Chapter VI: Part 6

MANUFACTURER [_very slowly_]. Perhaps you _have_ known me for a long, long time. [_His tone is so kindly and impressive that PIERRETTE forgets the table-cloth and looks up at him. For a moment or two he smiles back at her as she gazes, spellbound; then he turns away to the fire again, with the little chuckle that is never far from his lips._]

PIERRETTE [_taking a small bow from his side-pocket_]. Oh, look at this.

MANUFACTURER [_in mock alarm_]. Oh, oh, I didn't mean you to see that. I'd forgotten it was sticking out of my pocket. I used to do a lot of archery at one time. I don't get much chance now. [_He takes it and puts it back in his pocket._]

PIERROT [_singing in the distance_].

"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She is drawing the sea in her net;
And mellow and musical June
Is teaching the rose to forget."

MANUFACTURER [_in a whisper as the voice draws nearer_]. Who is that?

PIERRETTE. Pierrot. [_Again the conical white hat flashes past the window and PIERROT enters._]

PIERROT. I can't find her anywhere. [_Seeing THE MANUFACTURER._] Hullo! Who are you?

MANUFACTURER. I am a stranger to you, but Pierrette knew me in a moment.

PIERROT. An old flame perhaps?

MANUFACTURER. True, I am an old flame. I've lighted up the world for a considerable time. Yet when you say "old," there are many people who think I'm wonderfully well preserved for my age. How long do you think I've been trotting about?

PIERROT [_testily, measuring a length with his hands_]. Oh, about that long.

MANUFACTURER. I suppose being funny all day _does_ get on your nerves.

PIERRETTE. Pierrot, you needn't be rude.

MANUFACTURER [_anxious to be alone with PIERROT_]. Pierrette, have you got supper in?

PIERRETTE. Oh, I must fly! The shops will all be shut. Will you be here when I come back?

MANUFACTURER [_bustling her out_]. I can't promise, but I'll try, I'll try. [_PIERRETTE goes out. There is a silence, during which THE MANUFACTURER regards PIERROT with amusement._]

MANUFACTURER. Well, friend Pierrot, so business is not very brisk.

PIERROT. Brisk! If laughter meant business, it would be brisk enough, but there's no money. However, I've done one good piece of work to-day. I've arranged with the editor to put an article in the paper. That will fetch 'em. [_Singing_]:

"Please come one day and see our house that's down among the trees,
But do not come at four o'clock for then we count the bees,
And bath the tadpoles and the frogs, who splash the clouds with gold,
And watch the new-cut cucum_bers_ perspiring with the cold."

That's a song I'm writing.

MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, if you had all the money in the world you wouldn't be happy.

PIERROT. Wouldn't I? Give me all the money in the world and I'll risk it. To start with, I'd build schools to educate the people up to high-class things.

MANUFACTURER. You dream of fame and wealth and empty ideals, and you miss all the best things there are. You are discontented. Why? Because you don't know how to be happy.

PIERROT [_reciting_]:

"Life's a running brooklet,
Catch the fishes there,
You who wrote a booklet
On a woman's hair."

[_Explaining._] That's another song I'm writing. It's the second verse. Things come to me all of a sudden like that. I must run out a third verse, just to wind it up.

MANUFACTURER. Why don't you write a song without any end, one that goes on for ever?

PIERROT. I say, that's rather silly, isn't it?

MANUFACTURER. It all depends. For a song of that sort the singer must be always happy.

PIERROT. That wants a bit of doing in my line.

MANUFACTURER. Shall you and I transact a little business?

PIERROT. By all means. What seats would you like? There are the front rows covered in velvet, one shilling; wooden benches behind, sixpence; and, right at the back, the twopenny part. But, of course, you'll have shilling ones. How many shall we say?

MANUFACTURER. You don't know who I am.

PIERROT. That makes no difference. All are welcome, and we thank you for your courteous attention.

MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, I am a maker of dreams.

PIERROT. A what?

MANUFACTURER. I make all the dreams that float about this musty world.

PIERROT. I say, you'd better have a rest for a bit. I expect you're a trifle done up.

MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't tumble to my calling. A child or one of the "people" would in a moment. I am a maker of dreams, little things that glide about into people's hearts and make them glad. Haven't you often wondered where the swallows go to in the autumn? They come to my workshop, and tell me who wants a dream, and what happened to the dreams they took with them in the spring.

PIERROT. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that.

MANUFACTURER. When flowers fade, have you never wondered where their colors go to, or what becomes of all the butterflies in the winter? There isn't much winter about my workshop.

PIERROT. I had never thought of it before.

MANUFACTURER. It's a kind of lost property office, where every beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its way. And there I make my celebrated dream, the dream that is called "love."

PIERROT. Ho! ho! Now we're talking.

MANUFACTURER. You don't believe in it?

PIERROT. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't last. If there is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is soul, there isn't form. Oh, I've tried hard enough to believe it, but, after the first wash, the colors run.

MANUFACTURER. You only got hold of a substitute. Wait until you see the genuine article.

PIERROT. But how is one to tell it?

MANUFACTURER. There are heaps of signs. As soon as you get the real thing, your shoulder-blades begin to tingle. That's love's wings sprouting. And, next, you want to soar up among the stars and sit on the roof of heaven and sing to the moon. Of course, that's because I put such a lot of the moon into my dreams. I break bits off until it's nearly all gone, and then I let it grow big again. It grows very quickly, as I dare say you've noticed. After a fortnight it is ready for use once more.

PIERROT. This is most awfully fascinating. And do the swallows bring all the dreams?

MANUFACTURER. Not always; I have other messengers. Every night when the big clock strikes twelve, a day slips down from the calendar, and runs away to my workshop in the Land of Long Ago. I give him a touch of scarlet and a gleam of gold, and say, "Go back, little Yesterday, and be a memory in the world." But my best dreams I keep for to-day. I buy babies, and fit them up with a dream, and then send them complete and carriage paid ... in the usual manner.

PIERROT. I've been dreaming all my life, but they've always been dreams I made myself. I suppose I don't mix 'em properly.

MANUFACTURER. You leave out the very essence of them. You must put in a little sorrow, just to take away the over-sweetness. I found that out very soon, so I took a little of the fresh dew that made pearls in the early morning, and I sprinkled my dreams with the gift of tears.

