Eight Girls and a Dog

by Carolyn Wells

CHAPTER X

THE PLAY’S THE THING

ONCE started, the play monopolized all the interest and attention of the club.

Aunt Molly was called over and the great project was laid before her.

“Why, it will be lovely, girlies,” she said. “What can I do to help?”

“We need sympathy and advice,” said Marjorie, with the judicial air that marked the Duchess’s serious moments.

“Oh, I’ll give you those,” said Aunt Molly, “but I want to be of more material help. Suppose I provide you with an audience.”

“Yes, do,” cried Betty. “Ask the Marlowes and the Hillises, and those nice people who live the other side of your house—I forget their name.”

“But we can’t sing this foolishness we’ve written to a lot of strangers,” said Nan.

“Indeed we can,” responded Marguerite. “The Blue Ribbon Club can do anything, if it makes up its mind to.”

“The music would be prettier if we had some men’s voices in it,” said Nan, who was looking over the written sheets. “It’s all so high and light.”

“Uncle Ned sings a fine barytone,” said Marjorie. “Do you suppose he’d help us out, aunty?”

“Of course he would,” answered Aunt Molly, heartily; “he’d do anything in his power for the ‘lambs,’ as he always calls you girls.”

“Let’s write a part for him, then,” said Hester. “What could he be?”

“What is the plot of your play?” asked Aunt Molly.

The girls looked at each other blankly.

“Why, it hasn’t any plot,” said Nan. “Do plays always have to have plots? You see, we’ve just written songs for each of us in the characters we’ve assumed down here.”

“Then I don’t exactly see how Uncle Ned could be brought in,” said Aunt Molly, smiling.

“He can’t be brought in; he’ll just have to come in,” said Betty.

“Like a burglar,” said Nan; “we’ve expected one ever since we’ve been here, and we may as well have our expectations realized.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Hester. “The play, of course, will represent all us girls here in this cottage; and Uncle Ned might appear as a burglar—a nice, kind one, you know, like ‘Editha’s Burglar.’ ”

“Yes, and he can be real affable and social, and sing solos as he prowls about for his plunder.”

“That seems more like a plot. Let’s do it,” said Nan.

Out came the paper-pad and pencils, and genius was set to burning, all of which resulted in several songs for Uncle Ned, whose consent to the plan was fully guaranteed by Aunt Molly.

The Amiable Burglar was destined to enter through a window while singing this solo to the tune of “Robin Adair”:

ROBBIN’ A BANK

I am a burglar bold,

Fearless and frank;

From Fate’s insistent hold

Fortunes I yank.

When honest people sleep,

When cats their vigils keep,

Forth on my raids I creep,

Robbin’ a bank.

What’s petty larceny to

Robbin’ a bank?

What is sneak-thievery to

Robbin’ a bank?

How else is burglary

What it’s cracked up to be?

Herein is joy for me—

Robbin’ a bank.

Here meet, on boodle bent,

Men of each rank;

Burglar and president,

Cashier and crank.

Then, when the deed is done,

Canada-ward we run.

Oh, but it’s lots of fun,

Robbin’ a bank!

On finding himself fairly in the dining-room of Hilarity Hall, he is seized with compunction at being obliged to rob such a charming and dainty home, which causes him again to break forth into song:

BURGLAR’S SONG

I’m a tender-hearted chap,

And I do not care a rap

For my dangerous profession,

Taking underhand possession

Of the plate—silver plate.

And I do not think it fun

To burglarize the timid one,

But I think it is my duty

To obtain the costly booty

Of the great—rich and great.

So I will fulfil my mission

Softly, yet with expedition;

I my hobnailed boots have taken

Off—for fear the girls will waken,

For ’tis late—very late.

“Those are beautiful verses,” said Aunt Molly, who knew as much about poetry as a hoptoad, “and Uncle Ned will be perfectly delighted to sing them. When do your rehearsals begin?”

“To-night,” said Marjorie, growing presidential of aspect. “Look here, girls, if this thing is going to be at all, it’s going to be a success with a big S. You hear me?”

“We do!” shouted the other seven.

“Then listen further. There’s no use of our all fussing with these verses, for Hester and Nan are quite capable of making them up alone. So let them finish the libretto of the play, as they call it. I call it an operetta. Now for stage-manager I appoint Betty, and she can get any one to help her who will, but they must attend entirely to staging the whole thing—look out for scenery, lights, and all that. The costumes I put in the capable hands of Marguerite and Jessie, who know more about clothes in a minute than the rest of us in a thousand years. Helen, of course, is the orchestra; if she can get any one to help her, so much the better. Millicent and I will look after the supper; for I’m sure you’ll need one after this wonderful performance, to say nothing of the audience, who, I feel sure, will be utterly exhausted.”

