SCENE I.—_An old-fashioned kitchen. MRS. P. is paring apples,

R. DEA. P. nodding over a newspaper, L. JONATHAN, a tall, countrified-looking specimen, sits moodily, C., with chair tipped back, and his hands in his pockets._

JONATHAN. Well, marm, I’ve made up my mind I shan’t stay in Beanville any longer.

MRS. PETERS. Why, Jonathan, how you dew talk! What’s got into you?

J. I’ve got tired of Beanville, marm, that’s what’s the matter. I aint goin’ to stay here all my life, raisin’ cabbages, and hoin’ taters. I’m fit for somethin’ better.

DEA. PETERS (_rousing from his nap_). What’s the boy talkin’ about, mother?

J. I might as well tell you fust as last, dad. I’m goin’ to Bostown.

MRS. P. Massy sakes! Bostown’s a hundred miles off. What you goin’ there for?

J. To make my fortin.

DEA. P. ’Taint so easy as you think for, Jonathan. You’d a plaguy sight better stay round here and help me.

J. I can’t do nothin’ here, dad. I have to work till I get all tuckered out, just to make a livin’ and can’t never wear anything better than overalls. Now, if I was in the city, I could wear store clothes all the time, like that are fellow that boarded up to the tavern last summer.

MRS. P. I’m afraid, Jonathan, you’re gettin’ proud. You aint no call to be ashamed of wearin’ overalls. They’re what me and your father always wear.

DEA. P. (_slily_). Yes, mother, you _do_ wear the breeches sometimes.

MRS. P. (_in a deprecating tone_). Now, father, you’d orter be ashamed. You know I didn’t mean that. (_To_ JONATHAN.) I mean, Jonathan, your father and me aint ashamed of wearin’ workin’ clothes. I’m afraid you’re gettin’ proud, and pride’s a deadly sin.

J. Can’t help it, marm. When that feller passed me in the field last summer, he turned up his nose at me, and I aint goin’ to stand it. I’m as good as he is, any day.

MRS. P. So you be, Jonathan.

J. And I want, to dress as well. So I’ve made up my mind to go to Bostown, and go into business there.

DEA. P. What sort of business?

J. As to that, I aint partic’lar. Anything that I can make money by.

DEA. P. Perhaps you’ll lose it. They’re pooty sharp in Bostown, I’ve heard tell. Most likely you’d get cheated out of all you’ve got.

MRS. P. Yes, Jonathan, listen to what your dad says; he’s had more experience than you hev.

J. He don’t Know much about Bostown, anyway.

DEA. P. (_complacently_). Yes, Jonathan, I know a good deal about the city. I’ve been there three times. Fust time was just after me and your mother was married.

MRS. P. Thirty-one years ago.

DEA. P. Yes, Almiry, thirty-one year. Then again, I went down to sell a yoke of oxen for Squire Peabody.

J. That time you had your pocket picked, and had to borrow money to git home.

DEA. P. (_coughing_). Ahem! yes, I believe it was that time. Then again, I went seven year ago, and stayed to the Mechanics’ Fair. That are was a great sight.

J. Well, dad, I haint never been at all, and I’m goin’,—that’s all.

MRS. P. You aint nothin’ but a boy, Jonathan.

J. Aint I, though? I’m twenty-one year old, and taller’n father, and I weighed myself down to the store, yesterday, and weighed a hundred and eighty. I should think I was old enough and big enough to be trusted away from home.

MRS. P. The city is a wicked place, Jonathan. Who knows but you’d get to drinkin’ and swearin’?

J. There aint no danger of that, marm. I tasted some whiskey, the other day, down to Hiram Johnson’s, and it most turned my stummik. I shan’t drink anything stronger’n cider.

DEA. P. That’s right, my son. Cider’s good, for we know what it’s made of. Apples are healthy, and when a body’s tired, a mug of cider goes to the right spot.

