A DECEMBER CHARADE.—(FAREWELL.)
First Syllable: Fare.
CHARACTERS.
Joe and Ned, two young clerks from the city. Joe is in rough sea-clothes,—tarpaulin hat, stout boots, trousers tucked in; carries cod-lines, oil-clothes, and a rope-handled bucket. Ned is in gentleman’s fishing-costume; wears broad-brimmed straw hat, carries reed pole, lunch-basket, &c. They enter from opposite doors.
Joe. How fares ye, Ned? Been a-fishing? So’ve I. Let’s sit down on the bank here and talk it over. (Throws himself down. Ned spreads out his handkerchief, then seats himself upon it.)
Ned (affectedly, and with a sigh). Ah, well! or, rather, ah, ill! Another day of vacation gone. Already the store—the busy, crowded, everlasting store—looms up before me. Customers seem beckoning me away. I hear, methinks, the rustle of cambrics mingling with the rustling of the leaves, and—and—
Joe. And the birds sing out “Cash, cash!” don’t they? O fiddle-de-dee! the store is fifty miles off,—fifty miles; and six days! Another day gone?—well, don’t fret for that. Didn’t you get enough for it? Now, I never fret about letting a piece of goods go, if I get the worth of it.
Ned. Really, Joseph, I don’t see what selling goods has to do with the subject.
Joe. Why, you’ve let your day go. Old Time took it. He buys up a good many of ’em; but he pays. You got the value of your article: you took your pay in taking comfort. Fair trade enough.
Ned. Well, you may talk; but the day is gone, and it will never return (sighs).
Joe. But, if we live till to-morrow, there’ll another one come: leastways, I hope so; for I’ve a plan ahead. (Earnestly.) I’ll do it: I will! I certainly will, dogs or no dogs,—unless the sea dries up; and then I’ll walk. But how was river-fishing?
Ned. Oh, fair! that is to say, reasonably fair, for the first attempt.
Joe. Fine day you had.
Ned. Charming day. In the morning we rowed up stream, with Nature smiling all around us,—of course I mean the dewy fields, sprinkled with flowers; and anon we glided through the leafy woods, where the birds sang melodiously. All was fair and lovely.
Joe. Having fair wind’s the main thing: the rest is well enough. So you made an all-day trip of it?
Ned. Yes: a really charming little excursion, and the presence of the fair sex—hem!
Joe. Made it still more really charming. Yes, I know. They usually have their charms about them.
Ned. Exactly. And at noon we landed, and spread our repast under the shade of a spreading oak, and there partook of cold chicken, sandwiches, and fruits. At the hour of sunset, with a fair wind, and with now and then a song, we floated calmly down the stream.
Joe. All serene. Now I took it in the rough. See! Borrowed real sea-clothes, and sailed on the briny sea. Jingoes, if ’twasn’t sport off the Ledge!
Ned. Seasick?
Joe. Hem! Well, little rily doubling “Hook’s Pint:” soon over it, though, and relished my lunch—oh, hugely! None of your chicken-fixin’s; real fishermen’s fare,—sea-biscuit dipped in the sea.
Ned. Barbarous fare, I should call that.
Joe. Not a bit. Oh, yes! I’m mistaken: good many bits. Fish bit lively, and old skipper chowdered ’em right out o’ the water: then we got into a school o’ mackerel, and so brought in quite a fare of fish. If we’d only landed on that island—But I mean to (rubbing his hands), dogs or no dogs. What the dogs do I care! Let ’em yelp!
Ned. Of what island are you speaking?
Joe. “Maiden Island” some call it. Skipper said ’twas oftener called “The Isle of Dogs.”
Ned. Why are these names given to it?
Joe. Because there is a maiden there, of course, and dogs abound. But I’ll land (rubbing his hands excitedly). I’ll attack the fort. “Let dogs delight,” and so forth.
Ned. I’m curious to hear more of this isle of the sea.
Joe. Listen, then, and I’ll tell you a true story: only it hasn’t any end to it yet. But I’ll make an end (earnestly),—I’m resolved upon that,—unless an earthquake swallows it up.
