Spirits of loving and lost ones! Watch softly o’er Harry to-night-- For to-morrow he goes forth to battle! Arm him for Freedom and Right.

(The effectiveness of the above poem will depend mainly upon the reading. The words are a constant outburst of emotions that find relief only in vocal expression--and unless the reader can fully enter into sympathy with the various feelings displayed by the widowed mother when she learns that her only remaining son is drafted, its rare qualities will be lost on the audience. The tableaux are but a mere accompaniment.)

SUGGESTIONS.

_First Stanza._ Scene. Ordinary sitting-room; lady in widow’s weeds, knitting near table--having books, papers and work on it--in center of foreground. She rises to greet army officer in uniform, who enters at left, carrying hat in left hand, and in his right, official paper which he passes to lady who reads and turns to him as the reader (who is concealed) pronounces the first words. Her face expresses surprise and incredulity during first half of first line; then expostulation and entreaty. At the words: “Great God,” she drops back into her chair, overwhelmed by the thought.

_Second Stanza._ Without rising, she again turns to the officer, and argues the case with special resistance on the last half of the last line.

_Third Stanza._ She is roused to dispute the officer’s charge that she is not a patriot, and there is defiance in her attitude as she calls up the memory of Robert’s enlisting.

_Fourth Stanza._ Her manner changes as her recollection goes back to Harry’s babyhood, and she grows tender in the thoughts of her dead husband.

_Fifth Stanza._ Reflecting on what seems great injustice, her head bowed on her hand.

_Sixth Stanza._ She turns her face to the officer again, to answer his arguments, her face first expressing the helplessness she feels, then doubt.

_Seventh Stanza._ Still addressing the officer she becomes hard in her despair. At the words “My boy” she turns from the officer, holds out both arms to Harry, who has just entered from rear and advances to meet his mother, who embraces him, weeping. Officer retires slowly and quietly, from rear, wiping his eyes. Harry brings a low stool and sits upon it, his elbow on his mother’s chair--she caressing him.

_Eighth Stanza._ Harry takes big Bible from table and turns leaves slowly, until he finds what he wants. Mother leans back in chair, with closed eyes, one hand on Harry; countenance calm, expressing resignation.

_Ninth Stanza._ Harry kneels near mother, who, in last two lines, with clasped hands and uplifted face makes her petition. Curtain falls on this tableau, after the last word of the poem.

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AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

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BY ALICE CARY.

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(TABLEAUX ILLUSTRATING THIS POEM, ARRANGED ESPECIALLY FOR THE “PRESTON
LIBRARY.”)

Only the “cue” lines are given for each tableau, the well-known poem being found in various collections, and space forbidding an entire reprint.

CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES:--The old man, who is speaking; the artist, who may be a young man, in sack coat or cardigan jacket, with fez or smoking cap; the mother in quaint old style dress, hair parted on forehead; two small boys in roundabout and long pants, such as were worn thirty years ago.

TABLEAUX.

_First scene_, cue lines:

“O good painter, tell me true,
Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?”

Artist’s studio; pictures on walls and easels; bric-a-brac on what-not or chiffonier; artist paints at easel in center front of platform, side face to audience; customer enters from left, hat in hand, facing audience, looking earnestly at artist.

_Second scene_, cue line:

“At last we stood at our mother’s knee.”

Sitting room, rather plainly furnished with old style chairs, sofa, etc.; mother at left of front center; boys standing at her knee, grouped with three-quarter faces toward the audience; mother looking very grave; boy having bird’s nest stands so that nest may be seen.

_Third scene._ Studio again.

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MY SISTER’S PHOTOGRAPHS.

(ADAPTED AND ABRIDGED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS PUBLICATION--WITH TABLEAUX
ARRANGED BY THE AUTHOR OF “PRESTON PAPERS.”)

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CHARACTERS:--Geordie, a boy about twelve years old; Miss Watson and Geordie’s three sisters, all fashionable young ladies; a foppish young man, a clerk, with an exceedingly long mustache; Peters, red-haired and freckled; Mr. Courtenay, a lawyer, who carries his head away up in the air.

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To-day I was let set up in a arm-chair, tucked up in a quilt.[1] I soon got tired o’ that, so I ast Betty to git me a glass o’ ice water to squench my thirst, an’ when she was gone I cut an’ run, an’ went into Susan’s room to look at all them photographs of nice young men she’s got there in her bureau drawer.

