Chapter II: Part 2

_Crossin._ I wonder where McSwegan is? He promised to meet me here. As I was coming around the corner a little girl looked at me in the face, and says: “There’s General Grant.” I looked around and says: “You lie, sis,” but I don’t think she seen the point. Another little fellow says: “Stag the Mick with the lantern jaw.”

_Enter_ McSwegan.

_McS._ Good-morning, Barney.

_Cros._ Good-afternoon.

_McS._ What kept you so quick?

_Cros._ I couldn’t come any later.

_McS._ Have you had any trouble lately at your home?

_Cros._ Yes, we had a railroad accident.

_McS._ I didn’t hear anything about it. What was it?

_Cros._ Mary Ann O’Brien hung herself with her back hair.

_McS._ How do you make that out a railroad accident?

_Cros._ Why, her death was caused by a misplaced switch.

_McS._ It’s a wonder they didn’t put you up for a headlight.

_Cros._ If I had your mouth we might have used it for a tunnel.

_McS._ Well, are you working now?

_Cros._ No; I have not worked for three months.

_McS._ I can get you a fine job.

_Cros._ What doing?

_McS._ Why, a friend of mine wants to put you in an envelope; he wants to send a valentine to a shoemaker.

_Cros._ Say, when you go home you want to eat all the salt you can get; you are the freshest rooster I ever saw.

_McS._ Well, if you don’t like that job, put molasses on your whiskers, and hire yourself out for fly paper.

_Cros._ Will you be doing anything to-morrow?

_McS._ No, I guess not. Why?

_Cros._ Well, I would like to have you come with me to a photograph gallery; I want your picture.

_McS._ What do you want with my picture?

_Cros._ I want to give it to the police. I lost my monkey.

_McS._ Well, if I thought there was a reward for you I would bring you home again.

_Cros._ Did you hear the news?

_McS._ No; what is it?

_Cros._ It’s all over town.

_McS._ What?

_Cros._ Mud.

_McS._ That’s a very good joke.

_Cros._ It is. Will you have a cigar?

_McS._ I will.

_Cros._ Then go buy one.

_McS._ You are not smoking now, are you?

_Cros._ No, not at present.

_McS._ I see the mud has covered them up.

_Cros._ See here, do you know any conundrums?

_McS._ I don’t know what you mean.

_Cros._ I mean do you know anything I ought to give up?

_McS._ You ought to give up them two dollars you owe me.

_Cros._ Well, ask me some conundrum.

_McS._ All right. Which is the best way to make fish-balls without the fish?

_Cros._ Why, send the potatoes home C. O. D. What looks most like the half moon?

_McS._ Why, the other half.

_Cros._ Why is the mosquito a good poker player?

_McS._ Because every time he draws he fills.

_Cros._ Well, what chance have I got? Ask me one.

_McS._ All right. Which is the best way to keep a dog from going mad in August?

_Cros._ Shoot him in July.

_McS._ Which is the best way to find a young lady out.

_Cros._ Why, go around to see her some day when she is not in.

_McS._ Well, now ask me a hard one.

_Cros._ All right. Why are your two feet like an Italian organ grinder?

_McS._ I will give it up. Why are your two feet like an Italian organ grinder? Because they carry a monkey around all day.

_Cros._ What makes a chicken go across the street? Because he wants to get on the other side. Why didn’t you answer that, you bum?

_McS._ You didn’t give me a chance.

_Cros._ How long can a jackass stand on one leg?

_McS._ You get up and try it. [_Both exit._

TEMPERANCE.

A Dutch Declamation.

BY GUS WILLIAMS.

I haf been unvited dis evening, fellow drunkards, to speak to you on de subject of demperance, by a large majority of demperance men who never drink--unless dey vos asked.

I didn’t used to be a demperance man myself vonce. I vos a hard case, and used to go into a beer saloon, rap against my umbrella mit de gounter, und holler oud: “Gif me a lemonade straight--mid no water.”

But I haf seen de error of my vays.

Von night ven I vas in a hodel, swigging down cider und vichy, and German seltzer, und all of dose thoroughbred drinks, und hafing lods of fun mit de gang, a gentleman come ub to me.

He vos aboud half full, und dere vos a tear as big as a balloon on de end of his nose as he caught me by de throat, und whispered:

“I vant to see you alone for aboud a veek.”

I said “all righd,” and he took me to one gorner of de room, and said:

“You vos a nice young man.”

I dold him he vos kerrect, dot vos vhat all de spielers said--dey said dot I vos too sweet to live.

“It vos a shame,” he continued, mit emotion und beer in his voice, “to see you ruining of yourself mit lemonade and such shadows of strong drinks.”

I said dot I guessed so too.

“Vell,” he remarked, und he squeezed de punions on my hands, “swear off!--drink only vhiskey and Old Tom gin.”

I schwore.

From dis day to dot I haf been a changed man; I never get sober ofer dree dimes a week--agate measure.

Oh, I give it to you straight, my hearers, demperance vos a great ding--for women and children.

I had a brudder vonce, a goot, nice, six for a penny leedle poy. He had hair like roasted cheese und a complexion like strawberries mit gream gakes. Ve all dought dat he vould grow ub to pe bresident of a pank, skib avay to Canada und end his days universally respected.

But he vos led astray.

He got in mit an alderman’s son und a minister’s daughter, und dot ruined him.

He vos goaxed to drink.

Fust vater mit orange peel, den soda vater, next veiss peer mit a glub in it, after dot, brandy.

Ve dried to stop him in his vild career, but it vos N. G.--no use.

He vould come home newsbaber drunk efery night, und addract a growd around the house mit his antics, und dere vosn’t a slate in the neighborhood dot didn’t pear his autograph.

Und where is he now?

I repeat it to blush.

He is a congressman, und dey dalk of running him for bresident.

Und his poor mother, she is going to die of a broken heart shust as soon as she can find dime.

It vos a noble poet who remarked; “Look de udder vay at de lager ven it vas vhite.”

He vos righd.

Alvays let de lager settle; too much white und not enough red always spoils a schooner.

I am glad to say dot my demperance lectures haf not been mitout dere effect.

In von town vere I lectured dere vos only von liquor seller.

Now dere is six!

It is such driumphs as dis vich haf made me vot I used to be; de greatest terrible example of dem all.

De udder night at a social party, I met a young man mit de bloom of youth--fifty cents a bottle--on his cheek.

He vos de drunkest man I efer saw; in fact, he vos so drunk dot he dook me for a gentleman, and asked me vould I haf someding.

