Chapter IX: Mr. Tompkins’s Small Story (4)

PEG. Why, then I turned to come away. But next I sees—

WOMAN. Sees what?

PEG. Somethin’ in our line.

BOTH (_impatiently_). Tell away, can’t yer?

PEG. Sees my lady’s child a-walkin’ out with her maid.

WOMAN. Wal, what o’ that?

PEG. You keep quiet, an’ I’ll tell; jest you keep on a-interruptin’, an’ I’m mum’s a fish.

MAN (_to_ WOMAN). Hush up, now, can’t yer? (_To_ PEG.) Sees what?

PEG. I seed as how little miss was a-dressed out in all her finery,—her velvet, an’ her silks, an’ gold beads an’ bracelets. (_Clasps throat and wrists._) Very good things to have. (_Old couple nod approvingly at each other._)

MAN. Mebby they be (_holding up old bag_); but how be they a-goin’ to jump in this ’ere?

PEG. There ye go agin a-interruptin’.

WOMAN (_to_ MAN). Hush up, dad! Let the gal speak, can’t yer?

PEG. Then I watches to find out where wud they be a-goin’ ter (_old couple nod to each other_), an’ I sees ’em take the path down by the hedge-row. So I creeps along softly, a-tiptoe, on t’other side, just like this (_shows how she crept along_), a-peepin’ through.

WOMAN (_rubbing her hands together_). Sharp gal you be, Peg.

MAN (_to_ WOMAN). Keep still; don’t bother her.

PEG. When they goes down on the grass to rest, I goes down too, on t’other side, ye know, to rest,—so. (_Sits down._)

MAN (_laughing_). Yes, yes: so ye did. Poor little gal, wasn’t used to trampin’!

WOMAN (_to_ MAN). Gabble, gabble, gabble! The gal’ll never git done.

MAN. Tell away, Peg.

PEG. I listens, an’ I finds little miss is a-goin’ with her maid to see the dances. There, I’ve started the game: let’s see ye foller it up.

(_Old couple sit in silence for a few moments, turning over the silver._)

MAN (_thoughtfully_). ’Tis deep water; but I sees through.

PEG (_bending forward_). Let’s hear. (WOMAN _listens_.)

MAN. Tomkins’s show draws all the crowd, missy among ’em.

PEG. Go on, dad.

MAN (_rising_). They two, missy and maid, stands agapin’ at it,—so. (_Imitates._) You creeps in between,—so. (_Imitates._) I stays outside.

PEG. Yes, yes!

MAN. In the middle of it I gets myself knocked down outside, and groans and roars, “Help, help! thieves! murder!”

WOMAN (_eagerly_). Then everybody’ll run.

MAN. Then everybody’ll run. Peg catches hold o’ little miss, runs her off. I say, “I’ll take care of yer.” Neat job, hey? (_Rubs hands._)

PEG (_briskly_). Then I’ll lend her some of my clothes, ’cause they’s better for her, you know, an’ help her eat what’s in the buful basket; an’ she’ll be my little sister, an’ she’ll tramp with us (_rises_) an’ our merry, merry crew. (_Sings. Old couple join in chorus, and all keep time with feet and hands._)

[Music:

Oh! we’re a merry gypsy crew, Roaming all the country thro’,
Plenty to eat and little to do, Roaming thro’ the wildwood. Sing
ri fa la li lu li oh! Plenty to eat and little to do, Roaming thro’
the wildwood.
]

Want and care we never know:
Sun may shine, or winds may blow;
All the same we come and go,
Roaming through the wildwood.
Sing ri fa la li lu li oh!
Plenty to eat, and little to do,
Roaming through the wildwood.

SCENE III.—_Enter_ FLORA _and_ ELSIE, _hand in hand. Both have
flowers; and_ ELSIE _carries a pretty lunch-basket_.

FLORA. What pretty flowers there were in that meadow! Why, I wanted every one!

ELSIE. Then we’d have to fetch a wagon to carry them home in, I guess.

FLORA. A wagonful of flowers! What would mamma say to that, I wonder?

ELSIE. All the vases together wouldn’t half hold ’em.

FLORA. Then I’d put them in my little crib, and have them for my bed.

ELSIE. Margery wouldn’t spread her white sheets on such a bed as that.

FLORA. But I could take flowers for bed-clothes, and smell them all night. Oh! what a—(_stops suddenly, and listens_). I hear music. Hark! (_Music heard faintly, as if afar off._) O Elsie! they’re coming, they’re coming! Hark! don’t you hear the singing?

ELSIE. Yes (_looking in the direction of the music_): they’re marching this way.

(_Singing comes gradually nearer, until the chorus is heard outside. Enter a procession of girls and boys, blind fiddler following. Boys are dressed in white trousers, with bright or striped jackets, flowers at the button-hole; girls in white, with garlands. All march round the stage, singing; then either eight or sixteen of them form a circle for dancing the May-dance. At intervals, in some pretty figure, the dancers pause, and sing a May-song, in which all join. Dancing ends with a march, which is interrupted by a girl rushing in from the show._)

SONG (_briskly, to “The Poacher’s Song,” or any lively tune_).

We come, we come, with dance and song,
With hearts and voices gay;
We come, we come, a happy throng;
For now it is beautiful May.

We’ve lingered by the brookside
To find the fairest flowers;
We’ve rambled through the meadows wide
These sunny, sunny hours.

(_All move round._)

CHORUS.

Oh! we’ll dance and sing around the ring
With footsteps light and gay;
Oh! we’ll dance and sing around the ring;
For now ’tis the beautiful May.

GIRL (_rushing in_). Oh, come! do come and see the show! ’Tis the funniest show!

ALL TOGETHER. Where? where? (_Pressing about her._)

GIRL (_pointing_). Over yonder by the wood. Only a penny. Come!

ALL TOGETHER (_or nearly so_). Yes: let’s go! Come! Only a penny? We’ll all go!