PIERROT [_ecstatically_]. The gift of tears! How beautiful! You know, I should rather like to try a real one. Not one of my own making.

MANUFACTURER. Well, there are plenty about, if you only look for them.

PIERROT. That is all very well, but who's going to look about for stray dreams?

MANUFACTURER. I once made a dream that would just suit you. I slipped it inside a baby. That was twenty years ago, and the baby is now a full-grown woman, with great blue eyes and fair hair.

PIERROT. It's a lot of use merely telling me about her.

MANUFACTURER. I'll do more. When I shipped her to the world, I kept the bill of lading. Here it is. You shall have it.

PIERROT. Thanks, but what's the good of it?

MANUFACTURER. Why, the holder of that is able to claim the goods; you will notice it contains a complete description, too. I promise you, you're in luck.

PIERROT. Has she red cheeks and a string of great beads?

MANUFACTURER. No.

PIERROT. Ah, then it is not she. Where shall I find her?

MANUFACTURER. That's for you to discover. All you have to do is to search.

PIERROT. I'll start at once. [_He moves as if to go._]

MANUFACTURER. I shouldn't start out to-night.

PIERROT. But I want to find her soon. Somebody else may find her before me.

MANUFACTURER. Pierrot, there was once a man who wanted to gather mushrooms.

PIERROT [_annoyed at the commonplace_]. Mushrooms!

MANUFACTURER. Fearing people would be up before him, he started out overnight. Morning came, and he found none, so he returned disconsolate to his house. As he came through the garden, he found a great mushroom had grown up in the night by his very door-step. Take the advice of one who knows, and wait a bit.

PIERROT. If that's your advice.... But tell me this, do you think I shall find her?

MANUFACTURER. I can't say for certain. Would you consider yourself a fool?

PIERROT. Ah ... of course ... when you ask me a direct thing like that, you make it ... er ... rather awkward for me. But, if I may say so, as man to ma ... I mean as man to ... [_he hesitates_].

MANUFACTURER [_waiving the point_]. Yes, yes.

PIERROT. Well, I flatter myself that ...

MANUFACTURER. Exactly. And that's your principal danger. Whilst you are striding along gazing at the stars, you may be treading on a little glow-worm. Shall I give you a third verse for your song?

"Life's a woman calling,
Do not stop your ears,
Lest, when night is falling,
Darkness brings you tears."

[_THE MANUFACTURER'S kindly and impressive tone holds PIERROT as it had held PIERRETTE some moments before. Whilst the two are looking at each other, a little red cloak dances past the window, and PIERRETTE enters with her marketing._]

PIERRETTE. Oh, I'm so glad you're still here.

MANUFACTURER. But I must be going now. I am a great traveler.

PIERRETTE [_standing against the door, so that he cannot pass_]. Oh, you mustn't go yet.

MANUFACTURER. Don't make me fly out of the window. I only do that under very unpleasant circumstances.

PIERROT [_gaily, with mock eloquence_]. Pierrette, regard our visitor. You little knew whom you were entertaining. You see before you the maker of the dreams that slip about the world like little fish among the rushes of a stream. He has given me the bill of lading of his great masterpiece, and it only remains for me to find her. [_Dropping to the commonplace._] I wish I knew where to look.

MANUFACTURER. Before I go, I will give you this little rhyme:

"Let every woman keep a school,
For every man is born a fool."

[_He bows, and goes out quickly and silently._]

PIERRETTE [_running to the door, and looking out_]. Why, how quickly he has gone! He's out of sight.

PIERROT. At last I am about to attain my great ideal. There will be a grand wedding, and I shall wear my white coat with the silver braid, and carry a tall gold-topped stick. [_Singing:_]

"If we play any longer, I fear you will get
Such a cold in the head, for the grass is so wet.
But during the night, Margareta divine,
I will hang the wet grass up to dry on the line."

Pierrette, I feel that I am about to enter into a man's inheritance, a woman's love.

PIERRETTE. I wish you every happiness.

PIERROT [_singing teasingly:_]

"We shall meet in our dreams, that's a thing understood;
You dream of the river, I'll dream of the wood.
I am visiting you, if the river it be;
If we meet in the wood, you are visiting me."

PIERRETTE. We must make lots of money, so that you can give her all she wants. I'll dance and dance until I fall, and the people will exclaim, "Why, she has danced herself to death."

PIERROT. You're right. We must pull the show together. I'll do that article for the paper at once. [_He takes paper, ink, etc., from the dresser, and, seating himself at the table, commences to write._] "There has lately come to this town a company of strolling players, who give a show that is at once musical and droll. The audience is enthralled by Pierrot's magnificent singing and dancing, and ... er ... very much entertained by Pierrette's homely dancing. Pierrette is a charming comedienne of twenty, with ..." what color hair?

PIERRETTE. Fair, quite fair.

PIERROT. Funny how one can see a person every day and not know the color of their hair. "Fair hair and ..." eyes?

PIERRETTE. Blue, Pierrot.

PIERROT. "Fair hair and blue eyes." Fair! Blue! Oh, of course it's nonsense, though.

PIERRETTE. What's nonsense?

PIERROT. Something I was thinking. Most girls have fair hair and blue eyes.

PIERRETTE. Yes, Pierrot, we can't all be ideals.

PIERROT. How musical your voice sounds! I can't make it out. Oh, but, of course, it is all nonsense! [_He takes the bill of lading from his pocket and reads it._]

PIERRETTE. What's nonsense?... Pierrot, won't you tell me?

PIERROT. Pierrette, stand in the light.

PIERRETTE. Is anything the matter?

PIERROT. I almost believe that nothing matters. [_Reading and glancing at her._] "Eyes that say 'I love you'; arms that say 'I want you'; lips that say 'Why don't you?'" Pierrette, is it possible! I've never noticed before how beautiful you are. You don't seem a bit the same. I believe you have lost your real face, and have carved another out of a rose.

PIERRETTE. Oh, Pierrot, what is it?

PIERROT. Love! I've found it at last. Don't you understand it all?

"I am a fool
Who has learned wisdom in your school."