I said “No!”--I vas full already.

Den I dook him around to a lamp-post on de next plock und gave him taffy like a step-father.

“My friend,” I said, “you haf a mother?”

He replied dot dere vos a tradition to dot effect.

“Vell,” I recommenced, “vot vould your mother gif to see you in this condition?”

“She vould gif six dousand dollars,” he sobbed.

“Vot, to see you staggering?”

“Yes, she vos blind from her birth.”

Dot settled it--dot is to say, it settled dot branch of de subject--but I vent for him on de demperance issue pald-headed.

He realized dot I vos not in fun, and he signed de pledge never to use liquor, except as a beverage, until he died--or got married.

He has kept his word--it is aboud all he has to keep now--und is now employed by the city as a plumber for de bird houses in de Central Bark.

But von thing I must speak on before I gonclude.

It vos about de ladies.

It is hard to resist de demptation to drink; not many haf de courage like I haf, nefer to refuse.

But it is specially hard for a young man to refuse, when a young and lovely lady presents a tomato-can full of Pilsener and sweetly says:

“Take a bath, George?”

But I must end.

My fire-insurance policy runs out to-night, und I wish to escape mit my life.

In conclusion let me say, never drink, young man, never drink--_alone_!

O’RIELLY’S DAUGHTER MARY.

An Irish Family Sketch.

BY MART W. HANLEY.

CHARACTERS.

BERNARD O’RIELLY.
DENNY BURNS.
BRIDGET O’RIELLY.
MARY ANN REBECCA O’RIELLY.

SCENE.--_Ordinary tenement house room. Stove, R. Table, C. Chairs by table. Bureau, L., and cot. Curtain rises, disclosing_ Bridget _combing her hair at bureau_.

_Brid._ Arrah, siven o’clock. Shure, it is time for Mary to arrive. But she’s late to-night. Shure, since she’s been workin’ in the playin’ card factory it’s too high-toned she has become to ride up town on the horse-car. It is on the back balcony av a truck that she rowls along. Hark, I guess that that is her footstep now. [_Listens._

_Door opens, and_ Mary _enters, carrying lunch-box. Sets it on table._

_Mary._ Supper ready, mother?

_Brid._ Supper ready! It is not hungry yez are afther the ilegant lunch that I put up for yez?

_Mary._ Ah, what are you giving us? Call that a nice lunch! Ham and crackers! that’s a sweet tuck-out for a hard working girl, ain’t it?

_Brid._ That’ll do, miss. Perhaps yez would like charlotty ruse and banana fritters wid egg sauce. Any girl that don’t like ham and crackers is too fastidious to live.

_Mary._ Well, I don’t care; all the other girls have nice things to eat. It gives you away to the gang to see me with such a curbstone banquet.

_Brid._ It gives me away to the gang, does it, ye hussy! I’ll give yez to comprehend that divil a cint do I care for the gang. Mary Ann Rebecca O’Rielly, sit right down on that chair and give your tongue a rest, or I’ll lather ye over the head wid the ironin’ board.

_Mary._ (_Sitting down._) All right. But hurry up with supper, mother.

_Brid._ ’Pears to me you are in an awful hurry.

_Mary._ So I am. I want to go to the Hoolihan masquerade ball.

_Brid._ Yez want to go to the Hoolihan massacree ball? Divil a step do you stir there to-night. No daughter av mine shall go to a massacree ball and dance wid five-cent barbers. Do yez want to be set down as a spieler?

_Mary._ But I want to go awful bad. All the boys and girls are going to take it in.

_Brid._ Yis; an’ the police will take thim in. Where is the ball to be held, at the Academy of Sculpture?

_Mary._ No, ma’am, at Wulhalla Hall.

_Brid._ Wulhalla Hall? That’s a foine, noice, jinteel place for a young girl to go to. Who are ye goin’ to go wid?

_Mary._ Denny Burns.

_Brid._ Who?

_Mary._ Denny Burns.

_Brid._ Niver! Do ye suppose that I would allow me daughter to go to a ball wid such a pill as he? Dinny Burns is a foine young man----

_Mary._ Of course he is; he’s a masher.

_Brid._ I’ll mash his head if he comes foolin’ around here. A feller that wears a soup dish hat and a pickadilly collar, and wears a bunch of asparagus in his button-hole. Begorra, Mary Ann, next yez will be asking me to allow yez to go down to Coney Island wid an alderman’s son.

_Mary._ Denny’s a real nice boy.

_Brid._ Ye are giving me taffy.

_Mary._ And he says that you are the freshest old daisy on this block.

_Brid._ And ye stood by and heard him insulting of yer mother widout kicking him over?

_Mary._ Sure he meant it as a compliment.

_Brid._ Oh, he did, did he?

_Mary._ Yis, and he said that he couldn’t tell you from me widout a telescope. He said that it was wonderful how you concealed your good looks.

_Brid._ Well, there’s some good in the lad yet, and----

[_Enter_ Bernard O’Rielly _at door_.

_Ber._ Bridget?

_Brid._ Yis, Bernard.

_Ber._ Take off me ulster, and bring me me smokin’ jacket. [_Takes off ragged coat and dons linen duster much worn, which_ Bridget _brings him_.

_Brid._ Are yez hungry, ould man?

_Ber._ Hungry! Be Heaven, I could ate a plate ov mortar! What have yez for supper?

_Brid._ Corn beef and cabbage.

_Ber._ Corn beef and cabbage.

_Brid._ Yis.

_Ber._ Woman, you’ll drive me mad. Corn beef and cabbage is nice food for a hard working man. Why don’t yez have ice cream and pie?

_Brid._ Where’s the money to get it wid?

_Ber._ Buy a lottery ticket, me daisy. Bridget O’Rielly, if I come home to-morrow night and find corn beef and cabbage for supper I’ll slaughter yez.

_Mary._ Dad, why don’t you buy a new dicer?

_Ber._ Do what?

_Mary._ Strike a fresh kady.

_Ber._ Mary Ann, I wasn’t brought up in Frinch. Did that horse car conductor that sint yez the boquet av peetoonias larn ye the articulation? Yez’ll be settin’ up a Vienna Bakery next.

_Mary._ Oh, you can’t tumble for a cent. Why don’t you get a new hat?

_Ber._ A new hat! What’s the matter wid this? [_Takes off a battered stovepipe_.] I’ve only worn it seventeen years. Next yez will be axin me to purchase a pair av low-necked shoes, and some giddy socks.

_Mary._ That hat looks as if it was called in. Get a gun and shoot it.