(_All rush out_, ELSIE _leading_ FLORA. _Curtain falls._)

SCENE IV.—TOMKINS, _in flashy costume, preparing for the show.
There should be several objects, supposed to be statues or animals,
covered with white cloth. The animals may be boys in various
positions. The coverings will not be removed, as the show is to be
interrupted._ TOMKINS _moves about, peeping under the coverings,
dusting the statues, patting and quieting, and perhaps feeding, the
animals. He holds in one hand a string which is attached to one
of them. Enter_ TOM THUMB _and his_ BRIDE, _arm in arm, followed
by his aged parents and maiden aunt. (Five little children must
be dressed up to represent these.)_ TOMKINS _helps them to a high
platform at the back part. Old lady is knitting a doll’s stocking.
Enter crowd of May-dancers_, PEG _among them. She tries several
times to separate_ FLORA _from Elsie while they are listening
to_ TOMKINS, _and finally succeeds. (This scene may easily be
lengthened by adding other figures to the show, such as a giant, or
curious animals, &c.)_

TOMKINS (_arranging the spectators, speaks rapidly_). Stan’ reg’lar, ladies and gentlemen, stan’ reg’lar, and let the tall ones look over the short ones; for if the tall ones don’t git behind the short ones, and the short ones gits behind the tall ones, then how’s the short ones a-goin’ to look over the tall ones? Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to show you the only ’xhibition of the kind on record. On this ’casion ’tis not a talkin’ ’xhibition. Six talkin’ ’xhibitions they’ve done to-day. Do I want ’em to die on my ’ands? Do I want to close their ’xpiring eyes, an’ say—an’ say—farewell, my dears? No. Let ’em live to d’light the world, an’ to ’dorn—to ’dorn—my ’xhibition. (_The animal gets uneasy._ TOMKINS _jerks the string_.) Sh—sh—! your time’ll come when the Thumbs is all done. Ladies and gentlemen, you see before you the descendants of the real Tom Thumb, who lived in story-books a thousand years ago. Their grandfather far removed was carried in his master’s waistcoat-pocket, and swallowed by a cow. (_Animal steps. He pulls the string._) Sh—sh! They would speak to the audyence: but six talkin’ ’xhibitions they’ve done to-day; an’ their healths must be looked to, as their constitootions compares with their sizes, and ’tis very nat’ral they’d be short-breath’d. The old lady, as you see, is knittin’ a stockin’ for her grandchild that lives in Siam. The old gentleman takes his pinch of snuff, an’ would smoke his pipe, but—ladies present. The maiden aunt is neat about her dress; and that’s why she’s smoothin’ out the wrinkles, and rubbin’ off mud-spots. Tom Thumb is very fond of his bride; an’ you won’t think strange of his strokin’ her curls, an’ lookin’ at her face in admiration. (_Animals move a little._) But my an’mals is uneasy, and I must also proceed to uncover the statuarys. Thumb family may march round and take their leave. (_They march round and go out, each turning at the door to salute the audience._) I will now proceed to uncover the famous, unheard-of, wonderful animal called—(_Deep groans heard outside. “Help! thieves! murder!_”) Don’t be uneasy! (_All rush out._ PEG _runs off with Flora_.)

[_Curtain falls._

SCENE V.—LADY CAROLINE _reclining in her chair. She rings a bell. Enter_ MARGERY.

LADY C. You may bring that round table nearer to me, Margery: Miss Flora and I will take our tea together. What a treat it will be for her!

MARGERY (_bringing the table_). Yes, my lady. (_Spreads cloth._)

LADY C. She will be eager to tell all that has happened, and I shall be just as eager to hear. (MARGERY _fetches plates, &c._) Bring her small china mug, Margery (she likes that best); and bring her low rocking-chair.

MARGERY. Yes, my lady. The little dear will be so tired! (_Brings the things._)

LADY C. Place the chair near me. Is the supper all ready? What an appetite the little traveller will have to-night!

MARGERY. Every thing is ready, my lady.

LADY C. And fetch her slippers lined with down. They will be soft to her tired feet. Ah, how many steps those feet have taken since she kissed me good-by! (MARGERY _brings slippers, and places them in front of the chair_.) So. That is right. Now that all is ready, how long seems every moment! Margery, go stand by the upper window, and bring me word when you catch the first sight of them coming along by the hedge-row.

MARGERY. I will, my lady. I’ll watch, and not leave the window,—not for one single moment.

[_Exit_ MARGERY. _Curtain falls._

SCENE VI.—TRAMP _and his_ WIFE. _Old bags, bundles, and baskets
lying about._ MAN _is binding an old shoe to his foot with a strip
of cloth. Foot is on the shoe, not in it._ WOMAN _is picking over
rags of different colors_.

WOMAN. Wal, ole man, here we bees agin. ’Tis a year ago this blessed day since Peg ’ticed the little gal from Tomkins’s show.

MAN. ’Twouldn’t ha’ been a year, mammy, only we got no news o’ the reward. Fifty guineas, an’ no questions asked. Wal-a-day! Many’s the weary tramp we’s had that we needn’t a’.

WOMAN. An’ many’s the trinket I’ll buy.

MAN. Now, ole Beauty Spot, you don’t git the spendin’ o’ that gold!

WOMAN. I don’t! Wal, we’ll see! I don’t, do I?—humph!

MAN. But where’s Peg? Meet us by this wood, she said. An’ ’tis past the time set. She must a’ reached the hall two days agone.

WOMAN. If I’d a’ had my say, the child should ha’ been sent by some other body; but Peg she would go along.

MAN. ’Tis a marcy an’ she don’t git fast under lock an’ key.

WOMAN. Wal, the child’s back to where she belongs; an’ lucky she be; for our Peg, that be a great deal too smart for us, will go to mind every crook o’ that young un’s finger, an’ worse’n that. Now I’ll tell ye. I harked one night, late it was, with the stars all so bright, we inside the tent, they two out, nobody stirring, no noise, only corn rustlin’ a-near us, an’ a little matter of a breeze in the trees; an’ what does I hear? Why, that young ’un a-tellin’ our Peg about the angels, an’ more besides, an’ what good was, an’ what wicked was. Does I want a gal o’ mine to hear the like? No, I doesn’t. Peg ain’t the gal she was (_shaking her head_). No, no! She ain’t up to half the smart tricks. (_Enter_ PEG.)

MAN _and_ WOMAN. The money! The gold, the gold! Where’s the gold?

PEG. The lady wants to see you at the hall.

BOTH. Ha!

WOMAN. Be we fools?

MAN. She wants, does she?—ha, ha! She wants!—he, he, he!

PEG. I want, then. And the gold is ready for you there.

WOMAN. What be we a-goin’ to the hall for?

PEG. She has a favor to ask.

WOMAN. Yes: the favor o’ shuttin’ us up.

PEG. The favor o’ lettin’ me be servant to Miss Flora. (WOMAN _nods to_ MAN.)

MAN. Have more sense, gal.

WOMAN. O Peg! an’ would ye go from us, an’ to be a slave?

MAN (_picking up bundles_). ’Tis all a trap to nab us.

