PART II.

Dialogues, Exercises, Musical Pieces and Plays

ALL THE YEAR ’ROUND.

_For One Adult or Large Boy and One Small Boy._

_Santa Claus must be made to look very short and fat._

_BOY enters, sits down, leans elbow on table and his head on his hand._

BOY. Whatever shall I do? Christmas is almost here and not a single thing finished. You see (_addressing audience_), when a fellow’s folks have a small purse and a large family there’s no such thing as spending money for us boys. (_Gets up, walks back and forth talking, with hands in pockets._) All we earn goes for shoes, I guess. (_Stops and looks at his own, then looks up laughing._) Anyhow, they wear out fast enough. (_Resumes walk._) But I’m glad I’m big enough to work for my own shoes. If I did nothing but play while father worked _for_ me I’d feel worse than anything. (_To audience._) You know how that is. Besides, I’m the oldest of the bunch and ought to be worth something. But you know—(_stopping_) it does beat all how many things grown folks can find for boys to do.

I go to school—of course—and I take a job whenever I can catch it out of school hours, and I carry papers mornings, but that don’t take all the time, and I thought I’d get a lot of things done for Christmas since I can’t buy things. But do you s’pose I’ve done it? (_Sits down._) No, sir-ee. Not a thing finished.

I was making a shoe box for father and I haven’t got any farther than getting a box to work on, for I’ve had to milk the cow and feed the chickens—and mend the gate—’cause father was away. Then I had a new woodbox for mother—a jolly nice one—all trimmed with bars of wood and stained; but, no, sir, mother, she needed me for ’bout a hundred and ’leven things, and work at it I couldn’t. And this boat for Bub (_shows it_), not half done. And a bob-sled for little Sis—and a photograph frame for Gramma—and—oh, pshaw. I’m just plum disappointed, and that’s the truth. Not a gift done for anybody. (_Leans elbows on knees and chin on hands._) If I was a girl I guess I’d cry. (_SANTA CLAUS walks in, lays his hand on BOY’S shoulder. BOY jumps up as he looks around._) Jiminy! You most scared me. (_Bows._) How de do?

SANTA CLAUS. Very well, thank you: and how do _you_ do? What’s the trouble?

BOY. Excuse me; but how’d you know it was trouble? It isn’t a serious trouble, you know; only boy trouble.

S. C. Boy troubles are hard to carry sometimes. What are yours?

BOY. Mostly, I guess, that I’ve not got my gifts done—and can’t finish them now, ’cause there’s not time. And that means that there will be less for the stockings, you know.

S. C. That _is_ hard lines. But why couldn’t you finish them?

BOY. Sit down, won’t you? (_They sit down._) Why—because—well, I had to do lots of things. Kindling, you know, and bringing in wood for mother—and taking care of the baby sometimes—and keeping little Bud out of mischief—and sometimes—well, you see, I’m the oldest, and the others are too little—sometimes I wash the dishes. Mother has so much to do, and I ought to, don’t you think so?

S. C. Indeed, you ought, and I’m proud to find a boy who does it. But do you know, son, _I_ think you are making a great mistake.

BOY (_looking alarmed_). Am I? What? I’m sorry.

S. C. You say you have nothing to give at Christmas. It strikes me that you are giving a good many things, and very nice ones, too.

BOY (_bewildered_). I don’t understand.

S. C. No? (_Smiles, winks at audience._) What is Christmas for, anyhow?

BOY. _For?_ Why—it’s Christmas, Santa Claus’ birthday, you know. (_S. C. nods._) And it’s for—for good will to men, I guess—and—

S. C. (_nods_). Right you are, son. And what do you give Christmas gifts for?

BOY. Oh—because it’s fun; ’cause a fellow likes to make it nice for the other folks and give ’em a good time, and—well, ’cause it’s fun.

S. C. Right you are again, son. See here, now. Didn’t you milk the cow for father and all such things while he was away?

BOY. Yes—’course.

S. C. And didn’t it make him feel comfortable to know that things were going right while he was gone?

BOY. Guess so. Sure.

S. C. More comfortable than to have a shoe box?

BOY (_slowly_). Per—haps—yes.

S. C. And you got kindling, and took care of the baby, and washed dishes for mother?

BOY. ’Course.

S. C. And didn’t that make it easier for her than if she had a pretty woodbox?

BOY (_slowly_). I guess so. Yes—sure.

