ACT I

_Place:_ A Kitchen.

_Time:_ Saturday Morning.

The Little Old Man Sits in a corner.

The Little Old Woman is seen, too, stirring cake dough and singing as she stirs:

“Sugar, and spice, and everything nice-- That’s what a little girl’s made of; Snaps, and snails, and puppy dogs’ tails; That’s what a little boy’s made of!

“Ah, well-a-day, but I wish I had a little boy for all that! Some one to run to the store, and bring in the kindlings, and drive the cows to pasture, and feed the pig, and get into mischief, and be rocked to sleep in the evening.”

She calls to the Little Old Man:

“Father! Oh, I say, Father! Fetch me the jug of molasses from the pantry. I am making a gingerbread cake for your supper!”

The Little Old Man does not move, or stir.

The Little Old Woman calls louder: “Fetch me the molasses jug, Father!”

The Little Old Woman crosses to the chimney corner, and shakes the Little Old Man, but he is asleep and does not wake.

The Little Old Woman holds up her hands in despair.

“Dearie me! I might as well have a broom for a Goodman as he. There is nothing done in the house unless I attend to it myself,” she says.

She leaves the kitchen for a moment, returning with the jug of molasses. She pours some molasses into the bowl, stirs again, and finally empties the dough out upon the board, rolling it flat with her rolling pin. Suddenly she stops, rolling pin in air.

The Little Old Woman: “I have it! I will make me a Gingerbread Boy!”

She works very fast, talking as she shapes the Gingerbread Boy with her fingers.

The Little Old Woman: “Here is his dear little head, with currants for eyes, and one raisin for his nose, and three raisins for his mouth. Here is his fine little jacket with a row of currants for buttons; and here are his two fine, fat little legs. Here are his arms, and here are his shoes!”

She lays the completed Gingerbread Boy in the baking pan and dances about the kitchen with it in her hands, singing as she dances, the Song of the Gingerbread Man:

“Hickory, dickory, dickory, dan; Heigho, I sing for a Gingerbread Man! Currants for eyes, and a round raisin nose, Gingerbread shoes on his gingerbread toes, Gingerbread jacket, so tight and neat, Gingerbread smiles on his face so sweet, Hickory, dickory, dickory, dan; Heigho, I sing for a Gingerbread Man!”

As she finishes her song, she opens the imaginary oven door, and, kneeling down, puts in the tin which holds the Gingerbread Boy. Then she shakes the Little Old Man again.

The Little Old Woman: “Wake up, I say, Father! _Wake up!_ _Wake up!_ The garden’s to be weeded, and the butter’s to be churned! Wake up, I say, and mind the oven. There’s a fine little Gingerbread Boy baking inside!”

The Little Old Man wakes very slowly, and looking all about the kitchen says in a dazed sort of way: “What’s that you say, Mother? I don’t see any little Gingerbread Boy.”

The Little Old Woman goes to the stove and points to the oven. “He’s in here baking. Do you mind him while I’m away. In twenty minutes by the clock, do you open the oven door, and the Gingerbread Boy will be baked.”

The Little Old Man: “Yes, yes, Mother. Do you go and weed the garden and churn. I’ll sit here, and mind the oven.”

The Little Old Woman leaves the kitchen. After she has gone, the Little Old Man re-lights his pipe. Then he gets up from his chair and peeps in the oven door.

The Little Old Man: “A fine, fat Boy! A very fine, fat Gingerbread Boy! How his buttons shine, and he is swelling so much that his jacket is splitting. I shall eat him for my supper!”

He goes back to his chair, and begins smoking, but soon his head nods. He looks up at the clock.

The Little Old Man: “In twenty minutes I will take him out. I think I shall have a short nap in the meantime.”

The Little Old Man falls fast asleep again, his pipe falling to the floor. As he sleeps, the oven door opens a little as if some one had pushed it from the inside. The real Gingerbread Boy peeps out through the crack. When he sees that the Little Old Man is asleep, he steps out. He begins blowing on his fingers and he puts them in his mouth as if they were burned. He fans himself with the baking tin which he brings with him out of the oven, and he hops about the kitchen on the tips of his toes.

The Gingerbread Boy: “My, but that oven was warm! I might have been burned to a crisp before any one remembered to take me out. So this is my new home!”

He looks about in all the corners of the kitchen.

“And _this_ is my new father!”

He goes over to the Little Old Man, and pulls his wig. Then he sits down, cross-legged on the hearth, and goes on talking to himself.

The Gingerbread Boy: “I don’t know whether I want to live in this house or not. I know what little boys have to do.”

He counts on his fingers:

“They have to run to the store, and bring in kindlings, and drive the cows and feed the pigs. I’d rather have a good time. I think I will run away.”

He jumps up, and looks around the room, cautiously.

“There’s nobody here to see me go. Hurrah! Hurrah! Here I go, off by myself to see the world!”

He runs lightly out of the kitchen.