PEG. No, there be no trap.

WOMAN. An’ what use of our seein’ the lady?

PEG. She be loath to keep anybody’s child without consent. The little un begs me stay; an’ I must.

WOMAN (_entreatingly_). Don’t, Peg! Let her go. She ben’t one o’ our sort.

PEG. I can’t; an’ the truth must be spoken to ye. I’m tired o’ trampin’, tired o’ beggin’ an’ thievin’, an’ skulkin’ about; an’, what’s more, I can’t lose sight o’ _her_.

WOMAN (_sorrowfully_). O Peg! An’ how could the little un bewitch ye so?

PEG. I can’t tell that. How can I tell what makes me pine for a sight o’ her sweet face, an’ why ’tis that the sound o’ her sweet voice touches me here (_places hand on her heart_), an’ why ’tis I weep when she tells me of the angels and holy things? Will ye go, or no? (_Moves towards door._)

MAN _to_ WOMAN (_confidentially_). Between you an’ me, I’d sooner have Peg there. Don’t ye see? (_Claps hand on her shoulder._) Many’s the nice bit she’ll help us to, or a silver penny, or a spoon.

WOMAN. That she won’t. An’, if she’d do’t, ain’t we got money enough wi’ all that gold? I’d sooner keep my gal. (_Folds arms, and looks down sorrowfully._) But ’twon’t be for long. _(Looks up more cheerfully._) Peg’ll come back to us. She’ll soon pine for the sweet woods agin’. (_Ties up her bundles._)

MAN (_contemptuously_). Enough!—enough gold! (_Picks up baskets._) What can the old gal mean? Enough money?—ha, ha, ha! Enough!—he, he, he!

[_Curtain falls._

SCENE VII. (_chiefly a tableau_).—LADY C. _sits with her arm round_
FLORA. MARGERY _arranging the furniture. Enter gypsies, conducted
by_ PEG. LADY C., _at sight of them, shudders, and turns away_.
MARGERY _keeps them at a distance_.

MARGERY. Stand back, stand back! Don’t ye see my lady almost faints at sight of ye? (_Music, heard afar off, comes gradually nearer._)

LADY C. (_listening_). What music do I hear, Margery?

MARGERY. ’Tis the May-party, my lady. They come to welcome Miss Flora back with a cheerful song.

LADY C. Bid them enter, Margery.

(MARGERY _goes to the door. Enter May-party and blind fiddler. They
are arranged by_ MARGERY. _Gypsies watch the proceedings_,—OLD
GYPSY _leaning on his staff with both hands_; OLD WOMAN, _rather
sullen, stands with folded arms_. PEG _moves softly along, and
sinks upon the floor near_ FLORA. ELSIE _is among the singers, but
stands silent with downcast looks_. MARGERY _motions for the young
people to sing, and, when they begin, holds corner of apron to her
eyes_.)

CLOSING SONG.

Home again, home again!
All her wanderings o’er;
At home, sweet home again, to dwell
With loving friends once more!

Flowers, show your fairest hues,
Make the meadows gay;
Dear little birds, oh I carol forth
Your sweetest songs to-day.

CHORUS. For home again, home again,
Her weary wanderings o’er,
At home, sweet home again, she dwells
With loving friends once more.

[_Curtain falls._

A DECEMBER CHARADE.—(FAREWELL.)

FIRST SYLLABLE: _Fare_.

CHARACTERS.

JOE _and_ NED, _two young clerks from the city_. JOE _is in rough
sea-clothes,—tarpaulin hat, stout boots, trousers tucked in;
carries cod-lines, oil-clothes, and a rope-handled bucket_. NED
_is in gentleman’s fishing-costume; wears broad-brimmed straw hat,
carries reed pole, lunch-basket, &c. They enter from opposite
doors._

JOE. How fares ye, Ned? Been a-fishing? So’ve I. Let’s sit down on the bank here and talk it over. (_Throws himself down._ NED _spreads out his handkerchief, then seats himself upon it_.)

NED (_affectedly, and with a sigh_). Ah, well! or, rather, ah, ill! Another day of vacation gone. Already the store—the busy, crowded, everlasting store—looms up before me. Customers seem beckoning me away. I hear, methinks, the rustle of cambrics mingling with the rustling of the leaves, and—and—

JOE. And the birds sing out “Cash, cash!” don’t they? O fiddle-de-dee! the store is fifty miles off,—fifty miles; and six days! Another day gone?—well, don’t fret for that. Didn’t you get enough for it? Now, I never fret about letting a piece of goods go, if I get the worth of it.

NED. Really, Joseph, I don’t see what selling goods has to do with the subject.

JOE. Why, you’ve let your day go. Old Time took it. He buys up a good many of ’em; but he pays. You got the value of your article: you took your pay in taking comfort. Fair trade enough.

NED. Well, you may talk; but the day is gone, and it will never return (_sighs_).

JOE. But, if we live till to-morrow, there’ll another one come: leastways, I hope so; for I’ve a plan ahead. (_Earnestly._) I’ll do it: I will! I certainly will, dogs or no dogs,—unless the sea dries up; and then I’ll walk. But how was river-fishing?

NED. Oh, fair! that is to say, reasonably fair, for the first attempt.

JOE. Fine day you had.

NED. _Charming_ day. In the morning we rowed up stream, with Nature smiling all around us,—of course I mean the dewy fields, sprinkled with flowers; and anon we glided through the leafy woods, where the birds sang melodiously. All was fair and lovely.

JOE. Having fair wind’s the main thing: the rest is well enough. So you made an all-day trip of it?

NED. Yes: a really _charming_ little excursion, and the presence of the fair sex—hem!

JOE. Made it still more really charming. Yes, I know. They usually have their charms about them.

NED. Exactly. And at noon we landed, and spread our repast under the shade of a spreading oak, and there partook of cold chicken, sandwiches, and fruits. At the hour of sunset, with a fair wind, and with now and then a song, we floated calmly down the stream.

JOE. All serene. Now I took it in the rough. See! Borrowed real sea-clothes, and sailed on the briny sea. Jingoes, if ’twasn’t sport off the Ledge!

NED. Seasick?

JOE. Hem! Well, little rily doubling “Hook’s Pint:” soon over it, though, and relished my lunch—oh, hugely! None of your chicken-fixin’s; real fishermen’s fare,—sea-biscuit dipped in the sea.

NED. Barbarous fare, I should call that.