The girls was all down in the parlor, ’cos Miss Watson had come to call. Betty she come a huntin’ of me, but I hid in the closet behind a ole hoop-skirt. I come out when she went down stairs, an’ had a real good time. Some o’ them photographs was written on the back like this:

“Conseated fop!”

“Oh, ain’t he sweet?”

“A perfick darling.”

“What a mouth!”

“Portrait of a donkey!”

I kep about two dozen o’ them I knew, to have some fun when I get well--’n’ then shut the drawer, so’s Sue wouldn’t know they’s took.

I couldn’t bear to go back to that nasty room, I was so tired of it, ’n’ I thot I’d pass my time playin’ I’s a young lady. I found a lot o’ little curls in the buro, wich I stuck on all around my forehead with a bottle o’ mewsilage. Then I seen some red stuff on a sawser, wich I rubbed onto my cheeks.[2]

Wen I was all fixed up I slid down the bannisters, plump agin Miss Watson, wot was a sayin’ good-by to my sisters. Such a hollerin’ as they made!

Miss Watson she turned me to the light, an’ sez she, as sweet as pie: “Geordie, where did you get them pretty red cheeks?”

Susan she made a sign, but I didn’t pay no ’tention to it.

“I found some red stuff in Sue’s buro,” sez I--’n’ she smiled kind o’ hateful ’n’ said:

“O-o-o-h!”[3]

Wich my sister says she is a awful gossip, wot’ll tell all over town that they paint, wich they don’t, ’cause that stuff was just to make red roses on card-board, wich is all right.

Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

“Aha, Missy,” sez I to myself, “you don’t guess about them photographs wot I took out o’ your buro!”

Some folks think little boys’ ears are made o’ purpose to be boxed--my sisters do. If they knew how it riled me up they’d be more careful.

I laid low--but beware to-morrow.

This morning they let me come down to breakfast.

I’ve got all those pictures in my pockets, you bet your sweet life.

“Wot makes your pockets stick out so?” ast Lily, when I was a waiting a chance to slip out un-be-known.

“Oh, things,” sez I--’n’ she laughed.

I got off down town, an’ had piles o’ fun. I called on every one o’ them aboriginals of them photographs.

“Hello, Geordie! Well agen?” said the first feller I stopped to see.

Oh, my! when I get big enuff I hope my mustaches won’t be waxed like his ’n! He’s in a store, ’n’ I got him to give me a nice cravat, ’n’ he ast me, “Was my sisters well?” so I fished out his photograph and gave it to him.

It was the one that had “Conseated Fop” written on the back. The girls had drawed his mustaches out twict as long with a pencil, ’n’ made him smile all acrost his face. He got as red as fire, ’n’ then he scowled at me.[4]

“Who did that, you little rascal?” “I guess the spirits done it” I said, as onest as a owl--’n’ then went away real quick ’cause he looked mad.

The next place I come to was a grocery store, where a nuther young man lived. He had red hair, an’ freckles, but he seemed to think hisself a beauty. I said:

“Hello, Peters!”

He said: “The same yourself, Master George. Do you like raisins? Help yourself.”

Boys wot has three pretty sisters allers does get treated well, I notiss. I took a big handful o’ raisins, ’n’ a few peanuts, ’n’ sot on the counter eating ’em, till all at onst, as if I jest tho’t of it, I took out his photograph an’ squinted at it, an sez:

“I do declare it looks like you.”

“Let’s see it,” sez he.

I wouldn’t for a long time, then I gave it to him. The girls had made freckles all over it. This was the one they wrote on its back: “He ast me, but I wouldn’t have him.” They’d painted his hair as red as a rooster’s comb. He got quite pale when he seen it clost.[5]

“It’s a burning shame” sez I, “for them young ladies to make fun o’ their bows.”

“Clear out,” sez Peters.

I grabbed a nuther bunch o’ raisins ’n’ quietly disappeared. I tell you he was wrathy.

Mister Courtenay he’s a lawyer ’n’ got a offis on the square by the court-house. I knew him very well, ’cos he comes to our house offen. He’s a awful queer lookin’ chap, an’ so stuck up you’d think he was tryin’ to see if the moon was made o’ green cheese, like folks says it is, the way he keeps his nose up in the air. He’s got a deep, deep voice--way down in his boots. My heart beat wen I got in there, I was that frightened; but I was bound to see the fun out, so I ast him:

“Is the ‘What is It’ on exabishun to-day?”

“Wot do you mean?” sez he, a lookin’ down at me.

