PROGRAMME FOR LYCEUM OR PARLOR ENTERTAINMENT.
MUSIC—Piano Solo.
SONG—Selected by Quartette.
SALUTATORY ADDRESS.
(The following speech should be delivered by a droll boy who can keep his face straight while others do the laughing. He should act out the spirit of the piece with appropriate gestures.)
I am requested to open our performances by a salutatory address. It needs but one honest Saxon word for that—one homely pertinent word; but before I utter a pertinent word, allow me, like other great speakers, to indulge in a few impertinent words.
And first, let me ask if there is a critic among us; for this is a sort of family gathering. We allow no critics! No reporters! No interviewers! (Do I see a boy taking notes? Put him out. No! It’s a false alarm, I believe.)
Pardon me if, with the help of my mother’s eye-glass (lifts eye-glasses), I look round on your phys—phys—physiognomies. (That’s the word, I’m very certain, for I practiced on it a good half hour.) Without flattery I say it, I like your countenances—with one exception.
A critic! If there is anything I detest it is a critic. One who cannot bear a little nonsense, and who shakes his head at a little salutary (not salutatory) fun. Salutary fun? Did anybody hiss? Point him out. (Speaker folds his arms, advances, fixes his eyes on some one in the audience, and shakes his fist at him.) Yes, sir, I said salutary fun. Salutary! You needn’t put on such a grave look. Salutary! You needn’t sneer at that ep—ep—epithet. (Yes, I’m quite positive that’s the word I was drilled on. Epi—thet! That’s it.)
But I was speaking of critics. If there is any one of that tribe in this assembly—any dear friend of Cæsar—I mean any stupid friend of Pompey, no, of pomposity—to him I say—no, to you I say—Go mark him well; for him no minstrel raptures swell; despite his titles, power and pelf, the wretch (rather rough on him, that!)—the wretch, concentred all in self, living shall forfeit fair renown, and, doubly dying, shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung, unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
There! If any member of Congress could do it better, bring him on. Excuse me if I sop my brow. (Wiping it with handkerchief.)
But enough! Let us now put by the cap and bells. Enough of nonsense! As a great philosopher, who had been frolicking, once said: “Hush! Let us be grave! Here comes a fool.” Nothing personal, sir, in that! Let us be grave.
And so friends, relatives, ladies, and gentlemen, I shall conclude by uttering from an overflowing heart that one word to which I alluded at the beginning—that one pertinent Saxon word; that is—(flourishes his hand as if about to utter it; then suddenly puts his hand to his forehead as if trying to remember.)
Forgotten? Confusion! Not a big word either! Not half as big as some I have spoken! What—where—when—whence—what has become of it? Must I break down, after all? Must I retire in disgrace from public life? Never! I have it. Here it is! Here it is in big capitals: WELCOME!
RECITATION—Mrs. Piper.
(Suited for a young lady. She should appear very innocent at the beginning, and speak in a droll, unsuspecting voice and manner. Toward the end she should exhibit an uncontrollable delight, at the same time manifest a disposition to conceal it.)
Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
This world is not at all,” she said, “the place it used to be!
Now my good husband, he was such a good man to provide—
I never had the leastest care of anything outside!
But now,
Why, there’s the cow,
A constant care, and Brindle’s calf I used to feed when small,
And those two Ayrshire heifers that we purchased in the fall—
Oh, dear,
My husband sleeping in the grave, it’s gloomy being here!
The oxen Mr. Piper broke, and four steers two years old,
The blind mare and the little colt, they all wait to be sold!
For how am I to keep ’em now? and yet how shall I sell?
And what’s the price they ought to bring, how can a woman tell?
Now, Jacob Smith, he called last night, and stayed till nine o’clock,
And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and tried to buy my stock;
He said he’d pay a higher price than any man in town;
He’d give his note, or, if I chose, he’d pay the money down.
But, there!