_Ber._ I’ll get a cannon and stab you. Bridget, is the corn beef and cabbage ripe?

_Brid._ Shure it is. Come take your sates at the table.

[Bridget _puts eatables on the table, and all sit down_. Bernard _picks up a loaf of bread, bites it, and throws it at_ Bridget.

_Brid._ Bernard O’Rielly, are ye mad?

_Ber._ No, I’m insane. The next time ye buy bread, Bridget, see that it isn’t stuffed wid bricks. I’ve left three of me teeth in the loaf.

_Brid._ Shure, it’s good.

_Ber._ Good for pavin the streets. If the Czar of Rushia had had cannon balls as hard as that bread, he’d a licked the bloody Turks long ago.

_Brid._ Thin I’ll throw it away.

_Ber._ No, yez won’t. Save it, and I’ll kill a cat wid it. Pass me the butter.

_Mary._ The butter’s strong enough to walk to ye.

_Ber._ No criticisms, young leddy; if the butter’s good enough for yer ancistor, it is good enough for yez. What are ye all dressed up fur to-night?

_Mary._ I’m going to a ball.

_Ber._ What ball?

_Mary._ The Hoolihan’s masquerade ball.

_Ber._ Yez ain’t. Divil a one of the Hoolihan’s marquerade have got money enough to buy their own chewin’ tobacco.

_Brid._ Let the girl go.

_Ber._ Niver; she can go around to church, and see them bury Pat McGinness, if she wants relaxation. Who was she goin’ to the ball wid?

_Brid._ Denny Burns.

_Ber._ A young thafe that gets fifty cints a week playin’ policy. Mary Ann, if I catch that hypothecation around this chateau, I’ll break his neek, do you savvy?

_Mary._ Then I can’t go wid him?

_Ber._ No, me leddy. Stay at home and read yez hymn-book, so that yez will be able to sing, “Hould me Foat,” when the time comes for the torch-light picnics. Bridget, take off this overdress of mine, and bring me me spring overcoat.

_Brid._ Shure, we’re using your spring coat for a tablecloth.

_Ber._ I suppose so. And I’ve been carryin’ the tablecloth around all day for a chest-protector. But I must away.

_Brid._ Where are yez goin’?

_Ber._ I have siven cints, and I am goin’ down to Casey’s to buy a dhrink. If either of yez are out of the house whin I come back I’ll kill yez both. Do yez moind?

[_Exit_ Bernard. Mary _and_ Bridget _both get up from the table and advance front_. Mary _puts on her bonnet_.

_Brid._ What are yez puttin’ on your tra-la-la hat for?

_Mary._ To go to the ball with.

_Brid._ Didn’t yez hear your father tell yez to stay at home?

_Mary._ Oh, father’s an ould stick-in-the-mud. He can’t boss me.

_Brid._ He’ll paralyze every sinew in your body.

_Mary._ I ain’t afraid. If he tries any of his lugs on me Denny will put a head on him. Da--da, mother.

_Brid._ If yez get killed at the ball it ain’t my fault.

_Mary._ All right. Over the sewer, skip the gutter, cross the river, mother. [_Exit at door._

_Brid._ There she goes with her Latin conversation. Bedad, I guess I’ll take a nap.

[_Blows out candle on table. Stage darkens._

[_Enter_ Bernard _at door_.

_Ber._ Eleven o’clock, and Bridget is asleep. Be the Heavens, I will wake her up; too much repose is injurious to the system. Bridget--Bridget! wake up, or I’ll kick your eyes open.

_Brid._ (_Getting up from cot._) What’s the matter? Where’s the fire?

_Ber._ Ye are slothful, Bridget O’Rielly. Where is Mary?

_Brid._ Asleep. [_Aside._] May St. Peter pardhon me for the loie!

_Ber._ It is well. If she had gone a-spielin’ to the Hoolihan masquerade I would have got a divorce from her.

_Mary._ (_Outside._) I didn’t try to mash the Dutch cucumber-peddler, Denny.

_Ber._ Bridget, you have deceived me. That is Mary’s voice.

_Brid._ I didn’t mane to, Bernard, but----

_Ber._ No buts; be fastidious in your defense. Madam, on to-morrow I may be in the prisoner’s dock at the court-house.

_Den._ (_Outside._) Go ’way, Mary Ann, you know you was tryin’ to shake me all the while.

_Mary._ (_Outside._) Speak low, or you’ll wake up father.

_Den._ (_Outside._) What d’yer ’spose I care for that ould gas-house terrier?

_Ber._ Bridget, get me the carvin’ knife. I will go out and cut that villain’s liver out! Do you hear the epithet he’s fastenin’ on me?

_Brid._ Be aisy; listen.

_Den._ (_Outside._) Your old woman, hey? Who cares for her, the ould dish-wrastler? When we get married, Mary, I’m goin’ to shoot her if she ever comes around the house.

_Brid._ Shoot me! Blessed virgin, d’ye hear it? Bernard, where’s the ax? Give it to me till I chop the assassin up!

_Mary._ (_Outside._) Come into the room, Denny. The old folks have all gone to bed.

_Brid._ The spalpeen’s comin’ into the room, d’ye moind it?

_Ber._ Whist! hide, and we’ll give him ballyglory.

[Bridget _hides under table_, Bernard _behind bureau_.

_Enter_ Mary _and_ Denny _at door_.

_Mary._ We have had a good racket, ain’t we, Denny?

_Den._ Yez are givin’ it ter me straight. Did yer see me mash that son of cross-eyed McCarty for saying that yez had a foot like a giraffe?

_Mary._ Did you kill him?

_Den._ No; but I broke the sucker’s jaw. Where are the two old figger-heads?

_Mary._ What figger-heads?

_Den._ Those old flannel-mouths--yer father and mother.

_Ber._ (_Jumping out from bureau._) Oh, yez rapscallion! Bridget, hurl yerself out and we’ll salt this fresh herrin’.

_Brid._ (_Jumping out._) Othello, we have yez now. Slug him, Bernard.

_Den._ What’s this, anyhow?

_Ber._ Young man, yez have alluded disrespectfully to the great O’Rielly family. Be Heaven, yez must die!

_Den._ What are yez slinging me--tacks?

_Ber._ We’ll be afther slingin’ yez out av the window when the morgue comes along. Whoof! hit him, Bridget!

[Bridget _rushes at_ Denny. _He knocks her down._

_Ber._ Yez have raised yer fist against a daisy. Beware, I am coming. [_Biz of fight between_ Bernard _and_ Denny. Denny _finally knocks_ Bernard _under the table. Table falls on him._ Denny _seizes_ Mary _in his arms and menaces_ Bridget _with the teapot. Flats close in on tableau._

[THE END.]