To think that I've seen you every day, and never dreamed ... dreamed! Yes, ah yes, it's one of his beautiful dreams. That is why my heart seems full of the early morning.

PIERRETTE. Ah, Pierrot!

PIERROT. Oh, how my shoulders tingle! I want to soar up, up. Don't you want to fly up to the roof of heaven and sing among the stars?

PIERRETTE. I have been sitting on the moon ever so long, waiting for my lover. Pierrot, let me try on your smile. Give it to me in a kiss. [_With their hands outstretched behind them, they lean towards each other, till their lips meet in a long kiss._]

PIERRETTE [_throwing back her head with a deep sigh of happiness._] Oh, I am so happy. This might be the end of all things.

PIERROT. Pierrette, let us sit by the fire and put our feet on the fender, and live happily ever after. [_They have moved slowly to the settle. As they sit there, PIERROT sings softly:_]

"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
The stairs of the sky are so steep;
And mellow and musical June
Is waiting to kiss you to sleep."

[_The lamp on the hood of the chimney-piece has burned down, leaving only the red glow from the fire upon their faces, as the curtain whispers down to hide them._]

GETTYSBURG[31]

_A WOOD-SHED COMMENTARY_

By PERCY MACKAYE

[Footnote 31: Copyright, 1912, 1921, by Percy MacKaye. All
rights reserved.

SPECIAL NOTICE

This play in its printed form is designed for the reading
public only. All dramatic rights in it are fully protected by
copyright, in the United States, Great Britain, and all
countries subscribing to the Berne Convention. NO PUBLIC OR
PRIVATE PERFORMANCE--PROFESSIONAL OR AMATEUR--MAY BE GIVEN
WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR AND THE PAYMENT
OF ROYALTY. As the courts have also ruled that the PUBLIC
READING of a play, for pay or where tickets are sold,
constitutes a "PERFORMANCE," no such reading may be given
except under conditions above stated.

Anyone disregarding the author's rights renders himself
liable to prosecution. PERSONS WHO DESIRE PERMISSION TO GIVE
PERFORMANCES OR PUBLIC READINGS OF THIS PLAY SHOULD
COMMUNICATE DIRECT WITH THE AUTHOR, AT HIS ADDRESS, HARVARD
CLUB, 27 WEST 44 STREET, NEW YORK CITY.]

Percy MacKaye was born in New York, March 16, 1875, the son of Steele MacKaye, a well-known dramatist and theatrical inventor of his day. "My own early dramatic training," writes the son, "was in the theatre in relation with my father's work there as dramatist, actor, and director." In another place he says: "I have not sought to conceal, or to put aside, the grateful enthusiasm I feel, as a son and comrade of Steele MacKaye, for those examples of untiring devotion to the theatre and of constructive achievement in its art, by which his life has been an inspiration to my own, to follow--however haltingly and through different means--the trail of his large leadership." Percy MacKaye was graduated from Harvard in 1897 and later spent a year studying at the University of Leipzig. After travel abroad, he returned to New York in 1900 and taught there in a private school till 1904. He spent some time in the next five years lecturing on the Drama of Democracy and the Civic Theatre at various American universities. In 1904 he joined the colony of artists and men of letters at Cornish, New Hampshire, the home of Saint-Gaudens, Maxfield Parrish, Winston Churchill, and others. Since that date Percy MacKaye has devoted himself wholly to poetry and the drama, writing community masques, plays of various kinds, and operas.[32] It is interesting to note that one of the latest products of his pen, _Washington, the Man Who Made Us, A Ballad Play_, was translated into French and presented by M. Copeau's players, at the Theatre du Vieux Colombier, during their second season in New York, and later acted in English by Walter Hampden, the scene designs being made by Robert Edmond Jones. In October, 1920, he was invited to Miami University, Oxford, Ohio, not to teach but to continue his own creative work, quite untrammeled, filling there the first fellowship in creative literature ever established in this country.

[Footnote 32: A list of his works is given in the latest
_Who's Who in America_.]

_Yankee Fantasies_, a collection of five one-act plays of which _Gettysburg_ is one, is the expression of Percy MacKaye's belief that the American dramatist may find "north of Boston," or, in fact, in almost any rural neighborhood, material for "quaint and lovely interpretation of our native environment now ignored." These plays, published in 1912, testified also to his conviction that the time had come for the development of the one-act play in this country, not only because this form is distinctive and capable of expressing what the full-length play cannot, but also because a receptive audience was already organized. He found even then that amateurs in schools, colleges, and elsewhere were clamoring to perform one-act plays, to see them performed, and to read them. At that date Little Theatres were just beginning to be, but in the preface to _Yankee Fantasies_, the author advocated the establishment of Studio Theatres, in essence experimental, many of which have since come into existence under different names, wherein playwrights might practice the new craft of the one-act play as in a workshop. The one-act play may be said to have arrived in the nine years that have elapsed since _Gettysburg_ was published.

The one-act play has shown no tendency, however, to rival the short-story in the matter of local color. Kentucky, California, Iowa, Louisiana, to name but a few of the favored states which have served as rich backgrounds for many finely flavored narratives of American life, have been neglected as sources of dramatic material. But though Percy MacKaye may perhaps be matched with Mary Wilkins, there is no writer who has made notable use in the one-act play of localities, associated, for example, with the art of George W. Cable, Bret Harte, James Lane Allen, or Hamlin Garland. One of the paths of glory for the American dramatist lies undoubtedly in this direction.

GETTYSBURG

CHARACTERS

LINK TADBOURNE, _ox-yoke maker_.
POLLY, _his grandniece_.