JOE. Not a bit. Oh, yes! I’m mistaken: good many bits. Fish bit lively, and old skipper chowdered ’em right out o’ the water: then we got into a school o’ mackerel, and so brought in quite a fare of fish. If we’d only landed on that island—But I mean to (_rubbing his hands_), dogs or no dogs. What the dogs do I care! Let ’em yelp!

NED. Of what island are you speaking?

JOE. “Maiden Island” some call it. Skipper said ’twas oftener called “The Isle of Dogs.”

NED. Why are these names given to it?

JOE. Because there is a maiden there, of course, and dogs abound. But I’ll land (_rubbing his hands excitedly_). I’ll attack the fort. “Let dogs delight,” and so forth.

NED. I’m curious to hear more of this isle of the sea.

JOE. Listen, then, and I’ll tell you a true story: only it hasn’t any end to it yet. But I’ll make an end (_earnestly_),—I’m resolved upon that,—unless an earthquake swallows it up.

NED. Swallows up the end!

JOE. The island.

NED. Can’t you explain? (_In a pet._)

JOE. Oh, yes! Explain?—certainly. Now hark. In the middle of the sea—that is, off in the harbor—stands a lonely isle; and on that isle stands a hut; and in that hut dwells a stern old fisherman; and that stern old fisherman owns a fair daughter; and, on account of the island being flooded with admirers, he has defended it with dogs, manned it with dogs.

NED. Really! Now that isn’t quite fair in the old gentleman.

JOE. Fair? Of course it isn’t! But I’ve got a plan. I’ll land: I certainly will, if every dog had as many heads as—now, what was that dog’s name that barked down in that dark place?—no matter; and if every head had as many mouths, I’ll land. “Faint heart never won fair lady.”

NED. But what if they all fly at you?

JOE. Then I’ll fly at them. (_Sings._)

“Let dogs delight
To bark and bite.”

(_Slight noise of rain heard._)

NED (_rising hastily_). We shall be caught in the shower. (_Going._) Come.

JOE (_rising slowly_). Oh, let it rain, let it rain! Better chance of fair weather to-morrow.

NED (_passing out_). But will you? will you really dare?

JOE. Yes: none but the brave deserve the fair!

[_Exeunt both._

(_Rain may be made by dropping peas in a tin pan behind the scenes._)

SECOND SYLLABLE: _Well_.

SCENE.—_Out of doors. Tools lying about._ MR. BENSON, _a
dark-whiskered Yankee, in working-clothes and overalls, is at
work on a pump. The pump is a man or boy incased in brown paper.
He is topped by a bandbox-cover, or by any thing which will bear
resemblance to the capping of a wooden pump. One arm is used for
the pump-handle: the other, as far up as the elbow, represents the
spout. A small tub should be put underneath. There must be a large
bottle of water hid in the coat-sleeve, with the thumb pressed over
its mouth for a stopper. At the proper time, the water is allowed
to run out. (This operation should be first practised in the
ante-room.) While_ MR. BENSON _is at work_, SQUIRE REED _enters.
He is well dressed; has gray whiskers, tall hat, and a cane; is a
little pompous and condescending._

SQUIRE REED. Well, Benson, how do you prosper? Always at work, hey? What! covered up your well?

MR. BENSON. Yes, and got in a pump (_works the handle_); but ’twon’t draw. Something’s the matter.

SQUIRE R. I’m very sorry; not sorry the pump won’t draw, but sorry to lose the well,—sorry, I mean, to lose it out of the landscape. It was a very striking feature, with its long sweep.

MR. B. Wal, to tell the truth, it did go agin my feelings. We’d got used to seeing it. My gran’ther dug it and stoned it up; and I’ve hoisted up a good deal o’ water out of it since I was boy, counting washing-water and all. But then ’twas a heap o’ trouble. (_Works the handle._) Why don’t the critter draw?

SQUIRE R. How did it trouble you?

MR. B. (_resting on the pump_). Oh! things kept falling down it. I’d be out in the field, working, you know; and ’twould be all the time, “Mr. Benson, this thing’s tumbled down the well, and that thing’s tumbled down the well.” Then I’d leave, and run; and maybe ’twould be my little gal’s doll, or bub’s hat, or clean clothes off the line. And all the neighbors wanted to hang their things down it to keep cool. Course it put us out; but course we didn’t like to speak: so we had to say, “No trouble at all, no trouble at all;” though ’twasn’t true, you know.

SQUIRE R. Very true; that is, it wasn’t very true.

MR. B. And then ’twas a master place to c’lect young folks together, as ever was. First the gals would come with their pails, and stand talking; then the beaux would come, ’specially about sundown. Says I to my wife, “Guess I’ll break up that haunt.” (_Pumps with short quick stroke._) But this new-fangled thing won’t draw a mite.

SQUIRE R. Let me try. (_Pumps slowly, with long stroke._)

MR. B. Yes, you work it, and I’ll pour in water to fetch it. (_Lifts the cover a little, and pretends to pour in water from a pitcher; then seizes the handle, and works it with quick, jerking motion._) Any thing run out?

SQUIRE R. (_stooping a little_). I don’t see any thing.

MR. B. (_examining the spout_). Dry as a grasshopper.

(_Enter_ MR. DOWNING, _a tall man, with green spectacles and wide
red cravat. Has a rod in his hand, and walks with solemn air._)

MR. D. (_to_ MR. B. _very stiffly_). Good-morning, sir. I understand you have a pump that doesn’t work well.

MR. B. Exactly: that’s just what I’ve got.

MR. D. (_solemnly_). I am a pump-doctor.

SQUIRE R. (_with a condescending smile_). That is to say, I suppose that you can cure a pump, and make it well.

MR. B. (_laughing_). Oh, don’t make mine well! It’s been well once.

MR. D. If you will place your pump in my hands, sir, I will pledge myself that it shall give satisfaction.

SQUIRE R. That is to say, give water.

MR. B. Here, take it right into your hands: now let’s see what ’twill give.

SQUIRE R. How do you cure, sir?

MR. D. (_solemnly_). By circles and opposite electricities. Shall I proceed?

MR. B. Yes, proceed to begin: don’t wait.

SQUIRE R. That is, begin first, and then proceed.

MR. B. And, if the job’s well done, you shall be well paid.

MR. D. I shall require, gentlemen, a little assistance from both of you.

SQUIRE R. (_glancing down at his clothes and his hands_). Of what nature, sir?

MR. B. Oh, yes! I’m willing to take hold: course you’ll take little something off the price.