“Bravo, Marjorie!” cried Aunt Molly. “You’re a manager, and no mistake. Now I’ll help any one or all of these committees. Call on me for anything, and you’ll find me willing if not always capable.”

“Hooray for Aunt Molly!” cried Marjorie, and all responded with a will.

Then Marguerite and Jessie put their pretty heads together and planned costumes for the young actresses that were to be dreams of beauty.

“But how can we get all this tarlatan and stuff?” said Marguerite.

“I’ll run up to New York,” said Jessie. “I can go in the morning and be back by six o’clock; and you know the success of this thing depends as much on the costume effects as on the music.”

Betty announced that her committee of stage-managers would be increased by the addition of Aunt Molly and Uncle Ned; and this proved a wise arrangement, for it insured attractive stage-settings and a curtain and footlights that worked beautifully.

Hester and Nan, feeling the burden of the libretto heavy upon them, went to work and soon achieved a jolly duet for Marguerite and Uncle Ned, whose voices were most harmonious. The air was from the “Mikado,” and the words were these:

CHAPERON, BURGLAR

(A Duet)

BURGLAR

There’s beauty in the trade of burglary—

There’s a subtle fascination that I feel.

As I search from ground to attic,

I admit a thrill ecstatic,

As long as there is anything to steal.

CHAPERON

Yes, I have a kindred feeling

That there’s something nice in stealing,

As long as there is anything to steal.

Chorus

If that is so, sing derry down derry;

It’s very evident, very

Our tastes are one.

We’ll dance and sing,

So merrily tripping

And happily skipping,

Till set of sun.

BURGLAR

The darkness has attractions oftentimes;

Electric lighting has no charms for me;

Though I must say when I’m scooting

That the merits of quick shooting

Have often struck me very forcibly.

CHAPERON

Yes, although I cannot stifle

My objections to a rifle,

Yet its merits sometimes strike me forcibly.

Chorus.

This was pronounced so clever, and was sung at rehearsal so prettily by Marguerite and the Amiable Burglar, that the librettists wrote another duet for the same voices:

CHAPERON, BURGLAR

(A Duet)

CHAPERON

Prithee, gentle Burglar, tell me, tell me true—

Hey, but I’m curious, willow, willow, waly—

All the strange adventures that have happened unto you,

Hey, willow, waly, oh!

All your deeds discover, oh, my gentle rover,

Hey, willow, waly, oh.

BURGLAR

Chaperon, I’ve wallowed all my life in gore—

Hey, but she’s curious, willow, willow, waly!

You would shrink in terror if I told you more,

Hey, willow, waly, oh!

Lift not the dark curtain from my life uncertain,

Hey, willow, waly, oh.

Then the play began to assume a sort of a plot; a bit incoherent, to be sure, but still enough of a thread to string songs upon.

The Burglar, proving to be a most kind gentleman, quite won the hearts of the inmates of Hilarity Hall, and they, in turn, grew so fond of him that they wished to be adopted. Their plea was that, all being nieces of the Burglar’s wife, he ought to give them a home.

This was musically set forth by solos and choruses to the old tune of “Solomon Levi.”

SOLOS AND CHORUS

Oh, I’m the capable Chaperon—

I’ll come at your command;

And I will rule with a rod of iron

This rollicking, frolicking band.

And I’m the shining Scullery-maid;

I’ll keep your pans so bright

That your kitchen will seem a golden dream

And your scullery your delight.

Chorus

Oh, Mr. Burglar, take us to live with you,

Dear Mr. Burglar, take us to live with you.

We’re nieces of your wife, you know—you ought to care for such;

And besides we’re very capable girls, and we could help you much;

So you must see what a scheme ’twould be

To let the sisters come,

And we’ll do our best to make a success

Of Mr. Burglar’s home.

And I’m the capable Camera Fiend—

With you I’d like to live;

And though I take most everything,

I won’t take a negative.

And I’m the Wandering Minstrel,

And my banjo I will bring,

And should you give a minstrel show

I’ll play for you and sing.

Chorus.

And I’m the Popular Poet;

Should there ever come a time

When you will not listen to reason

I will make you listen to rime.

And I’m the Snipping Snuffer,

And I know what I’m about;

Should any flame of anger rise

I’ll quickly snuff it out.

Chorus.

I’m the Peregrinating Peeler;

I will peel your onions well,

And when the dinner’s ready

I will gladly peal the bell.