LOVE IN THE CANEBRAKE.

A Plantation Comedy.

BY D. J. DELANEY.

CHARACTERS:

PETE,
IKE,
REBECCA,
CLARA.

SCENE.--_Full stage. Cottage R. U. E. with window and door of paper same color as cottage._

_Enter_ Pete _and_ Ike _R. and L._ (_They shake hands._)

_Pete._ Why, Ichabod, I’se totally surprised for to see you. Whar you gwine at this lateness ob de hour?

_Ike._ (_Putting his thumbs in armholes of vest and assuming “bad” position._) Dat depends on sarcumstances. If I recognize dis locality aright, I hab reached de finale ob my predestination.

_Pete._ (_In astonishment._) Do tell!

_Ike._ Do you see dat brownstraw roofed mansion yonder? Dar’s whar I anchor.

_Pete._ What brings you ’round yere; business or pleasure?

_Ike._ Well, principally business. Do you know any one ’round yere by de name ob Clara?

_Pete._ No; but I’m acquainted wid a personage whose antecedent cognomen is Rebecca.

_Ike._ Well, it is more than presumable that our own prefatory incomprehensibility is based on its peculiar sanitary enfranchisement. Don’t you think so?

_Pete._ Yes, I guess you’re about right; we’re both on the same lay.

_Ike._ Dat’s English; and now to business.

[_Walks right and left about the stage, and advances and sings as follows_:

AIR:--_Big Fat Nance_.

Now, we’ve come out for a moonlight ramble,
To meet de gals dat we adore;
(_Pete._) My own Rebecca, (_Ike_) And my Clara;
And both our hearts wif love are sore;
In yonder cottage dey reside,
Dey promised to meet us here to-night,
Dese charming wenches are our pride;
Two raspberry blondes, our heart’s delight.

_Chorus._

Den hearken to de music’s rapture,
Wid love our hearts begin to ache,
And since of us dey made a capture
We’ll show you how to make a break.

(_Dance._)

_Ike._ Say, Pete, don’t you think it ’bout time dose festive shemales made deir appearance?

_Pete._ Ob course; but if dey didn’t hear us, what are we gwine to do?

_Ike._ I dunno. [_Scratches his head._] Suppose we get a brick and throw it at de house; dat’ll bring dem out, and we will gib dem de grand surprise.

_Pete._ Dat’s so. [_They retire R. and L., and producing imitation bricks throw them at the cottage. Music soft_; Pete _and_ Ike _retire R. and L. Enter_ Rebecca _and_ Clara _from cottage. Pick up bricks._

_Reb._ Oh, it’s a shame?

_Clara._ Dat’s what I say; it’s a shame. De idea ob dose dog-goned niggers throwing a quarry at de house to make us aware of deir whereabouts.

_Reb._ Oh, it wasn’t your lover dat trew da brick; you needn’t growl.

_Clara._ No, I don’t tink it was; I guess it must ha’ been your Pete; he’s so strong he could trow it wif his breff. Dere!

[_She throws the brick at_ Rebecca’s _foot_. Rebecca _hits her on the head with the brick she had. They each pick up the bricks to throw them at each other, when_ Pete _and_ Ike _appear_. Rebecca _and_ Clara _spy them and throw the bricks at them, hitting them_. Pete _and_ Ike _howl and retire_.

_Clara._ Ha--ha! did you see me hit him?

_Reb._ I guess dat ought to teach dem to be more civil to deir superiors.

_Clara._ Yes; dey said dey’d gib us de grand surprise. I don’t tink dey did.

_Reb._ (_Tearfully._) Yes; but I forgib dem. You know how I love Peter Holloway. [_Covers her face with apron._

_Clara._ (_Clasping her._) ’Deed I do, Rebecca. I can sympathize with you. [Rebecca _cries loudly_.] Listen to ecstasy, Rebecca. Wake up, chile. Rouse yo’self.

[Rebecca _wipes her eyes, and both bend low, listening to the music. They walk around with hands upraised, and advance to stage front, singing the following_:

Oh, we’re in love wid two spruce darkies,
Who ebry night at de hour ob nine,
Do wend deir way unto our homestead;
An’ to-night dey are both on time;
Dey call us dear and tender names,
In de canebrake down by yonder lane;
By deir handsome forms an’ winning ways,
We’re “gone,” but we are not to blame.

_Chorus._

Den hearken to de music’s rapture,
For a dance our feet begin to ache,
An’ since of us dose coons make a capture,
We’ll show you how to make a break.

[_Dance._

[_Meanwhile_ Pete _and_ Ike _come on and make remarks on the dancing. At the end of dance the girls spy the negroes and angrily walk towards them._ Pete _and_ Ike _produce large razors and chase the girls. They shout, and_ Clara _dives through window of cottage_, Rebecca _walking through the door_. Pete _and_ Ike _put up their razors and call for the girls; they at length come out slowly_.]

_Reb._ (_To_ Pete.) What for you try to carve me wid a razor, eh? Fo’ fifty dollahs I’d strike you so hard dat you wouldn’t eben hab time to dream of anoddah hen roost.

_Pete._ Who dreams about hen-roosts, eh? I tink I know considerable ob your private experience, anyway. I guess as how I know who took de duck eggs from Jim Barker’s hen coop. You can’t teach me ’bout de honesty ob some people.

_Reb._ Well, I can learn to forgib you, Pete Holloway; but I advise you neber again to gib such an exasperating shock to my nerves. You know I’m tender.

[_They make up and clasp each other. Meanwhile_ Ike _and_ Clara _have not approached each other_.

_Clara._ (_Mildly._) I should neber hab tought it ob you, Ichabod Fitzsimmons, neber.

_Ike._ (_Excitedly._) Well, no one cares. I’m satisfied, if no one else is. I guess I can do as I please. Dar’s just as good coons in dis village as eber you were. I neber cared much fo’ de place, anyway.

[_Indignantly he proceeds to walk across and off the stage._ Clara _rushes at him, and knocking him down, puts her foot on him and flourishes a small (imitation) ax over him_. Pete _and_ Rebecca _run towards her, and take the ax from her. They form a tableau._ Ike _exclaims tragically_: “_Saved--saved!_”

_Pete._ You deserved dat, an’ you came widin a hair’s breadth of gettin’ scalped. You’d better forgib her.