MR. D. No labor, no actual labor, will be required of you. My system involves only circles and opposite electricities. In the first place, it will be necessary to ascertain whether your electrical currents are opposite.

MR. B. Well, how will you do it?

(MR. D. _brings in an old-fashioned flax-wheel, or some
yarn-winders, or any thing that can be made to turn round. After
solemn preparation, he whirls this rapidly for a minute or two._)

MR. D. _to_ SQUIRE R. Have the kindness, now, sir, to touch lightly the circumference of this machine.

(SQUIRE R. _touches, and hops away with a loud cry, dropping his cane_.)

MR. D. _to_ MR. B. Now you, sir. (MR. B. _hesitates_.) Don’t be afraid: it is quite harmless.

(MR. B. _touches, and, with a scream, gives a leap in the opposite
direction, rubbing his arms, and looking frightened_.)

MR. D. All is well. The electrical conditions are fulfilled: the one sprang to the east, the other to the west.

MR. B. (_glancing at the machine, and rubbing his arm_). Mighty powerful!

MR. D. (_solemnly_). I shall now proceed, gentlemen, to describe two circles around the well. (_Marks out two circles with his rod._) Will you please to advance? (SQUIRE R. _walks towards the pump_.)

SQUIRE R. Sir, this appears somewhat like trifling.

MR. D. That depends upon yourself, sir. To the light-minded, serious matters appear light. I deal with the truths of science. (_To_ MR. B.) Will you come nearer, sir?

MR. B. (_advancing cautiously_). No danger, I hope; no witchcraft?

MR. D. Not the slightest. I will now work the handle. You two, being fully charged, will stand at opposite points (_placing them_), and proceed to revolve silently in these circles,—you, sir (_to_ SQUIRE R.), revolving in the external orbit, and you, sir (_to_ MR. B.), in the internal: at your third conjunction, water will gush forth. (_Works the handle slowly. The others walk as directed. At their third meeting, water streams out. They step back._)

SQUIRE R. (_lifting both hands_). Marvellous! most wonderful!

MR. B. Wal, I declare! Be you a wizard? I hope—I hope it’s Christian doings.

MR. D. (_with a smile, and wave of the hand_). What you have witnessed, gentlemen, is merely a new triumph of science.

MR. B. (_with a sigh of relief_). I’m glad it’s science: I was afraid ’twas witchcraft. Send in your bill, stranger. (_Pumps._) I’m all in a heap. Science!

MR. D. Permit me to inform you, sir, that witchcraft is science; only science doesn’t know it. Good-morning, gentlemen (_takes his machine_): I have business farther on. Have the goodness to accept my card (_presenting it_).

SQUIRE R. (_following_). Will you allow me to accompany you, and give me the pleasure of your conversation?

MR. D. With pleasure, sir. (_They move to the door._)

SQUIRE R. Good-day, neighbor. I’m rejoiced that your troubles are over. “All’s well that ends well.”

MR. B. My well ends pump.

[_Curtain drops._

WHOLE WORD: _Farewell_.

It being December, there may be a Farewell Address from the Old Year to the children. This Old Year may be represented by a trembling old man, with white locks and beard, leaning on his staff,—the staff to be a portion of a leafless bough. He should carry a pack on his back, marked on each end “’77;” and, as a wholly pathetic character is not desirable, he may be plentifully labelled with the same figures. White hair and beard can be made of cotton-wool or yarn, or both; and dipping the ends in a solution of alum will give them a frosty or icy appearance.

ADDRESS.

DEAR CHILDREN,—Do you know who I am? My name is ’77. Good-by. I am going now; yet very few of you will mourn for that. Are you not already wishing me away, longing for the young, bright New Year? You know you are.

Oh, I remember well when I was myself a young, bright New Year! A Happy New Year, they called me: and so I was; for then you all liked me. You had longed for my coming; you cheered me; you hurrahed; you shouted for joy; for I came bringing gifts and good wishes.

Ah! that is all changed now. Now that I am old, and have little left to give, you are willing to turn me off for another. Such ingratitude is hard to bear. It is that which has bleached my locks, and chilled me to the heart; for I have given you the very best I had. Think, now. Look back,—away back to the time when I was in my prime. Did I not give you those lovely spring children of mine? Don’t you remember my young April, so tender, so full of feeling, laughing and crying in a breath? She brought the crocuses and violets, but seemed too bashful to offer them. And do you so soon forget my pretty, smiling May, with her apple-blossoms and her singing-birds? My June brought you green carpets inlaid with buttercups and daisies, and her warm-hearted sisters gave you all their beautiful flowers.

And then my later children, how generous they were! how free of their gifts? Think of all the apples they gave you; think of the abundance of ripened grain,—grain which will last till the new friend that is coming shall be able to furnish more. And fortunate that it is so; for let me tell you that it will be a long time before this young upstart, this inexperienced New Year, can do much for you in the way of providing.

But, although I have done my very best, you are impatient to see me off. Now, why this haste? Why treat me so coldly? When once gone, you will see me no more. Other friends leave you in sadness to return in joy; but I go, never to return.

And in this pack I carry all the joys and the merry times of ’77: you can never have them back again. Do you grieve for that? Take comfort, then, in the thought that I carry, also, all the sorrows of ’77. But there is something which cannot be taken away,—memory. All the days and hours of ’77 are in this pack; but the memory of them remains. Be thankful; for if memory, too, could be carried away,—why, then, in looking back, what a dreary blank there would be!

Well, children, I am going. Good-by! Do you wonder that I go off so smilingly? ’Tis because Old Santa Claus—dear, jolly Old Santa Claus—comes to cheer me in these last days. Ah, were it not for him, how gloomy would these last days be! But it is not permitted me to be sad. He comes with his jingling of bells, and his mirth, and his “Merry, merry Christmas!” and so, thanks to him, I leave you with a smiling face.

And now farewell forever! But when young ’78 comes, happy and bright, laden with good wishes, and rejoicing your hearts with his beautiful gifts, look back, I pray you, and bestow one thought upon poor old ’77.

WHOLE WORD IN PANTOMIME:[1] _Farewell_.

SCENE.—_Inside of room. When the curtain rises, a young sailor
is seen taking leave of his mother. Both are standing. Her head
is slightly turned away; her right hand is clasped in his. With
the left she holds a handkerchief to her eyes, as if weeping.
Her little boy stands near, holding by her dress, and looking up
in the sailor’s face. His playthings are scattered on the floor.
Faint noise of singing heard, as if in the distance: it is the
singing of sailors, and seems to come nearer and nearer, and very
near. Sailor presses the mother’s hand in both of his; catches up
his little brother, and kisses him; then rushes out. Mother sinks
down, as if overcome with grief, and sits with face bowed upon both
hands. Little boy looks out at the door. Singing grows fainter and
fainter, and dies away in the distance, while curtain falls slowly._

FOOTNOTES:

[1] If preferred, the pantomime may be substituted for the Old-Year’s Address.

