LESSONS IN COOKERY.

Miss Cicely Jones is just home from boarding-school and engaged to be married, and as she knows nothing about cooking or housework, she is going to take a few lessons in the culinary art to fit her for the new station in life which she is expected to adorn with housewifely grace.

She makes a charming picture as she stands in the kitchen door, draped in a chintz apron prettily trimmed with bows of ribbon, her bangs hidden under a Dolly Varden cap, while she gracefully swings to and fro on her French kid heels.[1]

“Mamma,” she lisped, “pleathe introduce me to your assistant?”

Mamma said, “Bridget, this is your young lady, Miss Cicely, who wants to learn the name and use of everything in the kitchen and how to make cocoanut rusks and angel-food, before she goes to housekeeping for herself.”[2]

Bridget is not very favorably impressed, but as she looks at the vision of youth and beauty before her, she relents a little and says:

“I’ll throy.”

“Now Bridget, dear,” said Miss Cicely when they were alone, “tell me everything, won’t you? You see I don’t know anything except what they did at school--and oh, isn’t this old kitchen lovely? What makes the ceiling such a beautiful bronze color, Bridget?”[3]

“Shmoke,” answers Bridget shortly, “an’ me ould eyes are put out wid the same.”

“Shmoke, I must remember that. Bridget, what are those shiny things on the wall?”

“Kivvers--tin kivvers for the kittles.”

“Oh, yes--kivvers. I must look for the derivation of that word. Bridget, what are those round things in the basket?”

“Sure, thim’s praties. Fur the Lorrud’s sake where hev yez lived niver to hear tell o’ praties? Feth, thim’s the principal mate in the oul’ counthry!”

“Oh, but we have corrupted the name into potatoes. I see. It is such a shame not to retain the idioms of a language. Bridget, do you mind if I call you Biddie? it is more euphonious, and modernizes the old classic appellation. But what is this liquid in the pan here?”[4]

“Howly Mither! Where wuz ye raised? Feth, that’s millick, fresh from the coo.”

“Millick! That is the vernacular I dare say, for milk; and this thick yellow coating?”

“It’s crame--Lord--sich ignurntz.”

“Crame! Well, well; now Biddie, dear, I must get to work. I’m going to make a cake--all out of my own head, for Henry--he’s my lover, Biddie--to eat when he comes to-night!”

(Aside) “It’s dead intirely he’ll be if he ates it.”

“Now Biddie, I’ve got everything down here on my tablet: A pound of butter, 20 eggs, 2 pounds of sugar, salt to your taste--flour, vanilla, baking powder in proportion as your judgment dictates. Now Biddie, let me have the eggs first. Why! it says, ‘beat them well,’ but won’t that break the shells?”[5]

“Feth, I’d brek ’em this time anny how, lest they don’t set well on Mister Henry’s stummick,” said Bridget pleasantly.

“All right. I suppose I can use the shells separately. There they go! Biddie dear, I’ve broken all the eggs into the flour, and you may save the shells to give to some poor people. Now, what next? Oh, I’m so tired! Isn’t housework just awfully hard? But I’m so glad I’ve learned to make cake. Now what shall I do next, Biddie?”

“Axin yer pardon, yez might give it to the pigs, Miss Cicely,” said Bridget, “it’s mesilf can’t say no ither use for it.”

“Pigs! Oh, Biddie!!! You don’t mean to say that you have some dear cunning little white pigs! Oh, do bring the little darlings in and let me feed them! I’m just dying to have one for a pet. I think they are too awfully sweet for anything.”

Just then the bell rang and Mr. Henry was announced. Cicely told Bridget she would take another lesson the next day, and she went into the parlor with her chintz apron on, with a little dab of flour on her nose, and told Henry she was learning to cook[6]--and he told her she must not get worried nor overheated, and that he didn’t care whether she could cook or not--he didn’t want to eat when he could have her to talk to----and poor Bridget was just slamming things in the kitchen and talking to herself (in that sweet idiom) about “idgits ternin things upsid down for her convanience.”

TABLEAUX.

1. Kitchen scene. Bridget working at table, Miss Cicely entering half-opened door from rear; mother in foreground.

2. Bridget faces audience, eying Miss Cicely in center of foreground; mother at right.

3. Miss Cicely pointing and Bridget looking at ceiling. They are alone.

4. Miss Cicely points to a pan of milk on the table at the left, Bridget standing at right side, face to audience.

5. Miss Cicely, tablets in hand, in front of table contemplates her ingredients, and Bridget looks on contemptuously.

6. Parlor. Henry and Cicely discussing matters on a sofa.

THE BRIDAL WINE CUP.