“Sue said if I would come to your offis I would see wot this is the picture of,” sez I--given’ him his own photograph inscribed “The Wonderful What is It.”

It’s awful funny to see their faces wen they look at their own cards.

In about a minute he up with his foot--which I dodged just in time.[6]

Well, sir, I give them cards all back afore dinner time. I expect there.’ll be a row. I’ve laughed myself almost to fits thinkin’ of the feller wot I give the “Portrait of a Donkey” to. He looked so cress-fallen. I do believe he cried.

Wen I got home they wuz teazin’ ma to let ’em give a party next week. I don’t believe one o’ them young men ’ll come to it; the girls have give ’em dead away. I don’t care, worth a cent. Wot for makes ’em box my ears ’f they want me to be good to ’em?

TABLEAUX.

1. Boy’s room. Geordie in an arm-chair wrapped in a quilt.

2. Girls’ room. Geordie, fixed up as described, stands in center of foreground--grinning self-consciously.

3. Parlor. Miss Watson and Geordie in foreground, side face to audience; sisters scattered in rear and at sides.

4. Clothing store; counters, shelves, etc., may be simulated by tables, boxes and what-nots, on which clothing may be piled. Clerk and Geordie in front, clerk scowling--Geordie as innocent as it is possible to look.

5. Grocery store. Boxes and barrels standing around, Geordie sitting on one and just in the act of handing the picture to Peters.

6. Lawyer’s office. Desk and chairs in rear and side of room. Table with books at opposite side. Lawyer at right and Geordie at left of center, the former in the act of administering a kick, which Geordie wards off with his hand.

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THE NIGHT WATCH.

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FRANÇOIS COPPÊE.

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(ILLUSTRATED BY TABLEAUX ARRANGED EXPRESSLY FOR THE PRESTON LIBRARY BY
THE AUTHOR OF “PRESTON PAPERS.”)

CHARACTERS AND COSTUMES:--Irene in Nun’s dress, with silver cross, and ring, as suggested in the poem; she should be tall, slight, and pale, with black hair--which is covered by a white wig for the last tableau; the wounded officer, in regimentals for first tableau, on a cot after that (any soldier uniform with gilt lace and epaulettes will do;) the valet, an old man in servants’ livery; the doctor, in a business suit; the postman, in uniform, with mail-bag.

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Soon as her lover to the war had gone,
Without tears or common-place despair,
Irene de Grandfief, a maiden pure
And noble-minded, reassumed the garb
That at the convent she had worn--black dress
With narrow pelerine--and the small cross
In silver at her breast; her piano closed.
Her jewels put away--all save one ring.
Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eve
In the past spring-time when he had left her,
Bidding farewell, and from Irene’s brow
Culling one silken tress, that he might wear it
In gold medallion close upon his heart.[1]
Without delay or hindrance, in the ranks
He took a private’s place. What that war was
Too well is known.

Impassible, and speaking
Seldom as might be of her absent lover,
Irene daily, at a certain hour,
Watched at her window till the postman came
Down o’er the hill along the public road,
His mail-bag at his back.[2] If he passed by,
Nor any letter left, she turned away
Stifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.

Then came the siege of Paris--hideous time!
Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasion
Drew near Irene’s chateau. In vain the priest
And the old doctor, in their evening talk,
Grouped with the family around the hearth,
Death for their constant theme before her took.

No sad foreboding could that young heart know.
Roger at Metz was, with his regiment, safe,
At the last date unwounded. He was living;
He must be living; she was sure of that.
Thus by her faith, in faithful love sustained,
Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.

Wakened one morning, with a start, she heard
In the far copses of the park shots fired
In quick succession. ’Twas the enemy!
She would be brave as Roger. So she blushed
At her own momentary fear; then calm
As though the incident a trifle were,
Her toilet made; and, having duly said
Her daily prayer, not leaving out one Ave,
Down to the drawing-room as usual went,
A smile upon her lips.