To let him take those creeturs off, I really do not dare!
For ’tis a lying world, and men are slippery things at best;
My poor, dear husband in the ground, he wasn’t like the rest!
But Jacob Smith’s a different case; if I would let him, now,
Perhaps he’d wrong me on the horse, or cheat me on a cow;
And so
I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”
Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
A single woman with a farm must fight her way,” said she.
“Of everything about the land my husband always knew;
I never felt, when he was here, I’d anything to do;
But now, what fields to plow,
And how much hay I ought to cut, and just what crops to sow,
And what to tell the hired men, how can a woman know?
Oh, dear!
With no strong arm to lean upon, it’s lonesome being here!
Now Jacob Smith, the other night, he called on me again,
And talked and talked, and talked and talked, and stayed till after ten;
He said he’d like to take my farm, to buy it or to lease—
I do declare, I wish that man would give me any peace!
For there!
To trust him with my real estate I truly did not dare;
For, if he buys it, on the price he’ll cheat me underhand;
And, if he leases it, I know he will run out the land;
And, if he takes it at the halves, both halves he’ll strike for then;
It’s risky work when women folk have dealings with the men!
And so,
I do not dare to trust him, and I mean to answer ‘No.’”
Mrs. Piper was a widow—
“Oh, dear me!
Yet I have still some mercies left; I won’t complain,” said she.
“My poor, dear husband knows, I trust, a better world than this;
’Twere sinful selfishness in me to grudge him Heaven’s bliss!
So now,
I ought to bow
Submissively to what is sent—not murmur and repine;
The hand that sends our trials has, in all, some good design.
Oh, dear!
If we knew all, we might not want our buried lost ones here!
And Jacob Smith, he called last night, but it was not to see
About the cattle or the farm, but this time it was me!
He said he prized me very high, and wished I’d be his wife,
And if I did not he should lead a most unhappy life.
He did not have a selfish thought, but gladly, for my sake,
The care of all my stock and farm he would consent to take—
And, there!
To slight so plain a Providence I really do not dare!
He’ll take the cattle off my mind, he’ll carry on the farm—
I haven’t since my husband died had such a sense of calm!
I think the man was sent to me—a poor, lone woman must,
In such a world as this, I feel, have some one she can trust;
And so,
I do not feel it would be right for me to answer ‘No.’”
Marian Douglas.
MUSIC—To be Selected.
COLLOQUY—True Bravery.
(Suited to a boy and girl of twelve years.)
Ralph.
Good morning, Cousin Laura! I have a word to say to you.
Laura. Only a word! It is yet half an hour to school-time, and I can listen.
R. I saw you yesterday speaking to that fellow Sterling—Frank Sterling.
L. Of course I spoke to Frank. What then? Is he too good to be spoken to?
R. Far from it. You must give up his acquaintance.
L. Indeed, Cousin Ralph! I must give up his acquaintance? On what compulsion must I?
R. If you do not wish to be cut by all the boys of the academy, you must cut Frank.
L. Cut! What do you mean by cut?
R. By cutting, I mean not recognizing an individual. When a boy who knows you passes you without speaking or bowing, he cuts you.
L. I thank you for the explanation. And I am to understand that I must either give up the acquaintance of my friend Frank, or submit to the terrible mortification of being “cut” by Mr. Ralph Burton and his companions!
R. Certainly. Frank is a boy of no spirit—in short, a coward.
L. How has he shown it?
R. Why, a dozen boys have dared him to fight, and he refuses to do it.
L. And is your test of courage a willingness to fight? If so, a bull-dog is the most courageous of gentlemen.
R. I am serious, Laura; you must give him up. Why, the other day Tom Harding put a chip on a fellow’s hat, and dared Frank Sterling to knock it off. But Sterling folded his arms and walked off, while we all groaned and hissed.