[_They make up, and joining arms walk R. and L. up the stage, and advance, and sing the following_:

_Reb._ Now, Pete, you mashed and dead gone nigger,
Quit your foolin’ an’ join de rhyme.

_Pete._ Why, bless you, honey, I’m all attention,
An’ willin’ to dance an’ keep in time.

_Clara._ Ichabod, say you love me still,
And neber go back on your sugar plum.

[_They clasp._

_Ike._ Forgib me, honey, an’ take me to your bosom,
For what we did was all in fun.

_R. & C._ Den join us in de song and dance,
Whenever you may come around.

_All._ We’ll drive dull care by slinging our shoe,
For dat is where we all grab ground.

_Chorus._

Den hearken to de music’s rapture,
For a dance our shoes begin to shake,
And since ob us you made a capture,
We’ll execute a heavy break. (_Dance._)

[CURTAIN.]

THE RIVAL DARKEYS.

An Ethiopian Sketch.

BY C. D. BRANDT.

SCENE.--_A Street. Enter_ Pompey, _R. H., with saw and sawbuck_.

_Pompey._ Well, I has been trabblin’ up de street, and trabblin’ down de street, all day long, and hasn’t had a single job yet, and ain’t got de fust red cent. I do’ know how I’ll get a quarter to go to de grand bobilition ball to-night; dere isn’t much chance for a nigger to git any wood to saw dese hard times. Dare’s too many ob dem Dutch fellars dat ’nopolize de bisness--works under price, and all dat. Dat won’t do for dis child. I tink I’ll leabe de carpenter bisness fur a while, and maybe I may be ’pointed to de office ob inspector ob wood-sawyers. But I’se bound to go to de ball to-night, anyhow. [_Enter_ Jim Brown, _L. H., who walks across the stage past_ Pompey, _and is going off_. Pompey _sees him_.] Hello, Jim! How is you to-day?

_Jim._ Look here, colored man, don’t be too familiar, if you please. ’Tis accessory dat you should know one ting prebious to your succeeding any furder in your observations.

_Pom._ What is dat?

_Jim._ I will instruct you to know dat I hab been appointed to office. I am ’pointed trabblin’ agent fur de Bobilition Society.

_Pom._ Trabblin’ agent? Well, s’pose dat means to go afoot--ha--ha--ha--ha! Dare’s one ting mighty sartin, honey--you won’t trabble bery fast if you tote dem _heels_ wid you!

_Jim._ Look here, Pompey, I has always had considerable respect for you, ’cause I beliebe you has some literary ’quirements; but you ’sociates too much wid dem low class ob white folks. You see, I’se one ob dem kind ob colored indiwiduals who tinks dat a white man’s just as good as a nigger so long as he behabe himself.

_Pom._ De Lord!--has you spoke? Jim, I guess you changed yer ’pinion de odder night when dat white fellar knocked you off de sidewalk.

_Jim._ Yes, I have a striking remembrance. I sued dat fellar, I did; and if I’d had a good witness, dey would ha’ fined him for manslaughter.

_Pom._ Ha! ya! Honey, I was to de trial, and I seed mighty soon how ’twas a goin’ wid _you_. When de judge axed de fellar what knocked you down: “What for you knocked dat colored man down?” de man didn’t say noffin, but he gib de judge de sign; and when I seed dat, I knowed he was one ob dem mason fellars; and when he gib de judge de high sign, de judge let him go free gratis fur noffin’. Look here, Jim, you goin’ to de bobolition ball to-night?

_Jim._ Yes, sir; widout prevarication.

_Pom._ Well, I s’pose you will take some ob de fair sex wid you?

_Jim._ Yes, sah; I will hab de extreme honor of perambulating dar wid de lubly Miss Araminta Peachblossom.

_Pom._ I s’pose de young lady will take her heels wid her, won’t she? Just you take my advice, Mr. Jim Brown, and when you’re dancing, jus’ mind how you swing dem comers, or you’ll trip up eberybody dat comes widin free feet ob you. Ha, yah! [_Exit laughing, L. H._ Jim _is going off, R. H., when he is met by some negroes, who thrust him off, L. H., crying: “Come, go ’long; we is gwine to de ball, we is!”_

SCENE II.--_Another Street, or a Park, with set House, L. H._

[_Enter_ Jim, _R. H., with banjo_.

_Jim._ Hang dese low niggers! dey are always in de way ob dere superiors. [_Looks at his watch._] My gracious! it’s nearly time to get ready fur de ball; so I’ll just slamanade Miss Araminta a little before I go.

[_Sings._ AIR.--“_Oh, hush._”

Lubly Araminta, Brown is come,
And sings to you with his thrum, tum;
So open de door an’ let me in,
For de way I love you is a sin!
Clar de kitchen, old folks, young folks, etc.

[Araminta _appears at a window and sings_.

Dandy Jim, when last we parted,
You to me did prove false-hearted;
It’s Whitewash Sall you want to see,
And she ain’t one bit better than me.
Clar de kitchen, etc., etc.

[_Scene changes, as_ Jim _is kneeling and_ Araminta _is closing the window to a plain room_.

[_Enter_ Pompey, _L. H., cautiously_.

_Pom._ Nobody here--dat’s good. Ha--ha! golly, I got into dis ball pooty cheap. I come up to de door, and I didn’t see nobody dar; so I toted myself right in. Dar’s nobody come yet, so I’ll just sing a little.

[_Sings._ AIR.--“_Brave Old Black Oak._”

A grin fur de oak, de ole black oak,
Who’s trunk I’se sawed so long;
Here’s a laugh all round, for his skin so brown,
An’ his forty-five legs so strong,
He shakes all round
When he’s chopped down,
An’ de coons cut dirt all about;
He gives fire an’ light
Ob a long cold night,
When de old nor-easters shout.

_Pom._ (_Voices heard outside._) Hello! here comes de guests to de ball. I’ll just step out ob de way, until some ob dem come in. [_Exit R. H. Enter a number of wenches and sing; then_ Pompey _comes in_.] How are you gen’lemen and ladies? I hope I see you all ’joyin’ good health. [_Looks off, R. H._] Hello! here comes Mr. Jim Brown, Esquire, as he told me to call him; and he’s got Miss Peachblossom wid him.

[_Enter_ Jim Brown _and_ Araminta. _They are the bon-ton; all the characters bow to them, and shake hands after business. Four dance, etc._

_Jim Brown._ [_To_ Pompey.] Pompey, I tole you once dat I was a fernologist.

_Pom._ A what?

_Jim._ A fernologist.

_Pom._ What’s dat?