_The Place is country New Hampshire, at the present time._

_SCENE.--A woodshed, in the ell of a farm house._

_The shed is open on both sides, front and back, the apertures being slightly arched at the top. [In bad weather, these presumably may be closed by big double doors, which stand open now--swung back outward beyond sight.] Thus the nearer opening is the proscenium arch of the scene, under which the spectator looks through the shed to the background--a grassy yard, a road with great trunks of soaring elms, and the glimpse of a green hillside. The ceiling runs up into a gable with large beams._

_On the right, at back, a door opens into the shed from the house kitchen. Opposite it, a door leads from the shed into the barn. In the foreground, against the right wall, is a work-bench. On this are tools, a long, narrow, wooden box, and a small oil stove, with steaming kettle upon it._

_Against the left wall, what remains of the year's wood supply is stacked, the uneven ridges sloping to a jumble of stove-wood and kindlings mixed with small chips on the floor, which is piled deep with mounds of crumbling bark, chips and wood-dust._

_Not far from this mounded pile, at right center of the scene, stands a wooden arm-chair, in which LINK TADBOURNE, in his shirt-sleeves, sits drowsing. Silhouetted by the sunlight beyond, his sharp-drawn profile is that of an old man, with white hair cropped close, and gray mustache of a faded black hue at the outer edges. Between his knees is a stout thong of wood, whittled round by the drawshave which his sleeping hand still holds in his lap. Against the side of his chair rests a thick wooden yoke and collar. Near him is a chopping-block._

_In the woodshed there is no sound or motion except the hum and floating steam from the tea-kettle. Presently the old man murmurs in his sleep, clenching his hand. Slowly the hand relaxes again. From the door, right, comes POLLY--a sweet-faced girl of seventeen, quietly mature for her age. She is dressed simply. In one hand, she carries a man's wide-brimmed felt hat; over the other arm, a blue coat. These she brings toward LINK. Seeing him asleep, she begins to tiptoe, lays the coat and hat on the chopping-block, goes to the bench and trims the wick of the oil-stove, under the kettle. Then she returns and stands near LINK, surveying the shed._

_On closer scrutiny, the jumbled woodpile has evidently a certain order in its chaos: some of the splittings have been piled in irregular ridges; in places, the deep layer of wood-dust and chips has been scooped, and the little mounds slope and rise like miniature valleys and hills.[33]_

[Footnote 33: A suggestion for the appropriate arrangement of
these mounds may be found in the map of the battle-field
annexed to the volume by Capt. R. K. Beecham, entitled
_Gettysburg_, A. C. McClurg, 1911.]

_Taking up a hoe, POLLY--with careful steps--moves among the hollows, placing and arranging sticks of kindling, scraping and smoothing the little mounds with the hoe._

_As she does so, from far away, a bugle sounds._

LINK [_snapping his eyes wide open, sits up_].
Hello! Cat-nappin' was I, Polly?

POLLY. Just a kitten-nap, I guess.

[_Laying the hoe down, she approaches._]

The yoke done?

LINK [_giving a final whittle to the yoke-collar thong_].
Thar!
When he's ben steamed a spell, and bended snug,
I guess this feller'll sarve t' say "Gee" to--

[_Lifting the other yoke-collar from beside his chair, he holds the whittled thong next to it, comparing the two with expert eye._]

and "Haw" to him. Beech every time, Sir; beech
or walnut. Hang me if I'd shake a whip
at birch, for ox-yokes.--Polly, are ye thar?

POLLY.
Yes, Uncle Link.

LINK. What's that I used to sing ye?
"Polly, put the kittle on,
Polly, put the kittle on,
Polly, put the kittle on--" [_Chuckling._]
We'll give this feller a dose of ox-yoke tea!

POLLY.
The kettle's boilin'.

LINK. Wall, then, steep him good.

[_POLLY takes from LINK the collar-thong, carries it to the work-bench, shoves it into the narrow end of the box, which she then closes tight and connects--by a piece of hose--to the spout of the kettle. At the further end of the box, steam then emerges through a small hole._]

POLLY.
You're feelin' smart to-day.

LINK. Smart!--Wall, if I
could git a hull man to swap legs with me,
mebbe I'd arn my keep. But this here settin'
dead an' alive, without no legs, day in,
day out, don't make an old hoss wuth his oats.

POLLY [_cheerfully_].
I guess you'll soon be walkin' round.

LINK. Not if
that doctor feller has his say: He says
I can't never go agin this side o' Jordan;
and looks like he's 'bout right.--Nine months to-morrer,
Polly, gal, sence I had that stroke.

POLLY [_pointing to the ox-yoke_].
You're fitter sittin' than most folks standin'.

LINK [_briskly_]. Oh, they can't
keep my two hands from makin' ox-yokes. That's
my second natur' sence I was a boy.

[_Again in the distance a bugle sounds. LINK starts._]

What's that?

POLLY. Why, that's the army veterans
down to the graveyard. This is Decoration
mornin': you ain't forgot?

LINK. So 'tis, so 'tis.
Roger, your young man--ha! [_Chuckling._] He come and axed me
was I agoin' to the cemetery.
"Me? Don't I look it?" says I. Ha! "Don't I look it?"

POLLY
He meant--to decorate the graves.

LINK. O' course;
but I must take my little laugh. I told him
I guessed I wa'n't persent'ble anyhow,
my mustache and my boots wa'n't blacked this mornin'.
I don't jest like t' talk about my legs.--
Be you a-goin' to take your young school folks,
Polly?

POLLY.
Dear no! I told my boys and girls
to march up this way with the band. I said
I'd be a-stayin' home and learnin' how
to keep school in the woodpile here with you.

LINK [_looking up at her proudly_].
Schoolma'am at seventeen! Some smart, I tell ye!

POLLY [_caressing him_].
School-master, you, past seventy; that's smarter!
I tell 'em I learn from you, so's I can teach
my young folks what the study-books leave out.

LINK.
Sure ye don't want to jine the celebratin'?

POLLY.
No _Sir_! We're goin' to celebrate right here,
and you're to teach me to keep school some more.

[_She holds ready for him the blue coat and hat._]

LINK [_looking up_].
What's thar?

POLLY. Your teachin' rig.

[_She helps him on with it._]

LINK. The old blue coat!--
My, but I'd like to see the boys: [_Gazing at the hat._] the Grand
Old Army Boys! [_Dreamily._] Yes, we was boys: jest boys!
Polly, you tell your young folks, when they study
the books, that we was nothin' else but boys
jest fallin' in love, with best gals left t' home--
the same as you; and when the shot was singin',
we pulled their pictur's out, and prayed to them
'most more 'n the Allmighty.

[_LINK looks up suddenly--a strange light in his face. Again, to a far strain of music, the bugle sounds._]

Thar she blows
Agin!