S. C. And doesn’t little Sis enjoy having long rides on your sled better than to have a sled of her own to go alone on?

BOY. I’m not so sure about that.

S. C. _I_ am. And didn’t little Bob like the snow man it took you so long to make for him better than the little boat? And didn’t dear old Grandma care more for the yarn you wound, and the needles you picked up, and the fires you built, and the errands you did, and—

BOY (_squirming_). Aw. Hold on. Those are such little things.

S. C. True enough, and each of them took some of your time, and kept you from making the photograph frame; and each of them made her lonely day a little easier, didn’t it?

BOY. Well, I should hope so. Say. I think it must be awful when you can’t run and holler and have fun—and—I guess some day _I’ll_ be old like that. (_Shrugs shoulders._) Gee! (_Whistles softly._)

S. C. (_rises, puts arm across BOY’S shoulder_). Don’t you begin to see, my son, what I mean?

BOY (_looks at him a minute_). That little things strung along are better to make folks happy than a bigger thing for a gift at Christmas?

S. C. (_slaps BOY on the back, grabs his hands and shakes them vigorously while he laughs. BOY rises._) That is it, to a tee. And do you begin to see any farther?

BOY (_looks at S. C. in silence a minute_). Perhaps you mean—do you mean—that to live that way—doing little things all the time—would be like Christmas? (_Excitedly._) Jiminy Christmas! I see! I see! Why! I can keep Christmas going the whole year ’round that way!

S. C. That is the only Santa Claus worth while, and the only Christmas that can ever be real, for it is the Christmas spirit of love and kindness. (_BOY whirls around, tosses up his cap. S. C. exit._)

BOY. Christmas and Santa Claus all in one. And every day in the year. Say—(_turns suddenly and S. C. is gone_). Why—where—(_looks all around, then says slowly_) well, I’ll be—isn’t that the queerest thing? (_Puts hands in pockets._) But I see it just the same. (_Musingly._) “The Christmas spirit of love and kindness.” “The only Santa Claus worth while.” Christmas every day in the year. (_Shouts._) Hooray for Christmas. I’m going to tell mother. (_Exit._)

A BOY’S CHRISTMAS.

_For Three Boys of Ten or Twelve Years._

_Two sit whittling, one working on the edge of a small wooden box, the other at the edges of a piece of wood about one inch thick by a foot square. The third has an oblong box partly together and is sawing the other piece or whittling the edges as they talk._

FRANK—

Christmas is coming—it’s awfully slow— What do you think you will get? Say, Joe.

JOE—

I don’t know, Frank, and I don’t much care If only I get some good skates—so there!

TOM—

That isn’t what bothers me most, you see, I always get lots on the Christmas tree, But what shall I _give_? That’s the hardest part.

JOE—

I’m making my little kid brother a cart.

(_Holds it up._)

But somehow this wood won’t saw a bit straight, And it splits where I nail it. That’s what I hate.

FRANK—

Right you are there, Joe. See what I’ve made? My knife’s pretty dull, so I broke the best blade.

TOM—

What do you call it?

FRANK—

A box, at the start, For sister’s best ribbons; but it would come apart Till I put some big nails in. They broke it in two, And I had to stick it together with glue; And now it don’t look so awfully well.

(_Looks at it dolefully._)

JOE—

Put pictures all over it, then you can’t tell It ever was broken. That’s what _I_ would do. But say! How it bothers when one works with glue. Now this! (_Holds it up._) It has stuck everywhere that it could Except where I wanted to make it real good.

TOM—

That’s just what’s the trouble. It’s this way with me. I work hard, and make things as nice as can be, But somehow, they never seem quite the right way To give for a present on Christmas-tree day.

JOE (_exclaims suddenly_)—

I know!

FRANK—

Well, what is it?

TOM—

Out with it, then, Joe.

JOE—

We like to make gifts like the others, you know,

(_They nod in agreement._)

But something or other most always goes wrong.

FRANK—

I know how it is.

TOM—

Yes, you’ve put it quite strong. But Mother can understand things at first sight, And _she_ will say “thank you,” and call it all right. I’ll give this to _Mother_. She’s just the right one! She’ll like it and use it, because I’m her son.

FRANK—

Say, Joe, you’re a trump to think up a nice way For us to give presents on Christmas-tree day. My box goes to Mother—she knows about glue, And she’ll fix it up till for something ’twill do.