(Specially Arranged for this Number.)

Characters and Costumes:--Marion, the bride, young and as pretty as possible, in full bridal costume of white; her husband, a little older and as fine looking as he can be made; her father, a man about fifty, gray, portly and dignified, both in full dress; his wife, some younger, in elaborate toilet of dark silken traine, hair powdered; three of six bridesmaids--as stage and other circumstances will permit--in one color if possible (dresses of cheese-cloth are very pretty in rose, blue or sea-green--and very cheap) if not, in colors that harmonize; the same number of attendants in evening dress; two maids of honor, about five years old, in white, carrying baskets of flowers; two pages, about eight years old in Lord Fauntleroy costume; clergyman, as spirituelle in appearance as can be had--powder if complexion is dark or florid--should be smooth-faced, wears episcopal gown and carries prayer-book; guestsad lib.in the background and sides in groups.

(First tableau is announced and shown before the reading begins--as the “staging” is elaborate and should be carefully done.)[1]

“Pledge with wine, pledge with wine,” cried the young and thoughtless Harvey. “Pledge with wine,” ran through the bridal party.

The beautiful bride grew pale--the decisive hour had come--she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath camequicker, her heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly opposed to the use of all wines and liquors.

“Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once,” said the judge in a low tone, going towards his daughter, “the company expect it. Do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette--in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once please me.”[2]

Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion’s principles were well known. Harvey had been a convivialist, but of late his friends noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits--and to-night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down to a woman’s opinion so soon.

Pouring out a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles toward Marion.[3]She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook not as, smiling back, she gracefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so when every hand was arrested by her piercing exclamation of “Oh, how terrible.” “What is it?” cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at arm’s length and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous object.[4]“Wait,” she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark eyes; “wait, and I will tell you. I see,” she added, slowly pointing one jeweled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, “a sight that beggars all description, and yet listen, I will paint it for you if I can. It is a lovely spot; tall mountains, crownedwith verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water’s edge. There is a thick warm mist, that the sun seeks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever! One friend stands beside him; nay, I should say, kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his breast.

“Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy-looking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws aside his dark curls! See him clasp his hands! Hear his thrilling shrieks for life! Mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh! hear him call piteously his father’s name; see him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister--his only sister, the twin of his soul--weeping for him in his distant native land.”

“See!” she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the judge fell, overpowered, upon his seat; “see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he prays, how wildly, for mercy; hot fever now rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently and leave the living and dying together.”

There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealingto the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct; she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine cup.[5]

“It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lay gently upon his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister--death is there. Death, and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back--one convulsive shudder--he is dead!”

A groan ran through the assembly. So vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed, also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping.

“Dead!” she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and her voice more and more broken; “and there they scoop him a grave; and there, without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp, reeking earth--the only son of a proud father, the idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies--my father’s son--my own twin brother, a victim to this deadly poison. Father,” she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, “father, shall I drink the poison now?”

The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered: “No, no, my child; in God’s name, no.”

She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces.[6]Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: “Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer are the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand; who watched over my brother’s dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?”

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer.

The judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner, took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to banish the enemy for once and forever from his princely rooms.

TABLEAUX.

1. Bridal party in foreground, ceremony in process; maids of honor and pages in front.

2. Supper table at left, near which stands the Judge and in center of foreground the bride, who looks at her father; others in groups.

3. One of the attendants handing a wine-glass (by all means filled with cold tea, or fruit juice) to Marion, on whom all eyes are fixed.

4. Glass in extended right hand, pointing to it with index finger of left.

5. Guests seem transfixed with interest in the recital and Marion’s glass has been brought nearer to herself.

6. The bride has advanced to the front (so as not to spatter the others--and must have practiced sufficiently not to spatter her own gown) and in the instant when the curtain is drawn she dashes the wine-glass to the floor. If this tableau is shown a second time, a second wine-glass must be sacrificed.

GRANDMA’S MINUET.