MRS. P. (_doubtfully_). Yes, father, but you know Sam Wilson got drunk on cider one town meetin’ day, and smashed forty panes of glass in the meetin’-house.

DEA. P. Wal, wal, he drank more’n was good for him. But, Jonathan, to come back to your plans, have you thought what you shall do when you get to the city?

J. Why, dad, I calc’late there must be plenty of work to be did. I reckon I should like to tend in a store.

DEA. P. Lazy business, Jonathan.

J. That’s what I like it for, dad. I’ve had hard work enough, and I want to take it easy awhile. Maybe I shall go into business on my own hook, if I get a good chance. There aint no reason why I shouldn’t get rich as well as other folks.

MRS. P. (_hastily_). I hope, Jonathan, you aint goin’ to take that two hundred and fifty dollars out of the Savings Bank, that yer Aunt Betsey give you in her will.

J. Of course I be. How can a feller go into business without capital?

MRS. P. (_solemnly_). You’ll lose every red cent of it, take my word for it.

J. And earn five times as much more, marm; I guess I know how to make money as well as other folks.

MRS. P. Deacon, do say somethin’ to git him off this foolish plan. He’ll fail, sartain, an’ it’ll make his aunt rise from her grave, if he loses all the money that she earned by knittin’ an’ dryin’ apples.

DEA. P. (_reflectively_). I don’t know, Almiry, but the boy might as well try his luck, seein’ he’s sot on it. Perhaps he may do well, arter all.

J. (_delightedly_). That’s the talk, dad.

MRS. P. Well, I dunno. It seems to me mighty resky. However, if he must go, he’ll have to wait till I’ve knit him some winter stockings. He’s most out.

J. I kin buy some in Bostown, marm. They’ve got plenty there.

MRS. P. (_contemptuously_). And what are they worth I should like to know? Boughten stockin’s won’t stand any wear at all. Then, there’s your shirts; you aint got but three.

J. Well, there’s enuff; I kin wear one a week, an’ three’s enough to shift with.

DEA. P. You’ll have to be more partic’lar in the city. I’ve heard that some folks in the city wear as many as three clean shirts in a week.

MRS. P. They must be awful dirty to need changin’ so often. But I guess, Jonathan, you’d better have one more made.

J. Well, you kin send the shirt and the stockin’s to me by express. I’ve made up my mind to go next week.

MRS. P. An’ what’ll Mary Jane Parker say to that?

J. I don’t care.

MRS. P. I thought you were sweet on her only a little while ago.

J. Wal, she aint anything but a country gal. Maybe I shall find a good-lookin’ city gal that’s got the tin.

MRS. P. O Jonathan, I’m afeard you’re gittin’ vain. “Vanity of vanity! All is vanity!” says the Scripters. Mary Jane would make you a real capable wife. She can make butter an’ cheese equal to any gal in Beanville, an’ she made fifteen dollars, last summer, sellin’ eggs.

J. (_contemptuously_). What’s fifteen dollars?

MRS. P. The time may come when you’ll be glad to git fifteen dollars.

J. Now, marm, don’t go to discouragin’ a feller; I’m bound to be rich, and when I’ve made money enuff, I’m going to buy you a silk gownd.

MRS. P. Thank you, Jonathan; I allus thought I should like a new silk gownd. I aint had a new one for twenty year.

J. Well, marm, you shall have it jist as soon as I’ve made my pile.

MRS. P. Pile of what, for the land’s sake?

J. Made my fortin, I mean. And I’ll buy father a new Sunday go-to-meeting coat.

DEA. P. I guess you’ll want your money for other things, Jonathan. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.

J. Can I have the horse to-morrow, dad?

DEA. P. What for?

J. I’m goin’ over to the bank to get my money.

DEA. P. Yes, I reckon so.

MRS. P. You’d better go with him, father. He might git robbed on the way home. I shan’t feel safe with such a lot of money in the house.

J. Well, ’twon’t be in the house long.

(_Curtain falls._)