L. You did? You groaned and hissed? Oh, Ralph, I did not believe you had so little of the true gentleman about you!
R. What do you mean? Come, now, I do not like that.
L. Were you at the great fire last night?
R. Yes; Tom Harding and I helped work one of the engines.
L. Did you see that boy go up the ladder?
R. Yes; wouldn’t I like to be in his shoes! They say the Humane Society are going to give him a medal; for he saved a baby’s life and no mistake—at the risk of his own, too; everybody said so; for the ladder he went up was all charred and weakened, and it broke short off before he got to the ground.
L. What boy was it!
R. Nobody could find out, but I suppose the morning paper will tell us all about it.
L. I have a copy. Here’s the account; “Great fire; house tenanted by poor families; baby left in one of the upper rooms; ladder much charred; firemen too heavy to go up; boy came forward, ran up; seized an infant; descended safely; gave it into arms of frantic mother.”
R. Is the boy’s name mentioned?
L. Ay! Here it is! Here it is! And who do you think he is?
R. Do not keep me in suspense.
L. Well, then, he’s the boy who was so afraid of knocking a chip off your hat—Frank Sterling—the coward, as you called him.
R. No! Let me see the paper for myself. There’s the name, sure enough, printed in capital letters.
L. But, cousin, how much more illustrious an achievement it would have been for him to have knocked a chip off your hat! Risking his life to save a chip of a baby was a small matter compared with that. Can the gratitude of a mother for saving her baby make amends for the ignominy of being cut by Mr. Tom Harding and Mr. Ralph Burton?
R. Don’t laugh at me any more, Cousin Laura. I see I have been stupidly in the wrong. Frank Sterling is no coward. I’ll ask his pardon this very day.
L. Will you? My dear Ralph, you will in that case show that you are not without courage.
RECITATION—Reverie in Church.
Too early of course! How provoking!
I told ma just how it would be.
I might as well have on a wrapper,
For there’s not a soul here yet to see.
There! Sue Delaplaine’s pew is empty—
I declare if it isn’t too bad!
I knew my suit cost more than her’s did,
And I wanted to see her look mad.
I do think that sexton’s too stupid—
He’s put some one else in our pew—
And the girl’s dress just kills mine completely;
Now what am I going to do?
The psalter, and Sue isn’t here yet!
I don’t care, I think it’s a sin
For people to get late to service,
Just to make a great show coming in.
Oh, you’ve got here at last, my dear, have you?
Well, I don’t think you need be so proud
Of that bonnet if Virot did make it,
It’s horrid fast-looking and loud.
What a dress!—for a girl in her senses
To go on the street in light blue!
And those coat-sleeves—they wore them last summer—
Don’t doubt, though, that she thinks they’re new.
Mrs. Gray’s polonaise was imported—
So dreadful!—a minister’s wife,
And thinking so much about fashion!—
A pretty example of life!
The altar’s dressed sweetly—I wonder
Who sent those white flowers for the font!—
Some girl who’s gone on the assistant—
Don’t doubt it was Bessie Lamont.
Just look at her now, little humbug!—
So devout—I suppose she don’t know
That she’s bending her head too far over
And the end of her switches all show.
What a sight Mrs. Ward is this morning!
That woman will kill me some day,
With her horrible lilacs and crimsons,
Why will these old things dress so gay?
And there’s Jenny Wells with Fred Tracy—
She’s engaged to him now—horrid thing!
Dear me! I’d keep on my glory sometimes,
If I did have a solitaire ring!
How can this girl next to me act so—
The way that she turns round and stares,
And then makes remarks about people:—
She’d better be saying her prayers.
Oh, dear, what a dreadful long sermon!
He must love to hear himself talk!
And it’s after twelve now—how provoking!
I wanted to have a nice walk.
Through at last. Well, it isn’t so dreadful
After all, for we won’t dine till one:
How can people say church is poky!—
So wicked!—I think it’s real fun.
George A. Baker.
ORATION—The Spanish-American War.