Grandma told me all about it;Told me so I couldn’t doubt it,How she danced--my grandma danced--Long ago.How she held her pretty head,How her dainty skirt she spread,How she turned her little toes[1],Smiling little human rose!Long ago.Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,Dimpled cheek, too--ah, how funny!Really, quite a pretty girl,Long ago.Bless her! Why, she wears a cap,Grandma does, and takes a napEvery single day; and yetGrandma danced a minuet,Long ago.Now she sits there rocking, rocking,Always knitting grandpa’s stocking[2](Every girl was taught to knitLong ago);Yet her figure is so neat,I can almost see her nowBending to her partner’s bow[3]Long ago.Grandma says our modern jumping,Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping,Would have shocked the gentlefolkLong ago.No--they moved with stately grace,Everything in proper place;Gliding slowly forward, thenSlowly courtesying back again[4]Long ago.Modern ways are quite alarming,Grandma says; but boys were charming--Girls and boys, I mean, of course--Long ago.Bravely modest, grandly shy--What if all of us should tryJust to feel like those who metIn their graceful minuet,Long ago?With the minuet in fashion,Who could fly into a passion?All would wear the calm they woreLong ago.In time to come, if I perchanceShould tell my grandchild of our danceI should really like to say:“We did, dear, in some such wayLong ago.”

Grandma told me all about it;

Told me so I couldn’t doubt it,

How she danced--my grandma danced--

Long ago.

How she held her pretty head,

How her dainty skirt she spread,

How she turned her little toes[1],

Smiling little human rose!

Long ago.

Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,Dimpled cheek, too--ah, how funny!Really, quite a pretty girl,Long ago.Bless her! Why, she wears a cap,Grandma does, and takes a napEvery single day; and yetGrandma danced a minuet,Long ago.

Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny,

Dimpled cheek, too--ah, how funny!

Really, quite a pretty girl,

Long ago.

Bless her! Why, she wears a cap,

Grandma does, and takes a nap

Every single day; and yet

Grandma danced a minuet,

Long ago.

Now she sits there rocking, rocking,Always knitting grandpa’s stocking[2](Every girl was taught to knitLong ago);Yet her figure is so neat,I can almost see her nowBending to her partner’s bow[3]Long ago.

Now she sits there rocking, rocking,

Always knitting grandpa’s stocking[2]

(Every girl was taught to knit

Long ago);

Yet her figure is so neat,

I can almost see her now

Bending to her partner’s bow[3]

Long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping,Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping,Would have shocked the gentlefolkLong ago.No--they moved with stately grace,Everything in proper place;Gliding slowly forward, thenSlowly courtesying back again[4]Long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping,

Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping,

Would have shocked the gentlefolk

Long ago.

No--they moved with stately grace,

Everything in proper place;

Gliding slowly forward, then

Slowly courtesying back again[4]

Long ago.

Modern ways are quite alarming,Grandma says; but boys were charming--Girls and boys, I mean, of course--Long ago.Bravely modest, grandly shy--What if all of us should tryJust to feel like those who metIn their graceful minuet,Long ago?

Modern ways are quite alarming,

Grandma says; but boys were charming--

Girls and boys, I mean, of course--

Long ago.

Bravely modest, grandly shy--

What if all of us should try

Just to feel like those who met

In their graceful minuet,

Long ago?

With the minuet in fashion,Who could fly into a passion?All would wear the calm they woreLong ago.In time to come, if I perchanceShould tell my grandchild of our danceI should really like to say:“We did, dear, in some such wayLong ago.”

With the minuet in fashion,

Who could fly into a passion?

All would wear the calm they wore

Long ago.

In time to come, if I perchance

Should tell my grandchild of our dance

I should really like to say:

“We did, dear, in some such way

Long ago.”

MOVING TABLEAUX WITH PIANO OBLIGATO.(Specially arranged for Preston Library.)

MOVING TABLEAUX WITH PIANO OBLIGATO.

(Specially arranged for Preston Library.)

The music continues through the entire reading and should be very soft, player and piano may be hidden. A child eight or ten years old will often be found who can take the part gracefully and keep time to the music, but if not, get a young lady--as the beauty of the tableaux depends largely upon the dancing. The dress should be white and simple.

The Grandmother sits in the background, in ordinary makeup for old lady. The words suggest the appropriate tableaux at the places indicated.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

by Leigh Hunt.