POLLY.
They're marchin' to the graves with flowers.

LINK.
My Godfrey! 't ain't so much thinkin' o' flowers
and the young folks, their faces, and the blue
line of old fellers marchin'--it's the music!
that old brass voice a-callin'! Seems as though,
legs or no legs, I'd have to up and foller
to God-knows-whar, and holler--holler back
to guns roarin' in the dark. No; durn it, no!
I jest can't stan' the music.

POLLY [_goes to the work-bench, where the box is steaming_].
Uncle Link,
you want that I should steam this longer?

LINK [_absently_].
Oh,
A kittleful, a kittleful.

POLLY [_coming over to him_].
Now, then,
I'm ready for school.--I hope I've drawed the map
all right.

LINK.
Map? Oh, the map!

[_Surveying the woodpile reminiscently, he nods._]

Yes, thar she be:
old Gettysburg!

POLLY.
I know the places--most.

LINK.
So, _do_ ye? Good, now: whar's your marker?

POLLY [_taking up the hoe_].
Here.

LINK.
Willoughby Run: whar's that?

POLLY [_points with the hoe toward the left of the woodpile_].
That's farthest over
next the barn door.

LINK. My, how we fit the Johnnies
thar, the fust mornin'! Jest behind them willers,
acrost the Run, that's whar we captur'd Archer.
My, my!

POLLY. Over there--that's Seminary Ridge.

[_She points to different heights and depressions, as LINK nods his approval._]

Peach Orchard, Devil's Den, Round Top, the Wheatfield--

LINK.
Lord, Lord, the Wheatfield!

POLLY [_continuing_].
Cemetery Hill,
Little Round Top, Death Valley, and this here
is Cemetery Ridge.

LINK [_pointing to the little flag_].
And colors flyin'!
We _kep_ 'em flyin' thar, too, all three days,
from start to finish.

POLLY. Have I learned 'em right?

LINK.
_A_ number One, chick! Wait a mite: Culp's Hill:
I don't jest spy Culp's Hill.

POLLY. There wa'n't enough
kindlin's to spare for that. It ought to lay
east there, towards the kitchen.

LINK. Let it go!
That's whar us Yanks left our back door ajar
and Johnson stuck his foot in: kep it thar,
too, till he got it squoze off by old Slocum.
Let Culp's Hill lay for now.--Lend me your marker.

[_POLLY hands him the hoe. From his chair, he reaches with it and digs in the chips._]

Death Valley needs some scoopin' deeper. So:
smooth off them chips.

[_POLLY does so with her foot._]

You better guess 't was deep
as hell, that second day, come sundown.--Here,

[_He hands back the hoe to her._]

flat down the Wheatfield yonder.

[_POLLY does so._]

Goda'mighty!
that Wheatfield: wall, we flatted it down flatter
than any pancake what you ever cooked,
Polly; and 't wan't no maple syrup neither
was runnin', slipp'ry hot and slimy black
all over it, that nightfall.

POLLY. Here's the road
to Emmetsburg.

LINK. No, 'tain't: this here's the pike
to Taneytown, where Sykes's boys come sweatin',
after an all-night march, jest in the nick
to save our second day. The Emmetsburg
road's thar.--Whar was I, 'fore I fell cat-nappin'?

POLLY.
At sunset, July second, Sixty-three.

LINK [_nodding, reminiscent_].
The Bloody Sundown! God, that crazy sun:
she set a dozen times that afternoon,
red-yeller as a punkin jacko'lantern,
rairin' and pitchin' through the roarin' smoke
till she clean busted, like the other bombs,
behind the hills.

POLLY. My! Wa'n't you never scart
and wished you'd stayed t' home?

LINK. Scart? Wall, I wonder!
Chick, look a-thar: them little stripes and stars.
I heerd a feller onct, down to the store,--
a dressy mister, span-new from the city--
layin' the law down: "All this _stars and stripes_,"
says he, "and _red and white and blue_ is rubbish,
mere sentimental rot, spread-eagleism!"
"I wan't t' know!" says I. "In Sixty-three,
I knowed a lad, named Link. Onct, after sundown
I met him stumblin'--with two dead men's muskets
for crutches--towards a bucket, full of ink--
water, they called it. When he'd drunk a spell,
he tuk the rest to wash his bullet holes.--
Wall, sir, he had a piece o' splintered stick,
with _red and white and blue_, tore 'most t' tatters,
a-danglin' from it." "Be you color sergeant?"
says I. "Not me," says Link; "the sergeant's dead,
but when he fell, he handed me this bit
o' _rubbish_--red and white and blue." And Link
he laughed. "What be you laughin' for?" says I.
"Oh, nothin'. Ain't it lovely, though!" says Link.

POLLY.
What did the span-new mister say to that?

LINK.
I didn't stop to listen. Them as never
heerd dead men callin' for the colors don't
guess what they be. [_Sitting up and blinking hard._]
But this ain't keepin' school!

POLLY [_quietly_].
I guess I'm learnin' somethin', Uncle Link.

LINK.
The second day, 'fore sunset.

[_He takes the hoe and points with it._]

Yon's the Wheatfield.
Behind it thar lies Longstreet with his rebels.
Here be the Yanks, and Cemetery Ridge
behind 'em. Hancock--he's our general--
he's got to hold the Ridge, till reinforcements
from Taneytown. But lose the Wheatfield, lose
the Ridge, and lose the Ridge--lose God-and-all!--
Lee, the old fox, he'd nab up Washington,
Abe Lincoln and the White House in one bite!--
So the Union, Polly,--me and you and Roger,
your Uncle Link, and Uncle Sam--is all
thar--growin' in that Wheatfield.

POLLY [_smiling proudly_].
And they're growin'
still!

LINK.
Not the wheat, though. Over them stone walls,
thar comes the Johnnies, thick as grasshoppers:
gray legs a-jumpin' through the tall wheat tops.
And now thar ain't no tops, thar ain't no wheat,
thar ain't no lookin': jest blind feelin' round
in the black mud, and trampin' on boys' faces,
and grapplin' with hell-devils, and stink o' smoke,
and stingin' smother, and--up thar through the dark--
that crazy punkin sun, like an old moon
lopsided, crackin' her red shell with thunder!