Ned. Swallows up the end!
Joe. The island.
Ned. Can’t you explain? (In a pet.)
Joe. Oh, yes! Explain?—certainly. Now hark. In the middle of the sea—that is, off in the harbor—stands a lonely isle; and on that isle stands a hut; and in that hut dwells a stern old fisherman; and that stern old fisherman owns a fair daughter; and, on account of the island being flooded with admirers, he has defended it with dogs, manned it with dogs.
Ned. Really! Now that isn’t quite fair in the old gentleman.
Joe. Fair? Of course it isn’t! But I’ve got a plan. I’ll land: I certainly will, if every dog had as many heads as—now, what was that dog’s name that barked down in that dark place?—no matter; and if every head had as many mouths, I’ll land. “Faint heart never won fair lady.”
Ned. But what if they all fly at you?
Joe. Then I’ll fly at them. (Sings.)
“Let dogs delight
To bark and bite.”
(Slight noise of rain heard.)
Ned (rising hastily). We shall be caught in the shower. (Going.) Come.
Joe (rising slowly). Oh, let it rain, let it rain! Better chance of fair weather to-morrow.
Ned (passing out). But will you? will you really dare?
Joe. Yes: none but the brave deserve the fair!
[Exeunt both.
(Rain may be made by dropping peas in a tin pan behind the scenes.)
Second Syllable: Well.
Scene.—Out of doors. Tools lying about. Mr. Benson, a dark-whiskered Yankee, in working-clothes and overalls, is at work on a pump. The pump is a man or boy incased in brown paper. He is topped by a bandbox-cover, or by any thing which will bear resemblance to the capping of a wooden pump. One arm is used for the pump-handle: the other, as far up as the elbow, represents the spout. A small tub should be put underneath. There must be a large bottle of water hid in the coat-sleeve, with the thumb pressed over its mouth for a stopper. At the proper time, the water is allowed to run out. (This operation should be first practised in the ante-room.) While Mr. Benson is at work, Squire Reed enters. He is well dressed; has gray whiskers, tall hat, and a cane; is a little pompous and condescending.
Squire Reed. Well, Benson, how do you prosper? Always at work, hey? What! covered up your well?
Mr. Benson. Yes, and got in a pump (works the handle); but ’twon’t draw. Something’s the matter.
Squire R. I’m very sorry; not sorry the pump won’t draw, but sorry to lose the well,—sorry, I mean, to lose it out of the landscape. It was a very striking feature, with its long sweep.
Mr. B. Wal, to tell the truth, it did go agin my feelings. We’d got used to seeing it. My gran’ther dug it and stoned it up; and I’ve hoisted up a good deal o’ water out of it since I was boy, counting washing-water and all. But then ’twas a heap o’ trouble. (Works the handle.) Why don’t the critter draw?
Squire R. How did it trouble you?
Mr. B. (resting on the pump). Oh! things kept falling down it. I’d be out in the field, working, you know; and ’twould be all the time, “Mr. Benson, this thing’s tumbled down the well, and that thing’s tumbled down the well.” Then I’d leave, and run; and maybe ’twould be my little gal’s doll, or bub’s hat, or clean clothes off the line. And all the neighbors wanted to hang their things down it to keep cool. Course it put us out; but course we didn’t like to speak: so we had to say, “No trouble at all, no trouble at all;” though ’twasn’t true, you know.
Squire R. Very true; that is, it wasn’t very true.
Mr. B. And then ’twas a master place to c’lect young folks together, as ever was. First the gals would come with their pails, and stand talking; then the beaux would come, ’specially about sundown. Says I to my wife, “Guess I’ll break up that haunt.” (Pumps with short quick stroke.) But this new-fangled thing won’t draw a mite.
Squire R. Let me try. (Pumps slowly, with long stroke.)
Mr. B. Yes, you work it, and I’ll pour in water to fetch it. (Lifts the cover a little, and pretends to pour in water from a pitcher; then seizes the handle, and works it with quick, jerking motion.) Any thing run out?