_Jim._ Tell de bumps on de head.

_Pom._ No! but are you?

_Jim._ Yes, sir. Just you sit down and I’ll ’zamine you.

_Pom._ Bery well. [_Sits in C._

_Jim._ All ready?

_Pom._ Yes.

[_Recites the following lecture_:

_Jim._ You know as the tree is bent so is the twig inclined. In de fus place, fustly, dis little nigga’s head am like a monkey’s, only de monkey’s head am much littler dan dis, and dis am as much biggerer dan de monkey’s, consequently dey must both be ob de same size. In de fust place, secondly, I’se gwan as far forward as de back part ob de head, dat dey call de frontal bone; ’tain’t because it is all bone--oh, no, ’tain’t that--but because it is as far from de mouf as de calf of de shin, and dat is why dey call it de frontal bone. Dar--dar, dar’s a bump; dat’s what dey call de bump of combativeness; under dat bump dere is a large bladder ob dandriff, and when de nigga gets a little ’zaggerated, de bladder splodes; de cold air rushes into de vacum, and de nigga gradually subsides into his former situation. Dar, dar’s anoder bump--oh, golly, what a big bump!--dat’s what dey call de bump ob music; any nigga dat has dat bump any way permanent or largely deweloped, can play any tune on de fiddle--dat is, if he know’d how to play it afore. And now I hope I’ve satisfied you dat I know something about dis science. For de present, _Ecce sigmum, hoc vobis cum, quantum suff_.

_Pom._ Well, you can suffer just as much as you please, but I won’t let you make me suffer; so just take dat!

[_Hits_ Jim.

_Jim._ A blow! and from a low wood-sawyer!

_Pom._ Yes, sir-ee! And dar’s anoder! [_Both fight._ Pompey _floors_ Jim; _wenches faint, and a regular Sixth Ward fight all around, as the curtain goes down_.

POLITICS.

A Rattling Irish Farce.

CHARACTERS.

PATRICK GRADY,
DENIS HALLORAHAN,
BRIDGET GRADY.

SCENE.--_Ordinary room. Tables and chairs, L. Wash-tub, C, by door. Cradle, R, and churn. Curtain rises. Discloses_ Bridget _at table_.

_Bridget._ Shure, an’ it’s the terrible loife I’m lading. There’s me husband, Patrick Grady, always off av a night to Casey’s, getting blind drunk, an’ rowling an’ cavortin’ a home in the morning, a swearing that he’s in wid the gang, an’ that they’re goin’ for to run him for alderman. A foine alderman it is that he will make, with his shirt paping out av his coat, an’ divil a sock to his fut. Faith, I belave he’s goin’ ter the bad, intirely. He’s gettin’ so mighty high chuned av late that he’ll soon be a riding down town in a stage, instead av standing on the rear end av a truck. Oh, bad cess to the day that ivir I married him.

[_Enter_ Denis.

_Den._ Well, Bridget?

_Brid._ It isn’t well at all, brother Denis.

_Den._ Where’s Patrick?

_Brid._ Ax me something aisier. Down to Casey’s, I suppose, setting on top av a beer keg an’ swaring that he’s the man that’s going to put Cleveland out av the White House.

_Den._ On a drunk again?

_Brid._ Whin isn’t he on a drunk? Shure I’d be afther fearing that he was ill if he should come home sober.

_Den._ It’s a bad business, Bridget.

_Brid._ Ye are right. Ye see he’s got his head crammed wid politics.

_Den._ Politics, is it?

_Brid._ Yis; he went an’ pawned the stove to raise a banner wid. Shure he thinks that he’ll be Congressman afore long, an’ ruin the prospects av his childer intirely.

_Den._ Will he be home soon?

_Brid._ I’m expecting him every moment. Oh, Denny, I wish ye would rayson wid him.

_Den._ So I will, Bridget. His conduct, be heaven, is scandalous in the extreme!

_Brid._ But don’t be too hard wid him. Patrick manes well.

_Den._ I’ll thrate him dacent. [_Aside._] I’ll kick the devil’s left lung out av him if he gives me any av his unpolite conversation.

[_Noise outside. Enter_ Patrick, _staggering. Throws hat on floor, and reels front._

_Pat._ May I inquire, Missus Grady, who’s a been putting grease on the front piazzy?

_Brid._ Nobody, Patrick.

_Pat._ (_Severely._) Don’t yer lie to me, Missus Grady. I may be suffering undher a fit av despair, but I am not drunk, and I have me feelings. Shure, an’ I fell complately down on that front piazzy.

_Brid._ Ye don’t know what ye are saying, Patrick.

_Pat._ (_Looking at_ Denis.) How long since you have been buying cigar signs to stick up in your drawing-room, Missus Grady?

_Brid._ Why, that’s your brother Denis.

_Pat._ (_Advancing._) Faith, an’ it is! Denny, me boy, give me your flipper. Have ye a Henry Mud consaled wid you?

_Den._ I don’t smoke.

_Pat._ Yer don’t? Yer a Murphyite, are ye? An’ may I ax what sent ye here?

_Brid._ He heard what a drunken husband his sister had, and he came down to see about it.

_Pat._ Ah--ha! he did? Well, it’s my opinion, Missus Grady, that he’s drunk as an owl himself, and isn’t agreeable company for gintlemin like mesilf.

_Den._ I never drink, an’ it would be better, Patrick, if you never touched the whisky.

_Pat._ Nayther I do. It’s a nob that I am. A gallon bottle of dam shame, an’ put it down on the slate.

_Den._ Well, I mane it would be a dale better if ye left alcoholic stimulants alone.

_Pat._ Alcoholic stimulants, is it? Missus Grady, are ye aware that yer brother spakes Frinch? It’s the great temperance man that he is who praches for love an’ not money.

_Den._ But, Patrick, think av the shame it causes your wife for you to walk home intoxicated every night av your life.

_Pat._ I niver walk home. Bedad Assemblyman Murphy pushed me around to me residence this avening in his barouche--he peddles oranges out av it in the daytime. Ah, the assemblyman’s a great man. He’s got a pull in the ward, and he’s going to get me a political job a kaping the sparrows from flying away wid the City Hall.

_Den._ But your wife and children are a-starving in the manewhile.

_Brid._ That’s so, Patrick.

_Pat._ Will yer shut up, Bridget? yer want ice-crame and sponge cake fer lunch, I suppose. The next thing yer’ll be sinding out afther broiled quail in a box afther yer get to bed. It’s too toney, you’re getting, entirely.

_Den._ Is that the way to spake to your wife?