THE LITTLE VISITORS.—A PLAY FOR YOUNG CHILDREN.

CHARACTERS.

AGNES, _aged six or seven_. LULU, _aged six or seven_. BEL, _aged
four or five_. DAN, _aged eight or nine_. BENNY, _aged ten or
eleven_.

SCENE.—_A common room._ AGNES _sits with many dolls and other
playthings about her_. BENNY _is reading, the other side of the
room_. DAN _sits near him, catching flies on the table_.

(_Enter_ LULU _and_ BEL, _with dolls all in out-door rig_.)

AGNES (_jumping up, and clapping hands_). Oh, goody, goody! Did your mothers say you might come?

LULU (_speaking quickly_). Yes, my mother said I might; and then I teased Bel’s mother, and she said yes.

AGNES (_clapping hands_). Oh, I’m so glad! (_Helping take off their things._) How long can you stay? Can you stay to supper?

LULU. I can’t stay without I’m invited, mother said.

BEL. My mother said to come home when the table had begun to be set. I’ve got my new boots on (_looking down_), and I stepped in the mud with ’em.

(DAN, _in catching a fly, knocks down_ BENNY’S _book_.)

BENNY (_picking it up_). What are you trying to do?

LULU. We saw a cow, and ran across the street; and Bel stepped in the mud (_wiping it off Bel’s boots_).

BEL. ’Twas a hooking cow.

BENNY. Ho! run for a cow! ’Fore I’d run for a cow!

DAN (_swooping off a fly_). It doesn’t take much to scare girls.

BENNY (_finding his place_). I know it: anybody could do that.

AGNES. _He_ couldn’t scare us; could he, Lulu?

BENNY. Don’t you believe I could make you run? Boo, boo! (_Jumps at them._)

LULU. Oh, we sha’n’t run for that!

BENNY. Just wait a little while; and, if I can’t scare you, then I’ll treat.

AGNES (_indignantly_). Do you believe he could, Lu?

LULU. I know he couldn’t. What will you treat us to?

BENNY. Oh! any thing. Take your choice.

AGNES (_clapping hands_). Oh, goody, goody! Ice-cream, ice-cream!

LULU. Cream-cakes, cream-cakes!

DAN. I’ve got him (_looks carefully in his hand_). Why, I haven’t got him! Where is he? Oh, I see! (_Hits_ BENNY’S _shoulder_.)

BENNY (_starting up_). You’ve driven away _this_ fly. (_Goes out to disguise himself._ DAN _goes on swooping flies off of table; girls step back to where the dolls are_.)

AGNES. Now let’s play something.

LULU. So I say. Let’s play school.

BEL. But there wouldn’t be enough scholars.

DAN (_coming forward with ruler_). I’ll be the schoolmaster. Silence! Take your seats. Study your books. Can’t have any recess. You must all stay after school. (_Girls laugh._ DAN _goes back to his flies_.)

LULU. Let’s play mother, I say.

AGNES. You be the mother?

LULU. No, you be the mother, and I’ll be your little girl, and Bel be my little sister.

AGNES. Well, I’ll run up and get some of my mother’s things to put on, and you two can be seeing my dollies. (AGNES _goes out_.)

DAN (_stepping forward_). I’ll be the one to introduce them. (_Takes up each doll as it is named._) This is Miss Cherrydrop, named for her red cheeks; but some say they’re painted, and not real. She’s got a new round comb and a—a sontag.

BEL. Oh, that isn’t a sontag! ’tis a breakfast-shawl.

DAN. Well, never mind. Here is Miss Patty Troodledum; very proud, so they say, because her dress is spangled. When Aggy thinks too much of her new clothes, mother says, “Ah! who have we here? Miss Patty Troodledum?” Sit down there, Miss Patty. And this is the young sailor-boy, just home from sea. There’s the star on his collar, and his Scotch cap. Jack, take off your cap, and make a bow to the ladies. His mother fainted away with joy at seeing him, and hasn’t come to yet: here she is. (_Takes up old faded shabby doll._) But _here_ is somebody very grand. Now, who do you think came over in the ship with the sailor-boy?

LULU. The captain.

DAN. Of course. But I mean passenger.

LULU. Who was it?

DAN. Mademoiselle De Waxy, right from Paris.

LULU. Oh, she’s a beauty! Don’t touch her, Bel!

DAN. Oh, no! Miss De Waxy mustn’t be touched. Miss De Waxy keeps by herself, and never speaks a word to the others, because they can’t talk French. Miss De Waxy, before she came over, thought all the American dolls were dressed in wild beasts’ skins. See, this is her fan, bought in Paris; and this is her gold chain. (_Lays her carefully by._)

BEL. And who are all these little ones? (_Pointing to row of small dolls._)

DAN. Those are the children just come from school, waiting for their lunch. See this cunning one! She doesn’t know O yet: she’s in the eleventh class.

LULU. And who is that old one with that funny cap on?

DAN. Oh, this! (_Taking up large old rag-doll._) Why, this is—this is old Nurse Trot. Poor old woman, she’s got a lame back, and she’s all worn out tending so many children; but she never complains, nor sheds a tear.

BEL. Oh, she’s got a bag on her arm!

DAN. Her snuff-box is in that. The sailor-boy brought it home from sea to her. (_Takes out the box, opens it, takes pinch of snuff, sneezes. The others sneeze._) Best of snuff! And he brought her these new spectacles (_tries them on her_): now she can see as well as ever she could.

LULU. How came this one’s arm off?

DAN. Why, that is poor Tabitha. She broke her arm sweeping out the baby-house; and it had to be taken off at the shoulder.

BEL. Where did she get that clean apron?

DAN. That checked apron? Let me see. That came, I think—oh! that was made at the doll’s sewing-school.

LULU. Look, Bel: here’s a blind one! (_Takes up doll with eyes gone._)

BEL. Oh! isn’t that too bad?

DAN. Yes, she’s blind; totally blind. She became so by trying to sleep with her eyes open. Dolls know better now. They shut their eyes when they lie down, and go off to sleep like live folks.

LULU. Oh, see this one! she’s all spoiled.