It had, indeed,
Been a mere skirmish---that, and nothing more.
Thrown out as scouts, a few Bavarian soldiers
Had been abruptly, by our Franc-Tireurs,
Surprised and driven off. They had picked up
Just at that moment, where the fight had been,
A wounded officer--Bavarian was he--
Shot through the neck. And when they brought him in,
That tall young man, all pale, eyes closed, and bleeding,
Stretched on a mattress--without sigh or shudder
Irene had him carefully borne up
Into the room by Roger occupied
When he came wooing there,[3] Then, while they put
The wounded man to bed, she carried out
Herself his vest and cloak all black with blood;
Bade the old valet wear an air less glum,
And stir himself with more alacrity;
And, when the wound was dressed, lent aid,
As of the Sisterhood of Charity,
With her own hands.[4]

Evening came on apace
Bringing the doctor. When he saw the man
A strange expression flitted o’er his face,
As to himself he muttered: “Yes, flushed cheek;
Pulse beating much too high. If possible
I must arrest the fever. This prescription
Very oft succeeds. But some one must take note
Of the oncoming fits; must watch till morn,
And tend him closely.”

“Doctor, I am here.”
“Not you, young lady! Service such as this
One of your valets can”----

“No, doctor, No!
Roger perchance may be a prisoner yonder,--
Hurt, ill. If he such tending should require
As does this officer, I would he had
A German woman for his nurse.”

“So be it,”
Answered the doctor, offering her his hand.
“Give him the potion four times every hour
I will return to judge of its effects
At daylight.”[5] Then he went his way, and left
Irene to her office self-imposed.

Scarcely a minute had she been in charge,
When the Bavarian, to Irene turning,
With eye half-opened looked at her and spoke.
“This doctor,” said he “thought I was asleep,
But I heard every word. I thank you, lady;
I thank you from my very inmost heart--
Less for myself than for her sake, to whom
You would restore me, and who there at home
Awaits me.”

“Hush,” she said, “Sleep if you can
Do not excite yourself. Your life depends
On perfect quiet.”

“No,” he answered, “No!
I must at once unload me of a secret
That weighs upon me. I a promise made,
And I would keep it. Death may be at hand.”[6]
“Speak, then,” Irene said “and ease your soul.”

“The war,---- oh, what an infamy is war!
It was last month, by Metz, ’twas my ill fate
To kill a Frenchman.” She turned pale, and lowered
The lamp-light to conceal it.[7] He continued:

“We were sent forward to surprise a cottage,
Strengthened and held by some of yours. We did
As hunters do when stalking game. The night
Was clouded. Silent, arms in hand, in force,
Along the poplar-bordered path we crept
Up to the French post. I, first, drove my saber
Into the soldiers’ back who sentry stood
Before the door. He fell, nor gave the alarm.
We took the cottage, putting to the sword
Every soul there.”

Irene with her hands
Covered her eyes.

“Disgusted with such carnage,
Loathing such scene, I stepped into the air.
Just then the moon broke through the clouds and showed me
There at my feet a soldier on the ground
Writhing, the rattle in his throat. ’Twas he,
The sentry whom my saber had transpierced.
Touched with compassion sudden and supreme,
I stopped, to offer him a helping hand--
But, with choked voice, ‘It is too late,’ he said,
I must needs die----you are an officer--
A gentleman, perchance’, ‘Yes; tell me quick;
What can I do for you?’ ‘Promise--that you
Will forward this,’ he said, his fingers clutching
A gold medallion hanging at his breast,
Dabbled in blood, ‘to’--then his latest thoughts
Passed with his latest breath. The loved one’s name,
Mistress or bride affianced, was not told
By that poor Frenchman.

Seeing blazoned arms
On the medallion, I took charge of it,
Hoping to trace her at some future day
Among the nobility of France,
To whom reverts the dying soldier’s gift;
Here it is. Take it. But, I pray you, swear
That, if death spares me not, you will fulfill
This pious duty in my place.”

Therewith
He the medallion handed her; and on it
Irene saw the Viscount’s blazoned arms.
Then--her heart agonized with mortal woe--
“I swear it, sir!” she murmured. “Sleep in peace,”
Solaced by having this disclosure made,
The wounded man sank down in sleep. Irene,
Her bosom heaving, and with eyes aflame
Though tearless all, stood rooted by his side.[8]
Yes, he is dead, her lover! Those his arms;
His blazon that, no less renowned than ancient;
The very blood stains his! Nor was his death
Heroic, soldier-like. Struck from behind,
Without or cry or call for comrade’s help,
Roger was murdered. And there, sleeping, lies
The man who murdered him!

Yes; he has boasted
How in the back the traitorous blow was dealt.
And now he sleeps, with drowsiness oppressed,
Roger’s assassin; and ’twas she, Irene,
Who bade him sleep in peace! And then again,
With what cruel mockery, cruel and supreme,
She from this brow must wipe away the sweat!
She by this couch must watch till dawn of day,
As loving mother by a suffering child!
She must at briefest intervals to him
Administer the remedy prescribed,
So that he die not! And the man himself
Counting on this in quiet,--sheltered, housed
Under the roof of hospitality!
And there the flask upon the table stands
Charged with his life. He waits it: Is not this
Beyond imagination horrible?