[_In the distance, a bugle sounds, and the low martial music of a brass band begins. Again LINK's face twitches, and he pauses, listening. From this moment on, the sound and emotion of the brass music, slowly growing louder, permeates the scene._]

POLLY.
Oh! What was God a-thinkin' of, t' allow
the created world to act that awful?

LINK. Now,
I wonder!--Cast your eye along this hoe:

[_He stirs the chips and wood-dirt round with the hoe-iron._]

Thar in that poked up mess o' dirt, you see
yon weeny chip of ox-yoke?--That's the boy
I spoke on: Link, Link Tadbourne: "Chipmunk Link,"
they call him, 'cause his legs is spry 's a squirrel's.--
Wall, mebbe some good angel, with bright eyes
like yourn, stood lookin' down on him that day,
keepin' the Devil's hoe from crackin' him.

[_Patting her hand, which rests on his hoe._]

If so, I reckon, Polly, it was you.
But mebbe jest Old Nick, as he sat hoein'
them hills, and haulin' in the little heaps
o' squirmin' critters, kind o' reco'nized
Link as his livin' image, and so kep him
to put in an airthly hell, whar thar ain't no legs,
and worn-out devils sit froze in high-backed chairs,
list'nin' to bugles--bugles--bugles, callin'.

[_LINK clutches the sides of his chair, staring. The music draws nearer. POLLY touches him soothingly._]

POLLY.
Don't, dear; they'll soon quit playin'. Never mind 'em.

LINK [_relaxing under her touch_].
No, never mind; that's right. It's jest that onct--
onct we was boys, onct we was boys--with legs.
But never mind. An old boy ain't a bugle.
_Onct_, though, he was: and all God's life a-snortin'
outn his nostrils, and Hell's mischief laughin'
outn his eyes, and all the mornin' winds
ablowin' _Glory Hallelujahs_, like
brass music, from his mouth.--But never mind!
'T ain't nothin': boys in blue ain't bugles now.
Old brass gits rusty, and old underpinnin'
gits rotten, and trapped chipmunks lose their legs.

[_With smoldering fire._]

But jest the same--

[_His face convulses and he cries out, terribly--straining in his chair to rise._]

--for holy God, that band!
Why don't they stop that band!

POLLY [_going_].
I'll run and tell them.
Sit quiet, dear. I'll be right back.

[_Glancing back anxiously, POLLY disappears outside. The approaching band begins to play "John Brown's Body." LINK sits motionless, gripping his chair._]

LINK. _Set quiet!_
Dead folks don't set, and livin' folks kin stand,
and Link--he kin set quiet.--Goda'mighty,
how _kin_ he set, and them a-marchin' thar
with old John Brown? Lord God, you ain't forgot
the boys, have ye? the boys, how they come marchin'
home to ye, live and dead, behind old Brown,
a-singin' _Glory_ to ye! Jest look down:
thar's Gettysburg, thar's Cemetery Ridge:
don't say ye disremember _them_! And thar's
the colors: Look, he's picked 'em up--the sergeant's
blood splotched 'em some--but thar they be, still flyin'!
Link done that: Link--the spry boy, what they call
Chipmunk: you ain't forgot his double-step,
have ye? [_Again he cries out, beseechingly._]--
My God, why do You keep on marchin'
and leave him settin' here?

[_To the music outside, the voices of children begin to sing the words of "John Brown's Body." At the sound, LINK's face becomes transformed with emotion, his body shakes and his shoulders heave and straighten._]

No!--I--_won't_--set!

[_Wresting himself mightily, he rises from his chair, and stands._]

Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come
ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line.
Them voices--Lord, I guess you've brought along
your Sunday choir of young angel folks
to help the boys out.

[_Following the music with swaying arms._]

Glory!--Never mind
me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm
goin' t' jine in, or bust!

[_Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps--his one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as to unseen hands, that draw him--he totters toward the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where the children's are singing it:_]

"--a-mold'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mold'rin' in the grave,
But his soul goes--"

[_Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries aloud, astounded_:]

Lord, Lord, my legs!
Whar did Ye git my legs?

[_Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously._]

I'm comin', boys!
Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap.

[_With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the woodpile._]

Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge!
Jine in, jine in!

[_Swinging the flag._]

Hooray!--Hooray!--Hooray!

[_Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the brass music._

_With his final cheer, LINK stumbles down from the mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked voice, jubilant, with the singers:_]

"--ry hallelujah,
Glory, glory hallelujah,
His truth is marchin' on!"

[THE CURTAIN.]

WURZEL-FLUMMERY[34]

_A COMEDY IN ONE ACT_

By A. A. MILNE

[Footnote 34: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned
that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws
of the United States, and no one is allowed to produce this
play without first having obtained permission of Samuel
French, 28 West 28 Street, New York.]

Alan Alexander Milne was born January 18, 1882. He was a student at Westminster School, the library of which is familiar ground to every reader of Irving's _Sketch Book_. From there he proceeded to Trinity College, Cambridge. On his graduation, he went into journalism in London. He was assistant editor of _Punch_ from 1906 to 1914. During the War he was a lieutenant in the Fourth Royal Warwickshire Regiment. In the introduction to his volume of _First Plays_, in which _Wurzel-Flummery_ appears, he gives the following whimsical account of his career as a dramatist: "These five plays [_The Lucky One_, _The Boy Comes Home_, _Belinda_, _The Red Feather_, _Wurzel-Flummery_] were written in the order in which they appear now, during the years 1916 and 1917. They would hardly have been written had it not been for the War, although only one of them is concerned with that subject. To his other responsibilities the Kaiser now adds this volume.

"For these plays were not the work of a professional writer, but the recreation of a (temporary) professional soldier. Play-writing is a luxury to a journalist, as insidious as golf and much more expensive in time and money. When an article is written, the financial reward (and we may as well live as not) is a matter of certainty. A novelist, too, even if he is not in 'the front rank'--but I never heard of one who wasn't--can at least be sure of publication. But when a play is written, there is no certainty of anything save disillusionment.