DAN. Yes: she was spoiled having her own way. Fell down when she was told to stand up, and broke her cheek. Doctors were sent for; but they couldn’t do any thing. She ought to have that face tied up. Where’s her pocket-handkerchief? Here it is. Now, isn’t that a beauty? Aggy says the sailor-boy brought it home to her from China. There, now her face is tied up, she won’t get cold. Do you see this pretty girl with the pink dress and curly hair? She is to be the wife of the sailor-boy. These two sit close together all the time, waiting for their wedding-day. The wedding-cake is ordered. See how smiling they look! and no wonder. I will tell you who is invited to the wedding; but you mustn’t tell. First, all the— Oh! here comes Aggy. Wait till by and by.

(_Enter_ AGNES, _dressed up in her mother’s clothes, with gay head-dress_.)

LULU (_laughing_). Oh, what a good mother! What’ll your name be?

AGNES. Mrs. White. (_Tiptoes up at the glass, twists and turns, arranges bows, strings, collar, &c._) This is the way mother does.

DAN. Shall I be the father, and do the way father does?

ALL THE GIRLS. Oh, yes, yes! Do!

(DAN _goes out_. AGNES _walks stiffly to a chair, speaks to the children very soberly_.)

AGNES. Children (_unfolding aprons_), come and let me put on your sleeved aprons.

LULU _and_ BEL (_whining_). I don’t want to.

AGNES (_stiffly_). Little girls must think mother knows best. Come, mind mother. (_Sleeved aprons are put on._) Now, children (_speaking slowly_), I am going to have company this afternoon; and you must be very good children. What do you say when a gentleman speaks to you? (_Children stand with folded hands._)

LULU _and_ BEL. Yes, sir; no, sir.

AGNES. What do you say when a lady speaks to you?

LULU _and_ BEL. Yes, ma’am; no, ma’am.

AGNES. And, if they ask you how you do, don’t hang your head down, and suck your thumbs, so, but speak this way (_with slight bow and simper_),—“Very well, I thank you.” Now let me hear you say it.

CHILDREN (_imitating_). Very well, I thank you.

AGNES. And what do you say at the table?

BEL. _Please_ give me some more jelly.

LULU. Please may I be _excused_, when we get up.

AGNES. That is right. And, if anybody asks you to sing, you must be willing, and sing them one of your little songs. What one do you like the best?

LULU. “_Gone Away._”

AGNES. I think you’d better sing it over with me, to be sure you know it. (_All three sing a song_, AGNES _beginning_.)

GONE AWAY.

TUNE,—“_Nelly Bly_.”

I know a pretty little maid,
And Sally is her name;
And, though she’s far away from me,
I love her just the same.
Sally is a darling girl,
A darling girl is she:
Her smile so bright is a happy sight
I’d give the world to see.

Upon my lovely Sally’s lips
The sweetest kisses grow.
Oh! if I had her by my side,
She’d give me some, I know.
Sally is a darling girl,
A darling girl is she:
Her smile so bright is the happiest sight
In all the world to me.

I have not seen my little girl
This many and many a day:
I hope she’ll not forget me in
That land so far away.
Sally is a darling girl,
A darling girl is she:
Her smile so bright is a happy sight
I’d give the world to see.

AGNES (_slowly_). Very well. Now sit down, dears, and play with your playthings, and don’t disturb mother. Mother’s going to make a new head-dress. (_Takes lace, flowers, ribbons, from work-basket. Children sit down and play with blocks, dishes, &c._)

(DAN _enters, dressed as father, with tall hat, dicky, black whiskers, cane, &c._)

AGNES. Children, be quiet. Your father’s coming. (DAN _walks in with stately air, seats himself, crosses foot over the other knee, tips back a little, takes out pipe, pretends to smoke_.)

DAN. That’s the way father does.

(_Children get each other’s things, and make believe quarrel._)

LULU. That’s mine.

BEL. I say ’tisn’t.

LULU. I say ’tis.

BEL. Mother, see Lu! }
LULU. Mother, see Bel.} _Both together._

(_Children’s blocks tumble down with great noise. They get each other’s._)

LULU. Mother, won’t you speak to Bel?

BEL. Mother, Lu keeps plaguing.

DAN (_sternly_). Silence, children!

AGNES (_knock heard at the door_). Bel, you may go to the door.

(BEL _goes to the door, and runs back really frightened_.)

BEL. Oh, there’s an old beggar-man there! I’m scared of him! (_Begins to cry._)

(_Enter beggar-man very slowly. He is shockingly dressed; stoops;
is humpbacked; carries a cane; has whiskers and hair, which, with a
slouched hat, nearly cover his face. Girls are really frightened,
and, huddling close together, whisper._)

ALL THE GIRLS. Who is it? I’m scared! Let’s run! Come quick! (_Girls run out._)

DAN (_jumping up_). Good for you, Ben! I knew they’d be scared.

BENNY (_throwing off disguise_). Hurrah! let’s chase! No treat, no treat!

DAN. Come on, come on! (_They run out._)

THE BIRD DIALOGUE.

SPEAKERS.

MARY.
DEBBIE.
DORA.
EDITH.
CAROLINE.
HITTIE.
EVA.
MINNIE.
JOE.
FREDERIC.
ARTHUR.
JOHNNY.
GUSSIE.

[MARY, CAROLINE, DEBBIE, and DORA are the largest among the girls;
MINNIE and EVA the smallest. FREDERIC and JOE are the largest boys:
JOHNNY is the smallest.]

SCENE.—_A schoolroom. Tables and chairs are placed around, upon
which are books, slates, a globe, &c. Maps are hung upon the walls.
A group of scholars assembled, waiting for school to begin._ MARY
_and_ HITTIE _are sitting together_, MARY’S _arm around_ HITTIE.
JOHNNY _stands whittling_. GUSSIE _is seated, with open book in
hand, twirling a teetotum_. DEBBIE _stands with sack on, holding
and occasionally swinging her hat by one string_. CAROLINE _sits
with slate and arithmetic before her_. EDITH _is seated with an
open atlas_. FREDERIC _leans back a little in his chair, sharpening
lead-pencils for the others, which he hands them at intervals_.
DORA _is at work on tatting_. ARTHUR _stands, and is winding a
ball, unravelling the yarn from an old stocking_. JOE _sits at work
on the hull of a little boat_. MINNIE _is sitting on a low stool,
with a bunch of flowers, which she is arranging in different ways_.
EVA _is also on a low stool, near_ DORA _and_ CAROLINE. _These
various occupations are introduced to avoid stiffness. They should
not be kept up constantly, but left off and resumed occasionally,
in an easy, careless way. Confused talking and noise heard behind
the curtain. Curtain rises._

MARY (_as if continuing a conversation_). Now, I should rather be a robin. He sings so pretty a song! Everybody likes to hear a robin sing. I don’t believe even a boy would shoot a robin.