What! While she feels creeping and growing on her
All that is awful in the one word “hate,”
While in her breast the ominous anger seethes
That nerved, in holy scripture, Jael’s arm
To drive the nail through Sisera’s head! She save
The accursed German! Oh, away! Such point
Forbearance reaches not.

What! While it glitters
There in the corner, the brass-pommeled sword,
Wherewith the murderer struck--and fell desire,
Fierce impulse bids it from the scabbard leap--
Shall she, in deference to vague prejudice,
To some fantastic notion that affects
Human respect and duty, shall she put
Repose and sleep, and antidote and life
Into the horrible hand by which all joy
Is ravished from her?

Never! She will break
The assuaging flask.

But no! ’Twere needless that.
She needs but leave Fate to work out its end.
Fate, to avenge her, seems to be at one
With her resolve. ’Twere but to let him die!

Yes, there the life preserving potion stands;
But for one hour might she not fall asleep?
Then, all in tears, she murmured “Infamy!”

And still the struggle lasted, till the German,
Roused by her deep groans from his wandering dreams,
Moved, ill at ease, and, feverish, begged for drink.

Up toward the antique Christ in ivory,
At the bed’s head suspended on the wall,
Irene raised the martyr’s look sublime;
Then, ashen pale, but ever with her eyes
Turned to the God of Calvary, poured out
The soothing draught, and with a delicate hand
Gave to the wounded man the drink he asked.

And when the doctor in the morning came,
And saw Irene beside the officer,
Tending him still and giving him his drink
With trembling fingers, he was much amazed,
That through the dreary watches of the night
The raven locks, which, at set of sun,
Had crowned her fair young brow, by morning’s dawn
Had changed to snowy white.[9]

TABLEAUX.

Scene only changes from reception room to chamber, and the poem suggests the characters for each, and the surroundings. _Look out for the details mentioned in the poem._

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SYSTEMATIC AND INTELLECTUAL HOUSEKEEPING.

(WITH TABLEAUX.)

“What is that, my dear? A trip into the country? Why, certainly. Go and enjoy yourself. Stay as long as you like. Take the children with you and give the domestics a holiday. Don’t hurry back on my account. I shall get along well enough. I guess I haven’t forgotten all my old bachelor ways and means yet. Besides, I don’t believe in all this fuss and nonsense about housekeeping being burdensome. It all depends upon the amount of intellect you bring to bear upon the matter. Of course, women have no idea of ‘system’ such as a man uses in his business--but I know that it can be carried into the domestic economy with very good results, and I shall be glad of a chance to show you the effect of a little brain power in the kitchen.”[18]

Mrs. Brown was a very indulgent wife who never found it necessary to proclaim superiority to her liege lord, even in the domestic lines where he now seemed really anxious to test his ability--besides, she really wanted a summer in the country for the children’s sake (or the children’s ache, as it proved later), so she smiled sweetly at his ready acquiescence to her suggestion and immediately set about preparations for departure.

She wanted to retain at least one domestic, as a reserved force in case of emergency; but Mr. Brown scouted the idea, and upon reflection she decided to let him have his way, knowing that he could exist upon restaurant fare if worse came to worst, and he was not so successful in his culinary experiments as he hoped.

So in three days the house was left in solitary possession of its sanguine head, who had gone to the suburban station with his family, bag and baggage, at noon.[18]

Being in business for himself, Mr. Brown could not drop his work, as his clerks did, regardless of importance, when the clock pointed to the hour of five--and on this particular day he had been in close consultation with one of his out of town drummers, and in planning the fall campaign of business the time had sped so rapidly that he was surprised to find it half past six when the commercial man left him--and as he left the street car he half wished he had kept the cook for a day or two until he was fairly initiated, for he was hungry--very--and did not want to wait to cook a dinner. But thinking: “I’ll broil a steak and make some coffee,” he walked up the steps and into the house with a tolerably light heart. Once within, he had to whistle and talk to himself, to prevent the feeling of utter loneliness that would steal over him in spite of his weighty intellect.[18]

Mr. Brown was orderly, even in haste, so when he took off his coat he hung it up with usual care--and put on his slippers before descending to the dining-room, which he found very dark. He opened the blinds wide, and as the light from the setting sun flooded the room he took fresh courage. “Oh, this isn’t half bad, as our English cousins would say”--and he smiled with gratitude at Maria’s tender thoughtfulness (which just then struck him as better “pound for pound” than intellect or system) in having left the table already set, and with bits of her very choicest China, too.[18]

“She’ll trust me with her hand-painted ware, if she doesn’t Bridget”--and he smiled again with pardonable pride as he thought of his own worthiness to be thus exalted beyond a mere drudge, while he proceeded to the kitchen.