(Arranged for an Illustrated Reading with Three Tableaux)

“Abou Ben Adhem, may his tribe increase,Awoke one night from a deep dream of peaceAnd saw, within the moonlight of his room,Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,An Angel writing in a book of gold.[1]Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold.And to the vision in the room, he said:‘What writest thou?’ The Angel raised its headAnd with a look made all of sweet accord,Answered: ‘The names of those that love the Lord,’[2]‘And is mine one?’ ‘Nay, not so,’Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more lowBut cheerily still: ‘I pray thee, then,Write me as one who loves his fellow men.’The Angel wrote and vanished, but the next nightAppeared with a great, wakening light,Showing the names of those whom love of God had blessed,And lo, Abou Ben Adhem’s led all the rest!”[3]

“Abou Ben Adhem, may his tribe increase,

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace

And saw, within the moonlight of his room,

Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,

An Angel writing in a book of gold.[1]

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold.

And to the vision in the room, he said:

‘What writest thou?’ The Angel raised its head

And with a look made all of sweet accord,

Answered: ‘The names of those that love the Lord,’[2]

‘And is mine one?’ ‘Nay, not so,’

Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low

But cheerily still: ‘I pray thee, then,

Write me as one who loves his fellow men.’

The Angel wrote and vanished, but the next night

Appeared with a great, wakening light,

Showing the names of those whom love of God had blessed,

And lo, Abou Ben Adhem’s led all the rest!”[3]

Characters and Costumes:--Abou Ben Adhem, on a couch over which an oriental spread is thrown. (If the genuine article is not to be had, substitute one of the most brilliant coloring obtainable.) He should be large and dark-skinned, head enveloped in turban of bright colored cloth or pure white. Angel, tall blonde; must be blonde, even if golden wig has to be rented or made of yellow Germantown yarn; face and arms freely powdered; hair hangs loosely and shows for all it is worth; draping is done most easily by means of two sheets (old,--new ones are too stiff to form graceful folds) as follows: over the ordinary underclothing, which must be sleeveless so far as the lower half of the arm is concerned, fold over a corner to a foot in depth, and place folded part over the chest, pinning drapery to each shoulder, letting it fall easily and full to floor, even trailing; do the same with the second sheet, using it to drape the back of the angel(?) pinning both under the arms in such a way as not to interfere with their free use, nor to cover below the elbow; a white or silver cord and tassel is tied loosely in front just below the waist line, and in such a manner as to allow the drapery above to fall in folds over the girdle; the wings must not be “stingy” nor set too high on the shoulders,must nearly touch floor (see directions, p.6, for making) and are pinned in place before the second sheet is draped; a silver band of pasteboard covered with paper with a star in front confines the hair ever so slightly.

The “book of gold” is any large book covered with gilt paper.

The scroll containing “the names of those whom love of God had blessed” is made of blank white paper, two and a half by five feet, paste-hemmed edge of one inch on sides and lower end, the upper end pasted on a round stick of light wood (the writer has used a curtain roller or broom handle) and the name Abou Ben Adhem in large gilt letters pasted about a foot from the top. The “odds and ends” of gilt paper that are left from this cutting may be used to simulate the other names further down upon the scroll, only Abou’s being intended as readable.

The light for these tableaux should be as yellow and mellow as possible--and in the writer’s opinion nothing is so good for obtaining this effect as kerosene lamps used abundantly, as foot-lights, on brackets, and wherever a place may be found for one--with shades of yellow tissue paper thrown over plain white porcelain or glass ones on as many of the lamps as can be dressed in this way. Gas is next best--but electric light is too white.(See(See“Directions,” p.6, for making foot-lights.)

TABLEAUX.

1. Sitting-room scene; couch at right of center of foreground, head pointing toward left and a little back. Desk or table at convenient distance on left, where angel writes, facing the dreamer, who has raised his head and watches intently, resting it on his hand. Angel’s look is toward the book of gold.

2. Same as preceding, except that Angel’s head is raised while speaking, and she looks at Abou.

3. Angel stands, holding scroll so that both audience and Abou may see and read his name.

EASTER EXERCISE.

Longfellow’s “King Robert of Sicily” Illustrated with Tableaux.

by the Author of “PrestonPapers.”Papers.”

(The following is designed for a high-school or academy entertainment.--Author.)

Only “cue” lines from the well-known poem are given. The reader should stand in front of the drawn curtain, reading during arrangement of stage for scenic illustration.Everything must be in readiness for prompt and silent changesfrom one tableau to another, that the poem may be “illustrated,” not spoiled. The entire poem should be read--the tableaux shown at the cue.

(“cue”line.line.)

“On St. John’s eve, at vespers, proudly sat,And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.”

