FIRST SYLLABLE.
The stage is now observed to be strewn with sticks and twigs, to resemble the outskirts of a forest. No word is spoken; but as a tin pail hangs on a pole over something that looks like a fireplace, it would seem that the worthy couple are keeping house, and that the squaw is preparing dinner. But as yet there is no fire. The squaw collects branches and twigs, lays them crosswise under the tin pail. Her lord and master seats himself on the ground, watching her in scowling silence. The soup must boil; but how can she make a fire? She rubs two stones together Indian-fashion, but cannot strike a spark. She tries with all her might, dancing up and down and shaking her head dolefully. The chief laughs at her, offering no help, till she points in despair to the tin pail, reminding him that at this rate they must starve. He rises then, pushes her aside, and flashing his white teeth at her, seizes the two stones, rubs them just once together, and they instantly ignite (of course this is done by means of a match hidden in his sleeve.) The twigs are soon crackling under the pail. He points his finger disdainfully at the poor squaw, who cannot make a fire. She looks so brow-beaten and discouraged at this, so unlike the spirited Flaxie Frizzle of real life, that the audience laugh. Then the drop-curtain falls.