The range was polished to a degree--for Maria was a good housekeeper and her domestics well trained, even without that mighty “intellect” and that forceful “system” on which Mr. Brown was at times prone to expatiate--but it was also dark and cold, and he didn’t want to stop and kindle a fire. As he turned to the gas stove, thinking he would use that, he remembered that he hadn’t brought any steak!

There was no help for it, he must go back down town for his dinner, as he had told Maria to be sure and have the cupboards cleared out, as he didn’t “want to live on cold victuals” and all the markets near were closed now. He locked up carefully, got on the next street car that came along, and went to a club-house that he had patronized in the beautiful long ago.

Apprehensive of more loneliness on his return home, he went out to a news stand and purchased a copy of Stockton’s latest story, for evening company. The house seemed darker than ever when he again entered it, and the silence was almost oppressive. He could hear his watch tick and his heart beat--and it seemed as if both said “Alone, alone, alone,” with provoking iteration, while he groped for a match.

Until then Mr. Brown had not known how much of his happiness depended upon light--light and sound. How still it was, even after the gas had made the house brilliant! What would he not have given to hear even one of Maria’s commonplaces about household matters! How he did wish Ben were here, his sturdy ten-year old Ben, who was so manly and yet so boyish!! The girls, of course, ought to be with Maria; but he and Ben would have been capital chums. Why had he not thought of it?

Even Stockton was dull alone--and he had sometimes had double fun with his favorite author, because in reading aloud he would have to stop and explain a joke that to him seemed bare. He put away the book, lighted a cigar and took up the daily newspaper--but now he missed Maria more than ever, for usually while he smoked, she billed and cooed and admired him in the most lavish way imaginable. That didn’t seem to be the product of any cast-iron system, nor to require any great intellectual effort; but Mr. Brown liked it, was accustomed to it, and he missed it from among the home comforts and luxuries by which he was surrounded.[18]

A happy thought struck him, and he prepared to write a letter to his family. Now that was a sacrifice of self, for if there was anything Mr. Brown detested it was correspondence of any kind; but as he wrote he forgot himself and poured out some of his finest feelings in his letter to his wife and little ones, writing on and on, page after page--until he was not surprised next day to have to pay a sixteen cent tribute to Uncle Sam for carrying the precious missive.[18]

The morning found him up early, having received an inspiration about breakfast, before going to bed. He would cook some rice! The baker’s man would come with hot rolls, which he had ordered the day before, and with the strawberries (which he heard the grocer’s boy bringing even now) coffee, and eggs, he would breakfast like a king. Also, he would bring Ed Nash home to dinner, and to stay all night, for spend another evening by himself he would not--if he could help it.

After a careful toilet Mr. Brown began a search for the rice, rightly judging that it would require longer to cook than coffee or eggs. That was premeditated intellect. What followed was neither premeditated nor--strictly speaking--intellect, for when it came to a matter of judgment regarding quantity, he simply hadn’t any; any judgment, I mean; the quantity was there--so far as the rice was concerned--and with a hasty “I’ll be sure to cook enough, so I can have some left for griddle cakes,” he washed a quart and put it on to boil in a tiny farina kettle, with just enough water to keep it from sticking, while he looked after the other things.

Something ailed that rice. That was certain; and as he looked at the hard, shiny grains after having put the coffee and eggs to boil, in real systematic shape, he brought his great, massive, masculine intellect to bear on the rice and its nature. “It needs more water”--and he covered it, feeling encouraged at the evident effect of mind over matter, and proceeded to hull the strawberries and give them a liberal powdering with sugar.

Then Mr. Brown looked at the rice again. Dry and hard as a stone! No evidence of ever having had a drop of water!! More meditation. The kettle was full--no room for water--rice must have swollen--get a larger kettle! Eureka!! And he got the larger kettle, and again flooded the rice, hoping it would be done by the time he had arranged his breakfast on the table. It had been cooking half an hour, and he had often heard Maria say that half an hour of quick boiling was enough--more spoiled it. To be sure this had not been “quick,” but “the extra length of time ought to compensate,” he reasoned, and with a very good show of logic.