“On St. John’s eve, at vespers, proudly sat,

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.”

1. Stage represents church, with dim lights; at left altar, priests chanting; at right, king and retinue in pews. Altar may be fashioned from upturned box, over which showy table-spread is thrown; railing may be made by turning chairs of one pattern, with backs toward pews; king’s crown of pasteboard covered with gilt paper; loose robe of any soft, brilliant color; ermine can be made from sheets of cotton wadding cut in strips three or four inches wide having black spots an inch and a half long, tapering from half inch wide to round point; courtiers’ costumes brilliant with gilt and tinsel.

“And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.”

“And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,

Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.”

2. Same scene; lights dimmer; music softer and more monotonous--King sleeping.

“The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls--As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.”

“The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls--

As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.”

3. Same, but with lights all extinguished save one or two dimly burning; king alone, near door at extreme right.

“King Robert’s self, in features, form, and height,But all transfigured by angelic light.”

“King Robert’s self, in features, form, and height,

But all transfigured by angelic light.”

4. Banquet room brilliantly lighted in the palace; table elegantly equipped with damask, glass (the more beautiful color the better), silver, flowers, etc., people standing in groups; king’s counterpart on dais in background;realking in foreground, side to audience, staring at his “other self.”

“And in the corner, a revolting shape,Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape.”

“And in the corner, a revolting shape,

Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape.”

5. Barren dark room; straw bed in further corner, with king sitting thereon in plain dark robe, disheveled hair, wonder in face, and attitude.Apemay be omitted, or “made to order” of dark cloth, on wooden chair or stool in opposite corner.

“He heard the garments of the LordSweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.”

“He heard the garments of the Lord

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.”

6. Same scene; but king kneels, facing audience.

“Across these stones, that lead the way to heaven,Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven.”

“Across these stones, that lead the way to heaven,

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven.”

7. King Robert in the foreground in same garments, bowed head, hands crossed on breast, standing; Angel King on throne in background. (Throne may be improvised from big old-fashioned sofa, or two large chairs without arms, having handsome spread thrown over it, with showy rug in front.)

“Rose like the throbbing of a single string;‘I am the Angel, and thou art the King.’”

“Rose like the throbbing of a single string;

‘I am the Angel, and thou art the King.’”

DRAFTED.

A Memorial Day Poem, Illustrated with Moving Tableaux.

Arranged by the Author of “Preston Papers.”

I.What? Drafted? My Harry! Why man, ’t is a boy at his books,No taller, I’m sure, than your Annie; as delicate, too, in his looks.Why it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen, at tasks.He drafted! Great God! Can it be that our President knows what he asks?II.He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best.Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.Too slender for over-much study; why his teacher has made him to-dayGo out with his ball, on the common; and you’ve drafted a child at his play!III.“Not a patriot?” Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gunAnd the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his face to the wall,“There’s a staff growing up for your age, Mother,” said Robert, “if I am to fall.”IV.“Eighteen?” Oh, I know; and yet narrowly. Just a wee babe on the dayWhen his father got up from his sick bed, and cast his last ballot for Clay.Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, “A new morsel of fameWe’ll lay on the candidate’s altar;” and christened the child with that name.*/V.O, what have I done, a weak woman? In what have I meddled with harm(Troubling God only for sunshine and rain, on my rough little farm)That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and sharpened before my eyes--That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?VI.Oh, I know there’s a country to save, man; and ’tis true there is no appeal.But did God see my boy’s name, lying the uppermost one in the wheel?Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one!Are these things Fortune’s caprices, or is it God’s will that is done?VII.Are the others too precious for resting when Robert is taking his restWith the pictured face of young Annie, lying over the rent in his breast?Too tender for parting with sweethearts?TooToofair to be crippled or scarred?My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!VIII.Now read me a page from the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night,Of the Eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight.Talk of something that’s nobler than living; of a Love that is higher than mine;And a Faith that has planted its banners where the heavenly camp-fires shine.IX.Talk of Something that tenderly watches, while the shadows glide down in the yard,That shall go with my soldier to battle--and stand, with my picket, on guard.Spirits of loving and lost ones! Watch softly o’er Harry to-night--For to-morrow he goes forth to battle! Arm him for Freedom and Right.

What? Drafted? My Harry! Why man, ’t is a boy at his books,No taller, I’m sure, than your Annie; as delicate, too, in his looks.Why it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen, at tasks.He drafted! Great God! Can it be that our President knows what he asks?