"To write a play, then, while I was a journalist seemed to me a depraved proceeding, almost as bad as going to Lord's in the morning. I thought I could write one (we all think we can), but I could not afford so unpromising a gamble. But once in the Army the case was altered. No duty now urged me to write. My job was soldiering, and my spare time was my own affair. Other subalterns played bridge and golf; that was one way of amusing oneself. Another way was--why not?--to write plays.

"So we began with _Wurzel-Flummery_. I say 'we,' because another is mixed up in this business even more seriously than the Kaiser. She wrote; I dictated. And if a particularly fine evening drew us out for a walk along the byways--where there was no saluting, and one could smoke a pipe without shocking the Duke of Cambridge--then it was to discuss the last scene and to wonder what would happen in the next. We did not estimate the money or publicity which might come from this new venture; there has never been any serious thought of making money by my bridge-playing, nor desire for publicity when I am trying to play golf. But secretly, of course, we hoped. It was that which made it so much more exciting than any other game.

"Our hopes were realized to the following extent:

"Wurzel-Flummery was produced by Mr. Dion Boucicault at the New Theatre in April, 1917. It was originally written in three acts, in which form it was shown to one or two managers. At the beginning of 1917 I was offered the chance of production in a triple bill if I cut it down into a two-act play. To cut even a line is painful, but to cut thirty pages of one's first comedy, slaughtering whole characters on the way, has at least a certain morbid fascination. It appeared, therefore, in two acts; and one kindly critic embarrassed us by saying that a lesser artist would have written it in three acts, and most of the other critics annoyed us by saying that a greater artist would have written it in one act. However, I amused myself some months later by slaying another character--the office-boy, no less--thereby getting it down to one act, and was surprised to find that the one-act version was, after all, the best.... At least, I think it is.... At any rate, that is the version I am printing here; but, as can be imagined, I am rather tired of the whole business by now, and I am beginning to wonder if anyone ever did take the name of Wurzel-Flummery at all. Possibly the whole thing is an invention."

_Wurzel-Flummery_ was first produced in this country at the Arts and Crafts Theatre in Detroit; recently it was acted again by The Players of St. Louis.

WURZEL-FLUMMERY

CHARACTERS

ROBERT CRAWSHAW, M.P.
MARGARET CRAWSHAW (_his wife_).
VIOLA CRAWSHAW (_his daughter_).
RICHARD MERITON, M.P.
DENIS CLIFTON.

_SCENE.--ROBERT CRAWSHAW's town house. Morning._

_It is a June day before the War in the morning-room of ROBERT CRAWSHAW's town house. Entering it with our friend the house-agent, our attention would first be called to the delightful club fender round the fireplace. On one side of this a Chesterfield sofa comes out at right angles. In a corner of the sofa MISS VIOLA CRAWSHAW is sitting, deep in "The Times." The house-agent would hesitate to catalogue her, but we notice for ourselves, before he points out the comfortable armchair opposite, that she is young and pretty. In the middle of the room and facing the fireplace is (observe) a solid knee-hole writing-table, covered with papers and books of reference, and supported by a chair at the middle and another at the side. The rest of the furniture, and the books and pictures round the walls, we must leave until another time, for at this moment the door behind the sofa opens and RICHARD MERITON comes in. He looks about thirty-five, has a clean-shaven intelligent face, and is dressed in a dark tweed suit. We withdraw hastily, as he comes behind VIOLA and puts his hands over her eyes._

RICHARD. Three guesses who it is.

VIOLA [_putting her hands over his_]. The Archbishop of Canterbury.

RICHARD. No.

VIOLA. The Archbishop of York.

RICHARD. Fortunately that exhausts the archbishops. Now, then, your last guess.

VIOLA. Richard Meriton, M.P.

RICHARD. Wonderful! [_He kisses the top of her head lightly and goes round to the club fender, where he sits with his back to the fireplace._] How did you know? [_He begins to fill a pipe._]

VIOLA [_smiling_]. Well, it couldn't have been father.

RICHARD. N-no, I suppose not. Not just after breakfast anyway. Anything in the paper?

VIOLA. There's a letter from father pointing out that ----

RICHARD. I never knew such a man as Robert for pointing out.

VIOLA. Anyhow, it's in big print.

RICHARD. It would be.

VIOLA. You are very cynical this morning, Dick.

RICHARD. The sausages were cold, dear.

VIOLA. Poor Dick! Oh, Dick, I wish you were on the same side as father.

RICHARD. But he's on the wrong side. Surely I've told you that before.... Viola, do you really think it would make a difference?

VIOLA. Well, you know what he said about you at Basingstoke the other day.

RICHARD. No, I don't, really.

VIOLA. He said that your intellectual arrogance was only equaled by your spiritual instability. I don't quite know what it means, but it doesn't sound the sort of thing you want in a son-in-law.

RICHARD. Still, it was friendly of him to go right away to Basingstoke to say it. Anyhow, you don't believe it.

VIOLA. Of course not.

RICHARD. And Robert doesn't really.

VIOLA. Then why does he say it?

RICHARD. Ah, now you're opening up very grave questions. The whole structure of the British Constitution rests upon Robert's right to say things like that at Basingstoke.... But really, darling, we're very good friends. He's always asking my advice about things--he doesn't take it, of course, but still he asks it; and it was awfully good of him to insist on my staying here while my flat was being done up. [_Seriously._] I bless him for that. If it hadn't been for the last week I should never have known you. You were just "Viola"--the girl I'd seen at odd times since she was a child; and now--oh, why won't you let me tell your father? I hate it like this.

VIOLA. Because I love you, Dick, and because I know father. He would, as they say in novels, show you the door. [_Smiling._] And I want you this side of the door for a little bit longer.

RICHARD [_firmly_]. I shall tell him before I go.

VIOLA [_pleadingly_]. But not till then; that gives us two more days. You see, darling, it's going to take me all I know to get round him. You see, apart from politics you're so poor--and father hates poor people.

RICHARD [_viciously_]. Damn money!

VIOLA [_thoughtfully_]. I think that's what father means by spiritual instability.

RICHARD. Viola! [_He stands up and holds out his arms to her. She goes to him and_--] Oh, Lord, look out!

VIOLA [_reaching across to the mantelpiece_]. Matches?