JOHNNY. Course he wouldn’t!

MINNIE. Robin redbreasts covered up the two little childuns when they got lost in the woods.

CAROLINE. And they don’t do like other birds,—live here all summer and have a good time, and then fly off and leave us. They stay by.

GUSSIE. How do you know that?

CAROLINE (_or any one that can sing_). Oh! I’ve heard. They stay in swamps and barns, waiting for spring. Don’t you remember? (_Sings._)

“The north-wind doth blow, and we shall have snow;
And what will the robin do then, poor thing?
He will sit in the barn, and keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing!”

(_Others join in the song, one or two at a time; and, at the close, all are singing._)

MARY. Yes: he comes up close to our back-door and eats the crumbs, and perches on the apple-tree boughs. Mother says it seems as if he were one of the family.

DEBBIE. Now, I should a great deal rather be a swallow, and fly away. Then I could fly away down South where the oranges grow, and figs and sugar-cane, and see all the wonderful sights; and I’d go to the beautiful sunny islands away over the seas.

JOHNNY. You’d get tired, maybe, and drop down into the water.

JOE. No. He’d light on vessels’ topmasts: that’s the way they do.

DEBBIE. ’Twould be a great deal better than living in a barn all winter.

DORA. Oh, this morning I saw the prettiest bird I ever saw in all my life! Oh, if he wasn’t a pretty bird! Father said ’twas a Baltimore oriole. Part of him was black, and part of him red as fire. Oh, he was a beauty! If ever I am a bird, I’ll be an oriole!

ARTHUR. Uncle Daniel calls him the fire hangbird.

FREDERIC. That’s because his nest hangs down from the bough like a bag.

CAROLINE. Don’t you know what that’s for? Where they first came from, ’way down in the torrid zone, they build their nests that way, so the monkeys and serpents can’t get their eggs.

ARTHUR. I’ve got a hangbird’s egg.

EDITH. Do they have red eggs? (_Boys smile._)

FRED. No: black-and-white. Father calls him the golden-robin.

CAROLINE. I’ll tell you what I’d be,—a mocking-bird. And I’ll tell you why: because a mocking-bird can sing every tune he hears. It does vex me so when I hear a pretty tune, and can’t sing it! Sometimes I remember one line, and then I can’t rest till I get the whole. Mother says I ought to have been born a mocking-bird.

FRED. Of course, _Caroline_ would want to _carol_.

(_Groans and “O Fred!” by the crowd._)

CAROLINE. Mother says he can whistle to the dog, and chirp like a chicken, or scream like a hawk, and can imitate any kind of a sound,—filing, or planing, or any thing.

MARY. And he can sing sweeter than a nightingale.

ARTHUR. I’d be a lark; for he goes up the highest.

FRED. He has a low enough place to start from.

CAROLINE. I know it,—’way down on the ground, ’mongst the grass.

DEBBIE. No matter what a low place he starts from, so long as he gets up high at last. Don’t you know Lincoln?

JOE. I know what I would be,—some kind of a water-fowl: then I could go to sea.

JOHNNY. You’d better be a coot.

FRED. Or one of Mother Carey’s chickens.

JOE. No. I’d be that great strong bird, I forget his name, that flies and flies over the great ocean, and never stops to rest, through storms and darkness right ahead. _He_ doesn’t have to take in sail, or cut away the masts. I’d be an albatross!—Guss, what do _you_ think about it?

GUSS. Well, I think I’ll be an ostrich: then I can run and fly both together.

ARTHUR. And you wouldn’t be afraid to eat things.

GUSS. That’s so! They swallow down leather, stones, old iron; and nothing ever hurts them.

DEBBIE. I heard of one swallowing a lady’s parasol.

JOHNNY. But they’d pull out your feathers.

GUSS. No matter! The girls need them for their hats.

JOHNNY. I know what I’d be. I’d be an owl: then I could sit up nights.

HITTIE. You’d be scared of the dark!

JOHNNY. ’Twouldn’t be dark if I were an owl.

MARY. Can’t you play enough daytimes?

JOHNNY. Oh! daytime isn’t good for any thing. They have all the fun after we’ve gone to bed,—_I_ and Charlie.

FRED. ’Twon’t do for little boys to hear every thing that goes on.

GUSS. You little fellers are apt to make a noise, and disturb us.

HITTIE. Mother says, if I weren’t a chatterbox, I could stay up later. I’ll choose to be a parrot; for parrots can talk just when they want to, and have blue wings, and green wings, and red and yellow, and all colors.

EDITH. I should rather be a canary-bird, ’cause they have sponge-cake and sugar-lumps every day.

HITTIE. Oh, I wouldn’t be a canary-bird, shut up in a cage!

DORA. I should rather live on dry sticks.

MINNIE. My mamma’s got a canary-bird; and he sings, and he’s yellow.

HITTIE. Parrots are the prettiest.

MARY. Why _doesn’t_ somebody be a flamingo? He is flame-colored.

ARTHUR. I should think some of you girls would want to be a peacock.

DEBBIE. Now, what do you say _girls_ for? Boys think as much of their new clothes as girls do.

DORA _and_ MARY. Just as much!

FRED. I know who seems like a peacock,—Nannie Minns. I saw her stepping off the other day just as proud!—about seventeen flounces, and yellow kids, and yellow boots, and curls and streamers!—first looking at her dress, and then at her boots, and then at her gloves, and then at her curls,—this way. (_Imitates Nannie Minns’s walking._)

DEBBIE. Well, if some girls are peacocks, so are some boys hawks. I saw that great Joshua Lowe come pouncing down among a flock of little boys yesterday, and do every thing he could think of to ’em, just to show he could master them.

MARY. And, if you want a crow-fighter, take Andy Barrows: he’s always picking a quarrel.

DORA. I know it. I’ve heard him. “Come on!” he says,—“come on: I’ll fight ye!”

CAROLINE. I think, as a general thing, girls behave better than boys. What do you think about it, little Minnie? You don’t say much.

MINNIE (_looking up from her flowers_). I’d be a humming-bird.

EDITH. She thinks you’re talking about birds.

CAROLINE. And what would you be a humming-bird for?