What? Drafted? My Harry! Why man, ’t is a boy at his books,

No taller, I’m sure, than your Annie; as delicate, too, in his looks.

Why it seems but a day since he helped me, girl-like, in my kitchen, at tasks.

He drafted! Great God! Can it be that our President knows what he asks?

II.

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best.Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.Too slender for over-much study; why his teacher has made him to-dayGo out with his ball, on the common; and you’ve drafted a child at his play!

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best.

Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest.

Too slender for over-much study; why his teacher has made him to-day

Go out with his ball, on the common; and you’ve drafted a child at his play!

III.

“Not a patriot?” Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gunAnd the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his face to the wall,“There’s a staff growing up for your age, Mother,” said Robert, “if I am to fall.”

“Not a patriot?” Fie! Did I whimper when Robert stood up with his gun

And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run?

Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his face to the wall,

“There’s a staff growing up for your age, Mother,” said Robert, “if I am to fall.”

IV.

“Eighteen?” Oh, I know; and yet narrowly. Just a wee babe on the dayWhen his father got up from his sick bed, and cast his last ballot for Clay.Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, “A new morsel of fameWe’ll lay on the candidate’s altar;” and christened the child with that name.*/

“Eighteen?” Oh, I know; and yet narrowly. Just a wee babe on the day

When his father got up from his sick bed, and cast his last ballot for Clay.

Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, “A new morsel of fame

We’ll lay on the candidate’s altar;” and christened the child with that name.*/

O, what have I done, a weak woman? In what have I meddled with harm(Troubling God only for sunshine and rain, on my rough little farm)That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and sharpened before my eyes--That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

O, what have I done, a weak woman? In what have I meddled with harm

(Troubling God only for sunshine and rain, on my rough little farm)

That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and sharpened before my eyes--

That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

VI.

Oh, I know there’s a country to save, man; and ’tis true there is no appeal.But did God see my boy’s name, lying the uppermost one in the wheel?Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one!Are these things Fortune’s caprices, or is it God’s will that is done?

Oh, I know there’s a country to save, man; and ’tis true there is no appeal.

But did God see my boy’s name, lying the uppermost one in the wheel?

Five stalwart sons has my neighbor, and never the lot upon one!

Are these things Fortune’s caprices, or is it God’s will that is done?

VII.

Are the others too precious for resting when Robert is taking his restWith the pictured face of young Annie, lying over the rent in his breast?Too tender for parting with sweethearts?TooToofair to be crippled or scarred?My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!

Are the others too precious for resting when Robert is taking his rest

With the pictured face of young Annie, lying over the rent in his breast?

Too tender for parting with sweethearts?TooToofair to be crippled or scarred?

My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!

VIII.

Now read me a page from the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night,Of the Eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight.Talk of something that’s nobler than living; of a Love that is higher than mine;And a Faith that has planted its banners where the heavenly camp-fires shine.

Now read me a page from the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night,

Of the Eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight.

Talk of something that’s nobler than living; of a Love that is higher than mine;

And a Faith that has planted its banners where the heavenly camp-fires shine.

IX.

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

Talk of Something that tenderly watches, while the shadows glide down in the yard,

That shall go with my soldier to battle--and stand, with my picket, on guard.

Spirits of loving and lost ones! Watch softly o’er Harry to-night--

For to-morrow he goes forth to battle! Arm him for Freedom and Right.

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

SUGGESTIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE.

by Alice Cary.

(Tableaux Illustrating This Poem, Arranged Especially for the “Preston Library.”)

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

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

TABLEAUX.

First scene, cue lines:

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

“O good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw

Shapes of things that you never saw?”

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

Second scene, cue line:

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

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

Third scene.Studio again.

MY SISTER’S PHOTOGRAPHS.

(Adapted and Abridged Expressly for this Publication--with Tableaux Arranged by the Author of “Preston Papers.”)

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

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

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

“Conseated fop!”

“Oh, ain’t he sweet?”

“A perfick darling.”

“What a mouth!”

“Portrait of a donkey!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“O-o-o-h!”[3]

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

Sue was so mad she boxed my ears.

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

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

I laid low--but beware to-morrow.

This morning they let me come down to breakfast.

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

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

“Oh, things,” sez I--’n’ she laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Peters!”

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

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

“I do declare it looks like you.”

“Let’s see it,” sez he.

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

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

“Clear out,” sez Peters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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