TOM—

This board I have whittled all smooth, and ’twill make A board to cut on for bread or for cake. I’ll give it to Mother, and she’s sure to say “Thank you, Tom; you make nice gifts for Christmas-tree day.”

A CHRISTMAS BARGAIN.

_For Two Characters, MOTHER and CHILD._

_Stage setting: The furnishings of a modern room. Costumes modern and simple._

MOTHER (_draws CHILD to her side, kisses her, CHILD stands with MOTHER’S arm around her_). It is almost Christmas time, little girl. What would you like to have Santa Claus bring you?

CHILD. I only want one thing, mother dear, and Santa Claus can’t give me that, nor anyone else.

MOTHER. Are you very sure, dear? Santa Claus can do wonderful things, you know.

CHILD. I’m very sure, motherkin. And if I can’t have that, I don’t care about Christmas.

MOTHER. Why, my little Mary? Tell me about it, dear. Possibly I can arrange it, for I want to have you happy more than anything else in the world, especially at Christmas time. Tell me.

CHILD. You won’t laugh at me?

MOTHER. No, dear; I won’t even think a laugh.

CHILD. Well, then, I want to be grown-up and have you a little girl.

MOTHER. Why, Mary, Mary!

CHILD. Now you are laughing at me.

MOTHER. My _dear_! I’m just as sober as I can be.

CHILD (_pouting_). Your eyes laugh, anyhow.

MOTHER (_takes CHILD by the shoulders and holds the CHILD in front of her at arm’s length_). Look in my face, Mary; straight in my eyes, and tell me why you want such a strange thing.

CHILD (_hesitatingly_). I—don’t—just like to, mamma. You might not like it.

MOTHER. I shall like it if you tell me the true reason, dear.

CHILD. And you won’t cry?

MOTHER. Not a tear.

CHILD (_slowly_). It’s because I’m so tired of being told I can’t do things, and of having to do things I don’t like. Oh, mamma! You don’t know how tired I am of being somebody else. I want to be _just me_.

MOTHER (_drawing CHILD to her side again_). Are you some other mamma’s little girl?

CHILD. Not another mamma’s little girl, but I can’t be the me I want to be. The me inside of me wants to be a very different me indeed.

MOTHER (_They sit silent a moment_). Would you like to try it just for one day?

CHILD (_standing up suddenly_) Mamma, dear! What do you mean?

MOTHER. I mean this, Mary. Suppose that just for one day we pretend that you are mamma, and I am Mary. I shall have to say that we must both stay at home, just us two. If there were more time I wouldn’t say even that. But if you’ll agree to that we’ll try.

CHILD (_eagerly_). To do just as I want to?

MOTHER. Yes, dear.

CHILD. And you will do what I tell you?

MOTHER. If I possibly can.

CHILD (_jumps up and down_). Oh, goody, goody! And I can have what I want for dinner? And wear the dress I want? And I needn’t go to school? Nor practice? And I can sit up as late as I want to? Really?

MOTHER. All of that.

CHILD. All right. When will we begin?

MOTHER. Right now, if you like. It’s morning, and it isn’t school time yet. But I’d like to ask one question. Is this to be the Christmas present you want more than anything? And are there to be no other gifts?

CHILD. Why, mamma, if I could be really the mamma, and not just pretend, and if it could be all the time, and not just one day, I wouldn’t want another single thing. I truly wouldn’t. But I think—I wish—I could have a few other things, little ones.

MOTHER. Very well, then. You are mamma now, and I am Mary.

CHILD. First thing, then, I’ll have chicken for lunch and cream puffs. (_Goes toward the door._) And some of that raspberry jam—and—coffee. (_Turns to MOTHER._) _Yes_, I’m going to have _coffee_. _You_ can’t have any, Mary. It isn’t good for little girls. But _I_ can have it. Mammas always do. (_Turns to door again._)

MOTHER. Are you going to cook them, mamma?

CHILD. No; ’course not. Bridget’ll cook ’em. (_Turns suddenly to MOTHER._) Oh, mamma! Will you tell Bridget to mind me? ’Cause she don’t know I’m mamma, you know.

MOTHER. Very well. I’ll do it now. (_Goes out._)

CHILD. And hurry back, please, ’cause I want you to be Mary.

CURTAIN.