_Pat._ Whose wife is she?

_Den._ Yours, worse luck; but she’s my sister.

_Pat._ Shure, it wasn’t her fault, poor thing. Perhaps yer would be plased to have me buy her a pianny an’ get her a velocipede to amuse herself wid while I’m at work?

_Den._ You’re drunk, Patrick, and yer can’t see me argyment.

_Brid._ That’s thrue.

_Pat._ Will ye be still, Bridget? I’m drunk, am I, Mister Hallorahan? Av coorse I am; it’s elated wid joy that I am, because of the war in Europe. It’s agoin’ to mend the times in this country, an’ we’ll all git paid for being gentlemen, every man of us. Oh, I have the head for a senator.

_Brid._ You’re looney, Pat.

_Pat._ Missus Grady, if ye don’t shut up I’ll be forced to be on the lookout fur another wife, on account av yer suddent death.

_Brid._ Patrick, your cruel words will drive me wild with grief.

_Pat._ Thin we’ll send ye to play Hamlet.

_Den._ Talk gently to your wife, Pat; she’s a woman.

_Pat._ Yer don’t mane it. Well, did yer imagine I didn’t know that? I have frequent opportunities av seeing women afore. There’s Widow Leary, for occasion.

_Brid._ Widdy Leary, she’s a fine crathur! A female skeleton, that paints herself up like a brick house, an’ hasn’t the shape av a barrel.

_Pat._ The Widow Leary recognizes a fine man when she sees him. She tould Father Riordan that I had the natest fut av any man for blocks around.

_Brid._ She did, did she?

_Pat._ I’m a givin’ it to ye wid directness, Bridget.

_Brid._ When I catch her I’ll kill her. Thrying to intice me lawful wedded husband away, the cork-legged ould scarecrow.

_Pat._ That will do. Ye ought to be elated to think that ye have sich a voluptuous-appearing husband, and ought to be continted to humor him, especially whin he’s got sich influence wid the bys. Do ye know the “Garvey Musketeers,” Denis?

_Den._ Yis.

_Pat._ Shure, they’ve axed me to turn out wid them to carry their target instead of a nagur. Perhaps yer would condescind to ax me for a place in the post office now?

_Brid._ Are ye goin’ to turn out wid those blaggards?

_Pat._ Don’t yer be after alluding to the Garvey Musketeers as blaggards, Missus Grady. They are gintlemen; divil a wan av them works for a living.

_Brid._ They’re not off av the Island long enough.

_Pat._ Perhaps they are not cheeney enough for yer.

_Brid._ They’re a lot of rowdies, Pat. Why don’t you join the Father Matthy’s?

_Pat._ Would ye hear the woman? she’s putting on frills enough for an inspector’s wife. Wouldn’t yer like me to buy meself a little white apron an’ turn out wid the masons?

_Den._ Pat, can’t you listen to rayson?

_Pat._ Av coorse.

_Den._ Is it sensible or raysonable for you to be flying around wid the boys and laving your poor wife at home? Suppose some man should run off wid her.

_Pat._ Begorra, I’d jump on his chest till he spit blood, so I would.

_Den._ Now promise me you’ll stay at home more nights.

_Brid._ Yes, Pat, do, and jine the T. A. B’s.

_Pat._ Shure, Casey would drape his saloon in black if I did.

_Brid._ The curse of St. Patrick light on Casey. [_She rises and approaches_ Pat, _tickles him under the chin_.] Then, Patsey, darlint, sign the pledge.

_Pat._ But it will spoil me hould in the ward. Who ever heard av a temperance politician.

_Den._ Drop politics an’ stick to bricklaying, Pat.

_Pat._ Well, I believe I will. From this hour Pat Grady, Iskwire, drinks no more! [_Aside_--at his own expense.] Bridget, shoulder that broom an’ we’ll give the leddies an’ jintlemen in front “Sons of Temperance,” T. A. B., and yer, Denis, jine in the chorus.

(All form group at front of stage and sing. At end of song flat closes in.)

[THE END.]

LOVE AND POETRY.

A Short Burlesque.

BY HARRY MINER.

CHARACTERS.

HANNIS YORICK.
LENA KRAUSE.
BYRON LONGFELLOW SMITH.

SCENE.--Interior. _Tables, L. Two chairs, C. Door at rear._

[_Enter_ Lena, _R._ 1. _E._

_Lena._ Vell, at last the day’s vork vos done, the mistress has gone oud for the evening, an’ I haf the room to mineself. But I don’t better believe dot I vill haf it long, for there vos a leetle Dutch boy--vouldn’t he pe mad if he heard me call himself boy--who vos apt to drop in mit purpose by accident, to see me evenings, und I haf an idea dot he vill pe here right avay gwick pretty soon. I vonder vat he pring me--he alvays prings me sometings nice--de last dime it vos seven yards of sourkraut done up mit blue paper an’ a hay rope. I feel shust as light hearted as a rooster hen, an’ I guess dot I vill sing a leetle.

[_Sings._

AIR.--_Pretty as a Picture._

My heart vos gone,
I vos all forlorn,
Such a pretty boy has von me,
Such a nobby boy,
De Deitcher’s joy----

_Hannis._ (_Outside._) Lena.

_Lena._ Vell, Hannis.

_Han._ May I stay oud?

_Lena._ Of course. Open de latch, spring de door, an’ coom in.

[_Enter_ Hannis.

_Han._ Lena, you vos lookin’ as nice as a rosebud mit the catarrh.

_Lena._ Oh, Hannis!

_Han._ Dat vos drue. Vos dat you singing, Lena?

_Lena._ It vos.

_Han._ Vhy, I thought dat it was somebody shoveling coal. [Lena _hits him a slap in the face_. Hannis _makes a wry face_.

_Han._ There, you hab cracked the spine of my jaw.

_Lena._ Then vhy vill you dry to be funny? But come, sit down on yourself, Hannis.

_Han._ What on--a moonpeam?

_Lena._ On a chair, stupid. [_Brings chair to front of stage and both take seats._] Vot vos it you brought me?

_Han._ You like candy, Lena?

_Lena._ You know dot I do.

_Han._ Then what made you ask me? But it vosn’t candy. Candy vos unhealdy. So I hab brought you a dog.

_Lena._ A dog! vot vill I do mit a dog?

_Han._ Shoot him; you see he vos a nice dog; he vos the image of you.

_Lena._ Oh, Hannis!

_Han._ Und I thought dot mebbe you might wear him in your locket, or haf him stuffed into a pracelet or something like dot.

_Lena._ You vos joking.