Squire R. (stooping a little). I don’t see any thing.
Mr. B. (examining the spout). Dry as a grasshopper.
(Enter Mr. Downing, a tall man, with green spectacles and wide red cravat. Has a rod in his hand, and walks with solemn air.)
Mr. D. (to Mr. B. very stiffly). Good-morning, sir. I understand you have a pump that doesn’t work well.
Mr. B. Exactly: that’s just what I’ve got.
Mr. D. (solemnly). I am a pump-doctor.
Squire R. (with a condescending smile). That is to say, I suppose that you can cure a pump, and make it well.
Mr. B. (laughing). Oh, don’t make mine well! It’s been well once.
Mr. D. If you will place your pump in my hands, sir, I will pledge myself that it shall give satisfaction.
Squire R. That is to say, give water.
Mr. B. Here, take it right into your hands: now let’s see what ’twill give.
Squire R. How do you cure, sir?
Mr. D. (solemnly). By circles and opposite electricities. Shall I proceed?
Mr. B. Yes, proceed to begin: don’t wait.
Squire R. That is, begin first, and then proceed.
Mr. B. And, if the job’s well done, you shall be well paid.
Mr. D. I shall require, gentlemen, a little assistance from both of you.
Squire R. (glancing down at his clothes and his hands). Of what nature, sir?
Mr. B. Oh, yes! I’m willing to take hold: course you’ll take little something off the price.
Mr. D. No labor, no actual labor, will be required of you. My system involves only circles and opposite electricities. In the first place, it will be necessary to ascertain whether your electrical currents are opposite.
Mr. B. Well, how will you do it?
(Mr. D. brings in an old-fashioned flax-wheel, or some yarn-winders, or any thing that can be made to turn round. After solemn preparation, he whirls this rapidly for a minute or two.)
Mr. D. to Squire R. Have the kindness, now, sir, to touch lightly the circumference of this machine.
(Squire R. touches, and hops away with a loud cry, dropping his cane.)
Mr. D. to Mr. B. Now you, sir. (Mr. B. hesitates.) Don’t be afraid: it is quite harmless.
(Mr. B. touches, and, with a scream, gives a leap in the opposite direction, rubbing his arms, and looking frightened.)
Mr. D. All is well. The electrical conditions are fulfilled: the one sprang to the east, the other to the west.
Mr. B. (glancing at the machine, and rubbing his arm). Mighty powerful!
Mr. D. (solemnly). I shall now proceed, gentlemen, to describe two circles around the well. (Marks out two circles with his rod.) Will you please to advance? (Squire R. walks towards the pump.)
Squire R. Sir, this appears somewhat like trifling.
Mr. D. That depends upon yourself, sir. To the light-minded, serious matters appear light. I deal with the truths of science. (To Mr. B.) Will you come nearer, sir?
Mr. B. (advancing cautiously). No danger, I hope; no witchcraft?
Mr. D. Not the slightest. I will now work the handle. You two, being fully charged, will stand at opposite points (placing them), and proceed to revolve silently in these circles,—you, sir (to Squire R.), revolving in the external orbit, and you, sir (to Mr. B.), in the internal: at your third conjunction, water will gush forth. (Works the handle slowly. The others walk as directed. At their third meeting, water streams out. They step back.)
Squire R. (lifting both hands). Marvellous! most wonderful!
Mr. B. Wal, I declare! Be you a wizard? I hope—I hope it’s Christian doings.
Mr. D. (with a smile, and wave of the hand). What you have witnessed, gentlemen, is merely a new triumph of science.
Mr. B. (with a sigh of relief). I’m glad it’s science: I was afraid ’twas witchcraft. Send in your bill, stranger. (Pumps.) I’m all in a heap. Science!
Mr. D. Permit me to inform you, sir, that witchcraft is science; only science doesn’t know it. Good-morning, gentlemen (takes his machine): I have business farther on. Have the goodness to accept my card (presenting it).
Squire R. (following). Will you allow me to accompany you, and give me the pleasure of your conversation?
Mr. D. With pleasure, sir. (They move to the door.)