But the law of compensation didn’t work, and all Mr. Brown’s logic left him helpless in the presence of that rice, when, after getting everything else on the table he again looked at it, only to find it as hard as possible, dry again, and up to the very edge of the second kettle!

“Well, I can have it for dinner. It will save cooking fresh;” and he again emptied it into a still larger kettle and sat down to a really good breakfast of which rice was not a component. Under the exhilarating influence of the coffee he grew facetious, and sustained all sides in a family conversation--to keep up a flow of spirits during the meal--varied by calls to an imaginary Bridget, whom he assured in a very good imitation of Maria’s blandest tones, “Mr. Brown will bring company to dinner to-night, so be prompt.”

He read the morning paper, while indulging in his third cup of the delicious beverage---then decided to put the dishes in the sink, unwashed, as there were so few soiled and plenty of fresh ones.

“Besides,” he reasoned with masculine forethought, “maybe Ed will help me wash them to-night”--which no one who knew Ed’s innermost would ever have suggested, as he had no genius for housekeeping, no intellectual craving for its drudgery, and a horror of anything about it except its most fastidious results. However, Mr. Brown did not know this, when he banked on Ed’s company and help--and when Ed was invited home to dinner “and to stay all night” he accepted with alacrity and with no thought of what was in store for him.

Mr. Brown dismissed himself from his office promptly at five this time, hoping to surprise Ed with a properly-served and really elegant dinner, having made elaborate preparations by telephone orders for steak, vegetables and fruit; and he hurried home happy in the consciousness of having demonstrated “intellectual capacity as a necessary adjunct of good housekeeping.” As he opened the door, an odor of something burning offended his somewhat delicate olfactory organs, but he proceeded with deliberate precision to divest himself of his street garb before descending to the kitchen, where he saw, oh, horrors! Rice on the range, on the floor, and everywhere, in great abundance; boiling, burning and dry, and that large kettle standing there full to the brim of a solid mass, dry and hard, the fire nearly out, having burned all day without a damper.

Mr. Brown was somewhat discouraged, but went bravely to work to rescue the range and floor from another inundation of rice and to clean up what had overflowed; but long before through the work of restoration the bell rang. He made no change in his looks before going up stairs, rightly thinking Ed would size up the joke in good shape and they would enjoy the whole thing in royal masculine style. He even forgot to drop the little shovel with which he had been scooping up the rice--his intellect was too weighty to suggest the use of a broom--so it now and then dropped a tear of rice on the carpet as he went to the door.

“Glad to see you, old fellow (fumbling at the night latch) at least I will be as soon as I get this measly door open”, and he fairly beamed at the prospect of company to dinner.

Mr. Brown’s face and attitude would have been a study for an artist when the door finally opened--and instead of Ed Nash, he saw an elegantly dressed young lady whom he did not know, but who smiled brightly, and said:

“Cousin George, I believe?”

No reply. Mr. Brown might have been petrified, for all the emotion he betrayed. He was dazed. After waiting two or three seconds the brilliant creature laughed outright, and asked:

“Didn’t Maria get my telegram? I don’t believe you were expecting me.”

Then he gasped, “Maria is out in the country. I thought it was Ed Nash.”

She laughed again, and that laugh reassured him, and as she said: “My name is Edna, but I was never before saluted as ‘old fellow’”, he opened the door wide and said:

“Come in and stay for dinner. I am here alone just now, but Ed is coming.”

Miss Russell hesitated but for a moment. She was only to be in the city between trains, and had telegraphed Maria that she would call--but the messenger had found no one at home and was just too late to find Mr. Brown at his office. She must get to the 8:30 train and “Cousin” George must go with her. So she declared, while taking off hat and gloves, at the hatrack.

Here was a dilemma. Dinner must be hastened; he must leave her in the library to entertain herself while he again went below stairs to reduce chaos to a semblance of civilization. Just then the bell rang again. This time it was Ed, and Mr. Brown received him with visible embarrassment--but kept him in the hall while explaining the situation before taking him into the library to present to Miss Russell--who, even yet, did not know that the house was being run by a one-man-power, else she would have gone down stairs at once and relegated Mr. Brown to the office of entertainer while she officiated as Bridget.

