Part 3
I have seen her rub and scrub, On the washboard in the tub, While the baby, sopped in suds, Rolled and tumbled in the duds; Or was paddling in the pools, With old scissors stuck in spools; She still humming of her Friend Who would keep her to the end.[3]
Human hopes and human creeds Have their root in human needs; And I would not wish to strip From that washer-woman’s lip Any song that she can sing, Any hopes that songs can bring; For the woman has a Friend Who will keep her to the end.
TABLEAUX.
1. Kitchen scene, with woman washing in center of stage, side face to audience; clothes baskets, soiled linen, boiler, clothes bars, etc., scattered in the room. The washer-woman sings last two lines, while curtain is raised.
2. Same scene. Woman and tub in background facing audience while she rubs and sings; children on floor in foreground. Sings again.
3. Baby is the most conspicuous part of this picture, and the livelier the better, even to laughing or crying. Woman hums the tune as she works.
THE SMALL BOY’S EXPLANATION.
It was Sunday evening. Angelica had invited her young man to the evening meal.[1] Everything had passed off harmoniously until Angelica’s seven-year-old brother broke the blissful silence that had settled like a rainbow on the family circle, with:
“O, _Ma_! You oughter seen Mr. Lighted last night when he called to take Angie to the drill! He looked so nice, sitting ’long side o’ her, with his arm”----
“Fred!” screamed the maiden, quickly placing her hand over the boy’s mouth.[2]
“You just ought ter seen him,” continued the persistent informant, after gaining his breath, and the embarrassed girl’s hand was removed; “he had his arm”--
“Freddie,” shouted the mother; and in her frantic attempts to reach the boy’s ear she upset the tea-pot, sending its scalding contents into Mr. Lighted’s lap.[3]
“I was just going to say,” the half-frightened boy pleaded, between a cry and an injured whine, “he had his arm”--
“You boy,” thundered the father, “away to the wood-shed.”
And the boy made for the nearest exit, exclaiming as he went, “I was only a goin’ to say that Mr. Lighted had his army clothes on, and I’ll leave it to him if he didn’t.”[4]
TABLEAUX.
1. Dining-room scene. Father at right and mother at left end of dinner table; small boy and Angelica at side facing to audience; young man on opposite side, back to audience; servant in side rear, with glasses on tray.
2. Angelica’s hand is over the boy’s mouth, he evidently struggling to get away from it.
3. Tea pot upset, mother trying to reach the boy.
4. Boy disappearing through screen door at left rear, but half faces audience.
LOOKING BACKWARD.
Ay; but wait, good wife, a minute, I have first a word to say; Do you know what to-day is? Mother, ’tis our wedding day![1]
Just as now, we sat at supper When the guests had gone away; You sat that side, I sat this side, Forty years ago to-day!
Then what plans we laid together, What brave things I meant to do! Could we dream to-day would find us At this table--me and you?
Better so, no doubt--and yet I Sometimes think--I can not tell-- Had our boy--ah, yes! I know, dear; Yes, “He doeth all things well.”
Well, we’ve had our joys and sorrows, Shared our smiles as well as tears; And--the best of all--I’ve had your Faithful love for forty years!
Poor we’ve been, but not forsaken; Grief we’ve known, but never shame-- _Father for Thy endless mercies Still we bless Thy Holy Name_.[2]
TABLEAUX.
1. Aged couple at supper table; woman at end, man at side facing audience; lighted lamp on table--small, so as not to hide man’s face.
2. Heads bowed while blessing is asked.
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 silk _en 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; guests _ad 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 came quicker, 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, crowned with 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 stealing to 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 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 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 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 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 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.)
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 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 “Directions,” p. 6, for making foot-lights.)
TABLEAUX.