Squire R. Good-day, neighbor. I’m rejoiced that your troubles are over. “All’s well that ends well.”
Mr. B. My well ends pump.
[Curtain drops.
Whole Word: Farewell.
It being December, there may be a Farewell Address from the Old Year to the children. This Old Year may be represented by a trembling old man, with white locks and beard, leaning on his staff,—the staff to be a portion of a leafless bough. He should carry a pack on his back, marked on each end “’77;” and, as a wholly pathetic character is not desirable, he may be plentifully labelled with the same figures. White hair and beard can be made of cotton-wool or yarn, or both; and dipping the ends in a solution of alum will give them a frosty or icy appearance.
Address.
Dear Children,—Do you know who I am? My name is ’77. Good-by. I am going now; yet very few of you will mourn for that. Are you not already wishing me away, longing for the young, bright New Year? You know you are.
Oh, I remember well when I was myself a young, bright New Year! A Happy New Year, they called me: and so I was; for then you all liked me. You had longed for my coming; you cheered me; you hurrahed; you shouted for joy; for I came bringing gifts and good wishes.
Ah! that is all changed now. Now that I am old, and have little left to give, you are willing to turn me off for another. Such ingratitude is hard to bear. It is that which has bleached my locks, and chilled me to the heart; for I have given you the very best I had. Think, now. Look back,—away back to the time when I was in my prime. Did I not give you those lovely spring children of mine? Don’t you remember my young April, so tender, so full of feeling, laughing and crying in a breath? She brought the crocuses and violets, but seemed too bashful to offer them. And do you so soon forget my pretty, smiling May, with her apple-blossoms and her singing-birds? My June brought you green carpets inlaid with buttercups and daisies, and her warm-hearted sisters gave you all their beautiful flowers.
And then my later children, how generous they were! how free of their gifts? Think of all the apples they gave you; think of the abundance of ripened grain,—grain which will last till the new friend that is coming shall be able to furnish more. And fortunate that it is so; for let me tell you that it will be a long time before this young upstart, this inexperienced New Year, can do much for you in the way of providing.
But, although I have done my very best, you are impatient to see me off. Now, why this haste? Why treat me so coldly? When once gone, you will see me no more. Other friends leave you in sadness to return in joy; but I go, never to return.
And in this pack I carry all the joys and the merry times of ’77: you can never have them back again. Do you grieve for that? Take comfort, then, in the thought that I carry, also, all the sorrows of ’77. But there is something which cannot be taken away,—memory. All the days and hours of ’77 are in this pack; but the memory of them remains. Be thankful; for if memory, too, could be carried away,—why, then, in looking back, what a dreary blank there would be!
Well, children, I am going. Good-by! Do you wonder that I go off so smilingly? ’Tis because Old Santa Claus—dear, jolly Old Santa Claus—comes to cheer me in these last days. Ah, were it not for him, how gloomy would these last days be! But it is not permitted me to be sad. He comes with his jingling of bells, and his mirth, and his “Merry, merry Christmas!” and so, thanks to him, I leave you with a smiling face.
And now farewell forever! But when young ’78 comes, happy and bright, laden with good wishes, and rejoicing your hearts with his beautiful gifts, look back, I pray you, and bestow one thought upon poor old ’77.
Whole Word in Pantomime:[1] Farewell.
Scene.—Inside of room. When the curtain rises, a young sailor is seen taking leave of his mother. Both are standing. Her head is slightly turned away; her right hand is clasped in his. With the left she holds a handkerchief to her eyes, as if weeping. Her little boy stands near, holding by her dress, and looking up in the sailor’s face. His playthings are scattered on the floor. Faint noise of singing heard, as if in the distance: it is the singing of sailors, and seems to come nearer and nearer, and very near. Sailor presses the mother’s hand in both of his; catches up his little brother, and kisses him; then rushes out. Mother sinks down, as if overcome with grief, and sits with face bowed upon both hands. Little boy looks out at the door. Singing grows fainter and fainter, and dies away in the distance, while curtain falls slowly.