RICHARD. Thanks very much. [_He lights his pipe as ROBERT CRAWSHAW comes in. CRAWSHAW is forty-five, but his closely-trimmed mustache and whiskers, his inclination to stoutness, and the loud old-gentlemanly style in trousers which he affects with his morning-coat, make him look older, and, what is more important, the Pillar of the State which he undoubtedly is._]

CRAWSHAW. Good-morning, Richard. Down at last?

RICHARD. Good-morning. I did warn you, didn't I, that I was bad at breakfasts?

CRAWSHAW. Viola, where's your mother?

VIOLA [_making for the door_]. I don't know, father; do you want her?

CRAWSHAW. I wish to speak to her.

VIOLA. All right, I'll tell her. [_She goes out. RICHARD picks up "The Times" and sits down again._]

CRAWSHAW [_sitting down in a business-like way at his desk_]. Richard, why don't you get something to do?

RICHARD. My dear fellow, I've only just finished breakfast.

CRAWSHAW. I mean generally. And apart, of course, from your--ah--work in the House.

RICHARD [_a trifle cool_]. I have something to do.

CRAWSHAW. Oh, reviewing. I mean something serious. You should get a directorship or something in the City.

RICHARD. I hate the City.

CRAWSHAW. Ah! there, my dear Richard, is that intellectual arrogance to which I had to call attention the other day at Basingstoke.

RICHARD [_dryly_]. Yes, so Viola was telling me.

CRAWSHAW. You understood, my dear fellow, that I meant nothing personal. [_Clearing his throat._] It is justly one of the proudest boasts of the Englishman that his political enmities are not allowed to interfere with his private friendships.

RICHARD [_carelessly_]. Oh, I shall go to Basingstoke myself one day.

_Enter MARGARET. MARGARET has been in love with ROBERT CRAWSHAW for twenty-five years, the last twenty-four years from habit. She is small, comfortable, and rather foolish; you would certainly call her a dear, but you might sometimes call her a poor dear._

MARGARET. Good-morning, Mr. Meriton. I do hope your breakfast was all right.

RICHARD. Excellent, thank you.

MARGARET. That's right. Did you want me, Robert?

CRAWSHAW [_obviously uncomfortable_]. Yes--er--h'r'm--Richard--er--what are your--er--plans?

RICHARD. Is he trying to get rid of me, Mrs. Crawshaw?

MARGARET. Of course not. [_To ROBERT._] Are you, dear?

CRAWSHAW. Perhaps we had better come into my room, Margaret. We can leave Richard here with the paper.

RICHARD. No, no; I'm going.

CRAWSHAW [_going to the door with him_]. I have some particular business to discuss. If you aren't going out, I should like to consult you in the matter afterwards.

RICHARD. Right. [_He goes out._ ]

CRAWSHAW. Sit down, Margaret. I have some extraordinary news for you.

MARGARET [_sitting down_]. Yes, Robert?

CRAWSHAW. This letter has just come by hand. [_He reads it._] "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of L50,000."

MARGARET. Robert!

CRAWSHAW. Wait! "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery."

MARGARET. Robert!

CRAWSHAW. "I have the honor to be, your obedient servant, Denis Clifton." [_He folds the letter up and puts it away._]

MARGARET. Robert, whoever is he? I mean the one who's left you the money?

CRAWSHAW [_calmly_]. I have not the slightest idea, Margaret. Doubtless we shall find out before long. I have asked Mr. Denis Clifton to come and see me.

MARGARET. Leaving you fifty thousand pounds! Just fancy!

CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery!

MARGARET. We can have the second car now, dear, can't we? And what about moving? You know you always said you ought to be in a more central part. Mr. Robert Crawshaw, M.P., of Curzon Street sounds so much more--more Cabinety.

CRAWSHAW. Mr. Robert Wurzel-Flummery, M.P., of Curzon Street--I don't know what _that_ sounds like.

MARGARET. I expect that's only a legal way of putting it, dear. They can't really expect us to change our name to--Wurzley-Fothergill.

CRAWSHAW. Wurzel-Flummery.

MARGARET. Yes, dear, didn't I say that? I am sure you could talk the solicitor round--this Mr. Denis Clifton. After all, it doesn't matter to _him_ what we call ourselves. Write him one of your letters, dear.

CRAWSHAW. You don't seem to apprehend the situation, Margaret.

MARGARET. Yes, I do, dear. This Mr.--Mr.--

CRAWSHAW. Antony Clifton.

MARGARET. Yes, he's left you fifty thousand pounds, together with the name of Wurzley-Fothergill--

CRAWSHAW. Wurzel--oh, well, never mind.

MARGARET. Yes, well, you tell the solicitor that you will take the fifty thousand pounds, but you don't want the name. It's too absurd, when everybody knows of Robert Crawshaw, M.P., to expect you to call yourself Wurzley-Fothergill.

CRAWSHAW [_impatiently_]. Yes, yes. The point is that this Mr. Clifton has left me the money on _condition_ that I change my name. If I don't take the name, I don't take the money.

MARGARET. But is that legal?

CRAWSHAW. Perfectly. It is often done. People change their names on succeeding to some property.

MARGARET. I thought it was only when your name was Moses and you changed it to Talbot.

CRAWSHAW [_to himself_]. Wurzel-Flummery!

MARGARET. I wonder why he left you the money at all. Of course it was very nice of him, but if you didn't know him--Why do you think he did, dear?

CRAWSHAW. I know no more than this letter. I suppose he had--ah--followed my career, and was--ah--interested in it, and being a man with no relations, felt that he could--ah--safely leave this money to me. No doubt Wurzel-Flummery was his mother's maiden name, or the name of some other friend even dearer to him; he wished the name--ah--perpetuated, perhaps even recorded not unworthily in the history of our country, and--ah--made this will accordingly. In a way it is a kind of--ah--sacred trust.

MARGARET. Then, of course, you'll accept it, dear?

CRAWSHAW. It requires some consideration. I have my career to think about, my duty to my country.

MARGARET. Of course, dear. Money is a great help in politics, isn't it?

CRAWSHAW. Money wisely spent is a help in any profession. The view of riches which socialists and suchlike people profess to take is entirely ill-considered. A rich man, who spends his money thoughtfully, is serving his country as nobly as anybody.