It is gratifying to all of us to know that this has never ceased to be a war of humanity. The last ship that went out of the harbor of Havana before war was declared was an American ship that had taken to the suffering people of Cuba the supplies furnished by American charity, and the first ship to sail into the harbor of Santiago was an American ship bearing food supplies to the suffering Cubans, and I am sure it is the universal prayer of American citizens that justice and humanity and civilization shall characterize the final settlement of peace, as they have distinguished the progress of the war.
My countrymen, the currents of destiny flow through the hearts of our people. Who will check them, who will divert them, who will stop them? And the movements of men, planned and designed by the Master of Men, will never be interrupted by the American people.
I witness with pride and satisfaction the cheers of the multitudes as the veterans of the civil war on both sides of the contest are reviewed. I witness with increasing pride the wild acclaim of the people as you watch the volunteers and the regulars and our naval reserves (the guardians of the people on land and sea) pass before your eyes, for I read in the faces and hearts of my countrymen the purpose to see to it that this government, with its free institutions, shall never perish from the face of the earth.
My heart is filled with gratitude to the God of battles, who has so favored us, and to the soldiers and sailors who have won such victories on land and sea and have given such a new meaning to American valor. No braver soldiers or sailors ever assembled under any flag.
Gentlemen, the American people are ready. If the Merrimac is to be sunk in the mouth of the Santiago harbor to prevent the escape of the Spanish fleet, a brave young hero is ready to do it and to succeed in what his foes have never been able to do—sink an American ship. All honor to the army and navy, without whose sacrifices we could not celebrate the victory. The flag of our country is safe in the hands of our patriots and heroes.
President McKinley.
MUSIC—To be Selected.
RECITATION—A Cook of the Period.
(For a young lady who can give the Irish brogue.)
The looks of yer, ma’am, rather suits me—
The wages ye offer ’ill do;
But thin I can’t inter yer sarvice
Without a condition or two.
And now, to begin, is the kitchen,
Commodgeous, with plenty of light,
And fit, ye know, fur entertainin’
Sech fri’nds as I’m like to invite?
And nixt, are yous regular at male-times?
Because ’taint convainyent, ye see,
To wait, and if I behaves punkshul,
It’s no more than yous ought to be.
And thin is your gurrels good-natured?
The rayson I lift my last place,
The French nuss was sich a high lady,
I sint a dish-cloth at her face.
And have yer the laste objection
To min droppin’ in when they choose?
I’ve got some enlivinin’ fust cousins
That frayquently brings me the news.
I must have thim trayted powlitely;
I give yer fair warnin’ ma’am, now,
If the airy gate be closed agin thim,
You’ll find me commincin’ a row.
These matters agrayed on between us,
I’d try yer a wake, so I would.
(She looks like the kind I can manage,
A thin thing without any blood!)
But mind, if I comes for a wake, ma’am,
I comes for that time, and no liss;
And so, thin, purvidin’ ye’d want me,
Just give me your name and addriss.
SONG—Bee-hive Town. TUNE—“Marching Through Georgia.”
Have you ever been to see the busy Bee-Hive Town,
With its funny little wooden houses square and brown?
Hear the bees from clover-fields come flying swiftly down
All enter one little doorway.
CHORUS.
Hurrah, hurrah, for busy Bee-Hive Town,
With funny little houses square and brown;
Here the bees from clover fields come flying swiftly down
Bringing the sweet golden honey.
Oh, there are so many rooms with thin and waxen wall,
Packed so close together that you could not count them all,
Here the small bee babies sleep until they learn to crawl,
And fly to find the golden honey.
Mother bee is called the queen, her children love her well,
And she lives within a warm and cosy little cell;
While her children search in garden, meadow-land and dell,
Helpful and happy in working.
All the merry sister bees do many a helpful thing—
Tend their little sisters and the golden honey bring:
But the lazy brother bees do naught but hum and sing,
All through the long golden summer.