It was with an air of humility that our hero finally invited his guests to a dinner of which the fruit and coffee were by far the best part. Then they learned of his struggles, and together they laughed and ate, both gentlemen finally going to the train with Miss Russell, leaving the dinner table to stand until their return.

Here the writer will draw the veil of obscurity--referring you to Ed Nash for details as to what happened on their return--and leaves you to judge of the next six weeks’ doings by the dialogue that was heard the day following Maria’s return from the country:

“George, what is my garden-fork doing out there in the kitchen? It looks as if it had been burned. ‘You used it to broil steak on? You couldn’t use the broiler because the fat all ran down into the fire?’ You should have used your intellect, my dear.

“And this sticky stuff in the soup tureen; what is it? ‘You thought you would make a pie or two, but as the flour and water stuck to your fingers you ate the apples raw?’ A pie-ous plan, I am sure.

“And these dishes; why is all this China piled into these tubs and barrels? Upon my word, they look dirty. What’s the trouble? ‘Oh, you got tired of washing dishes, and it made your hands sore?’ You should have had a little more system, dearest, then it would have been all right.

“And this soiled linen? Why was it not given to the washerwoman, or sent to the laundry? ‘Oh, you kept using the clean and when that was gone you bought more?’ That was hardly good domestic economy, but if you have been buying so long you must have a good supply on hand, darling.

“How about the beds? I see that none of them are made. What! ‘You took turns, sleeping in each, to save the trouble of making?’ Well, that was ingenious, even if slightly tinctured with inertia.

“What is all this broken bric-a-brac out in the coal scuttle? ‘You attempted to dust the what-not and knocked the whole blamed thing endwise?’ George, your language is positively shocking, and is only equaled by your want of knowledge of some of the commonest truths in gravitation. You know that to maintain an equilibrium”--but here Mrs. Brown’s pretty mouth was closed by George’s larger one, who emerged from the oscular demonstration with a profession of profound respect for anyone who can run the household machinery with or without “system” and by bringing intellectual weight into it or leaving it out entirely.

TABLEAUX.

The tableaux will suggest themselves at the places indicated; and during the last part of the reading the curtain should remain drawn from “George, what is my garden fork doing” until he kisses her, while she points to everything of which she speaks.

--------------

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

-------- PAGE
ABOU BEN ADHEM 51
AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE 60
ANSWERING AN ADVERTISEMENT 24
BIRTH OF THE IVY, THE 7
BRIDAL WINE CUP, THE 44
BRIDAL VEIL, THE 27
CALLAGHAN’S FAILURE 13
DEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER 22
DRAFTED 56
EASTER EXERCISE--“King Robert of Sicily” 54
GRANDMA’S MINUET 49
IF 34
JIMMY BROWN’S SISTER’S WEDDING 29
LESSONS IN COOKERY 41
LOOKING BACKWARD 39
MATRIMONIAL PHILOSOPHY 18
MY SISTER’S PHOTOGRAPHS 61
NIGHT WATCH, THE 66
OPENING OF THE PIANO 20
SMALL BOY’S EXPLANATION 38
STRONG COFFEE 31
SYSTEMATIC AND INTELLECTUAL HOUSEKEEPING 75
WASHERWOMAN’S SONG, THE 36

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Transcriber’s Note

Most readings are accompanied by a numbered set of 'tableaux', or stage directions, which appear at the end of each text, and act as footnotes. In the first two readings, the final tableau (nos. 10 and 5 respectively), had no corresponding reference in the text. These have been added at the end of each reading.

Some readings, while there are references in the text, have no directions in the 'Tableaux' section following them.

Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. The following issues should be noted, along with the resolutions.

14.22 so small that Mr. Callaghan[’s] but for his Removed.
natural politeness

14.25 The revolver was pointed in Mr. Callaghan[’s] Added.
direction

27.15 from my head and look on me[.] Added.

38.22 “You just ought ter seen him[,]” Added.

53.21 [(]See> “Directions,” p. 6, for making Added.
foot-lights.)

54.3 by the Author of “Preston Papers.[”] Added.

54.12 (“cue” line.[”]) Removed.

58.6 To[o] fair to be crippled or scarred? Added.

66.13 Without [or ]tears or common-place despair, Removed.

71.11 A gentleman, perchance[’]>, ‘Yes; tell me Added.
quick;

71.12 What can I do for you?[’] Added.

76.25 the light from the s[i/e]tting sun Replaced.