And you must see, and we all agree,

When every one else is took,

You’ll certainly make an awful mistake,

Unless you take the Cook.

Chorus.

The Burglar, appalled at the idea of introducing eight merry maidens into his quiet and secluded home, voices his indignation in a barytone solo:

BURGLAR’S SONG

1. Oh, you must admit that it’s not a bit

The theme for a jovial song—

That a man, should he marry, is obliged to carry

His wife’s relations along.

And I do declare that it makes my hair

Stand up in the wildest twirls

When I pause on the brink and stop and think

Of the appetites of those girls.

Chorus

For the Cooking Club eats all night,

And the Cooking Club eats all day,

And don’t you think that you would shrink

From boarding them without pay?

I shall tear my hair in wild despair,

And pipe my lachrymal glands,

And curse my lot that ever I got

A Cooking Club on my hands.

So great those girls’ demands

That my lachrymal glands

I shall pipe and rave when I find I have

A Cooking Club on my hands.

2. I shall have no rest, for Huyler’s best

They will crave from morn till night,

And express their wishes for dainty dishes,

Not offering me a bite.

They will make it a habit to cook Welsh rabbit

In the hours wee and small;

And again I vow that I don’t know how

I shall stand the expense at all.

Chorus.

But, notwithstanding his misgivings, the Burglar takes the eight sisters to his palatial home and installs them there; whereupon his remonstrances with them for their great extravagance calls forth this musical gem:

THE BURGLE SONG

The Burglar blows about the clothes

And costly jewels the girls are getting;

He swears and scowls and groans and growls,

His previous contract sore regretting.

Blow, Burglar, blow!

Send the wild sisters flying.

Blow, Burglar, answer echoes,

Flying, flying, flying.

Oh, hark! oh, hear! how loud and clear,

And louder, nearer, madder growing,

With direful threats about his debts,

The blustering Burglar still is blowing.

Blow, Burglar, blow!

Send the wild sisters flying.

Blow, Burglar, answer echoes,

Sighing, sighing, sighing.

Although his tread may wake the dead,

Although his voice with rage may quiver,

We’ll never stop; from shop to shop,

We’ll buy forever and forever.

Blow, Burglar, blow!

Send the wild sisters flying.

Blow, Burglar, answer sisters,

Buying, buying, buying.

This declaration of independence meets with favor among the extravagant eight, and they indulge in a gleeful

CHORUS

Sing a song of samples,

A pocket full of stuff;

Four-and-twenty patterns,

But we haven’t got enough.

When the shops are open

The girls begin to flock;

Isn’t that a pretty piece

To make a pretty frock?

The Burglar’s in the tantrums

’Cause we spend his money;

He’s always in a fidget

’Cause creditors are dunny;

But the sisters are in clover,

As you may suppose,

Sitting on the parlor floor

Choosing summer clothes.

As Millicent positively declared she could not sing a solo, Nan wrote a recitation for her, and one of the gems of the whole performance was Millicent’s well-rendered

MONOLOGUE

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

But lovely woman with her witching wiles

Far better acts her part than awkward man;

With clever, ready wit she takes her cues,

Adapts herself to each and every rôle,

Is sad or merry, grave or gay, at will;

Enacts with equal ease the pert soubrette,

Or blushing ingénue, or tragic queen,

And in her time plays many various parts,

Her acts being seven ages.

At first the infant,

Noting the ribbons on her nurse’s cap.

And then the school-girl with her shining braids

And spotless pinafore, conning her task,

Rising from form to form, until she blooms

In cap and gown, a sweet girl graduate.

And then the lovely debutante all smiles,

And airy chiffon gown and ribbons white,

And flowers and fans, and just a trace or two

Of sentiment embodied in a note,

Or faded flower, or treasured photograph.

And then the beauteous belle of all the ball-rooms,

Heroine of several winters; clever, cool,

Graciously kind to foreign noblemen,

Seeking a title rôle, lest she remain,

As now, a peerless beauty. Then the bride,

In fair white trailing robes, with orange-blooms,

Priceless ancestral lace, and family pearls,

With blushing, downcast glance and modest mien,

Unthinking vows, “Love, honor, and obey.”

And then the widow in her dainty weeds,

Whose youthful charms and coquette glance belie

Her stalwart sons, her matron’s voice

Turning again to happy girlish tones,

So well she plays her part. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange, eventful history:

The dowager, with jewels and feathers decked —

Eager to gossip, eager too to hear

The latest scandal; seeing everything

Through glasses darkly; charming to the last,

A wondrous masterpiece of modern art —

False teeth, false hair, false skin, false everything.