_Han._ Shust you go und tell dot dog dot he vos a liar. You vill see vedder I vos joking.

_Lena._ An’ is a dog all dat you haf bringed me?

_Han._ No, Lena, I have brought you somedings else.

_Lena._ Vell, vot?

_Han._ I don’t vant to tell you.

_Lena._ Why not?

_Han._ You wud make fun of me, tell me dot I vos too fresh, und had petter go wash my mouth oud with salt.

_Lena._ No I von’t.

_Han._ Promise id.

_Lena._ Yes.

_Han._ Vell, dear, I vill gif mineself avay. Lena, you vos a nice leetle Yarman girl.

_Lena._ Dot fact vos gray-headed.

_Han._ Und, Lena, I lofe you.

_Lena._ Oh, my, vasn’t you ashamed.

_Han._ Yes, I vos plushing beneath my bosom protector. But for all dot I lofe you. Lena, nod----

[_Enter_ Byron Smith _L._ 2 _E. Stalks tragically forward. Halts and points finger at_ Hannis _and_ Lena.

_Byron._ Ha--ha! what is this that looms before my vision!

’Tis love’s young dream!
’Tis Cupid’s victory won.
Two hearts with but a single thought,
Two souls that beat as one!

_Han._ Is this a lunatic asylum, Lena?

_Lena_. Oh, no, dot vas only the poet dot board mit the mistress. How you vas dis evening, Mr. Smith?

_Byron._ Fair maiden, I stoop to kiss your snow-white hand.

_Han._ No, sir, not dis week. Dis vos my girl, I do all her kissing by gontract. Shust you mind your pisness and I’ll mind yours.

_Byron._ My nut-brown sylph, tell me, I pray, who this uncouth barbarian is?

_Han._ (_Jumping up._) Hold my coat, Lena.

_Lena._ Vot for?

_Han._ He has insulted you. I vill preak his fist wit mine head. He called you a nut-brown maid. You vas a white Dutch girl. By Shumping Shadrach I will pull out his teeth with mine boot.

_Lena._ Shust you sit on an ice-box, Hannis, he means no harm.

_Byron._ You are right, my starry-eyed gazelle.

_Han._ Vhy don’t you call her a plack-eyed camel, und be done wid id?

_Byron._ Presumptuous meddler, I am a poet.

Away with dross, with sordid gold,
I would not be a miser old;
But with my pen, my rapid pen,
I’m sure I’ll charm the hearts of men!

_Han._ Haf you been drinking vhisky, my friendt?

_Lena._ Don’t make fun of him, Hannis; dot vos peyewtiful poetry.

_Han._ I know von man dot would gif a thousand dollars to hear dot.

_Lena._ You do?

_Han._ Yes; he vos stone deaf in poth eyes. But I say, Mr. Poet.

_Byron._ Say on, Lucullus.

_Han._ My name vos Hannis, not Bluecollars. But as I vos saying--don’t you think, Mr. Poet, dot three vos company, two vos a crowd?

_Byron._ What does the gifted bard of Avon say about that? Ah, now I remember!

Two lovers alone in silent joy,
A blue-eyed maiden, a black-haired boy;
It might be better, it could be worse,
Another person would be a curse.

_Han._ Then vhy don’t you dake a tumbles and fly avay mit yourself?

_Byron._ I do not understand you.

_Lena._ Don’t mind him, Mr. Smith; I love your poetry.

_Byron._ Thanks; shall I give you another specimen?

_Han._ For heaven’s sake; hush!

_Lena._ Please do, Mr. Smith.

_Byron._ This is the seventeenth stanza of my lovely dirge, “Life.” There are three thousand and two more verses:

Life is a mockery,
Life is a cheat----

_Han._ (_Interrupting._) Ven ve vos hungry,
There’s nothing to eat!

_Byron._ What mean you, sir, by basely changing my lines?

_Han._ Pring an almanac und find oud. There vos a nice dog outside, Mr. Fresh.

_Byron._ A dog--a dog--a little dog,
A puppy small, but sharp,
Watching in all of puppyish glee,
His master’s Hebrew harp.

_Han._ No, sir; he vosn’t vatching any harp. Just yer go oud und feel of his teeth to see how oldt he vos.

_Byron._ I am happy here.

_Han._ I vosn’t. Say, Mr. Poet, von day there vas a feller coom to see his gal.

_Byron._ Come to ask her would she marry,
Begged her to no longer tarry,
Love had marked her for his quarry.

_Han._ Dot vos id. Vell, there vos anudder veller.

_Byron._ Ah, yes:

A sneaking rival, hump-backed, old.
With broad acres and heaps of gold.

_Han._ I could schwear to it. The sucker that I vas delling about, looked as if he vosn’t rich enough to puy a pound of air. Vell, he kept coming in und boddering dem lovers all the dime.

_Byron._ Base hell-hound.

_Han._ Dat might haf peen his name. But vot vould you haf done to dot Canarsie cod-fish?

_Byron._ I would have clutched him by the neck.

And hauled him down--down--down!
And when they asked me where he was,
Like the tempest’s howlings I’d repeat,
“Down--down in hell! ’Twas there I sent him!”

_Han._ You vould do dot?

_Byron._ Assuredly.

_Han._ Mr. Gall, I vill take your vord at you! (_Jumps up and seizes_ Byron.) I pounced him up--up--up! Und vhen dey send me a postal card asking vhere he vos, I repeaded like a dempest howl: “Send him a linen duster, he need it.” [_Biz. of struggle._ Hannis _gets_ Byron _down, and stands on him_. Lena _rushes forward, sinks on her knees by his side_.]

_Lena._ Spare him, Hannis.

_Han._ Queen Elizabeth Tilton, interceding for the life of Owen Murphy. [_Tableau._

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

The author for this book is listed in other sources as Aaron A. Warford.

Some advertising is likely missing from this transcription because the source copy was missing its back cover.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

The following changes were made:

The notation 1 2 for fractions was changed to 1/2.

p. 9: Sentence was moved to this page from p. 13 (_Hope_ is like _love_, but subdued.)

p. 12: Table labled “‘BLACK SLAYER.’ _Scene Plot._ ACT FIRST.” was moved to this page from p. 13.

p. 13: Table labled “‘BLACK SLAYER.’ PROPS.” and the paragraphs immediately above and below the table were moved to this page from pp. 10-11.

p. 45: _Pete._ changed to (_Pete._) ((_Pete._) My own Rebecca,)

End of Project Gutenberg's How to Become an Actor, by Aaron A. Warford