A BIT OF CHRISTMAS MERRIMENT IN ONE ACT.
CHARACTERS:
| Santa Claus, a jolly old elf. |
| Mary, mother's little woman, aged thirteen. |
| Nan, a stout champion of Santa Claus, aged eight. |
| Lucy, a wee darling of three years. |
| Tommy, a scoffer at Santa Claus, aged eleven. |
Time.—The night before Christmas.
Scene.—A cosy nursery with low-turned lights and bright fire. The curtain rises, showing the children grouped around the fire, little Lucy in night-gown and tiny night-cap, cuddled with Mary in the big arm-chair. Nan is seated on a low stool, Tommy is stretched at full length on the rug. They are making preparations to hang up their stockings.
Nan. Now let's begin at the beginning and sing it all over again.
Mary (caressingly). But Lucy is so sleepy.
Lucy (drowsily). Lucy isn't sleepy. Lucy wants to wait for Santa Claus.
Tommy (contemptuously). Santa Claus!
Mary (reproachfully). Oh, Tommy!
Nan (tying on her night-cap). You start it, Mary.
[They all sing.]
| "'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house |
| Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. |
| The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, |
| In hopes that old Santa Claus soon would be there. |
| The children were nestled all—" |
Tommy. Oh, but you know there isn't any such person as Santa Claus.
Mary (very reproachfully). Oh, Tommy!
Nan. Now, Tommy, you just stop.
Tommy. But there isn't, and you know it. It's just our fath—
Nan. Of course there's a Santa Claus.
Lucy (sleepily). Dear old Santa Claus! He'll come down the chimney pretty soon, won't he, Mary?
Mary. Yes, darling. You'll hear the tinkle of his jolly little sleigh-bells, and then up he'll fly with his eight tiny reindeer.
[Sings.]
| "To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, |
| Now dash away, dash away, dash away all. |
| And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof |
| The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. |
| As I drew in my head and was turning around |
| Down the chimney old Santa Claus came with a bound!" |
Nan (triumphantly). There, Mr. Tommy, do you hear what it says?
Tommy. I don't care what it says. That's just a baby story. Santa Claus! Shoot Santa Claus!
Nan. You'll catch it when he does come!
Lucy (confidently). He's coming pretty soon, I guess.
Tommy. I ain't afraid of any Santa Claus. No reindeer could go flying over house-tops. Now, I leave it to you, could they? Deers and cows and horses and that kind of animals ain't made to fly. 'Tain't reasonable. Santa Claus! I tell you there ain't any. There never was and never will be. He's just a big, old—
Nan. Delicious, delightful—
Tommy. Deceitful, de-mol-al-iz-ing Fraud!
Lucy (sleepily). Dear old Santa Claus! When he comes I'll just give him a great big hug (nodding). I love good old Santa Claus. We love him (dreamily), don't we, Nannie? but Tommy says—Tommy he says—
Mary (soothingly). Never mind what Tommy says, darling.
[Sings softly.]
| "He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work |
| And filled all the stockings—" |
Tommy. That's a likely story!
Nan. He won't put much in your stocking, Tommy Franklin.
Mary (softly). 'Sh! Lucy's sound asleep, little sweetheart.
Nan. You've hung up the biggest stocking of any of us. What did you hang up your stocking for if there isn't any Santa Claus?
Tommy (with pretended indifference). Oh, just out of habit, I s'pose. Just 'cause I always have. And I know well enough who'll fill it. It isn't any old humbug of a Santa Claus.
[While they have been talking and singing the children have hung their stockings in a row on the mantel. Tommy's being a conspicuously large and long one. A faint tinkle of sleigh-bells is now heard. It comes nearer and nearer, and finally stops. The children listen intently.]
Nan (in an excited whisper). I believe he's come!
Mary. Oh, hark!
Tommy. I tell you, Santa Claus is a great big humbug.
[A loud jingling of bells is heard, and a great stamping of feet at the door. Lucy wakes and rubs her eyes. Tommy tries to look unconcerned. Nan, half frightened, draws closer to Mary, and, as the last word drops from Tommy's lips, Santa Claus enters with a bound. The children make inarticulate exclamations of rapture and delight, and watch the movements of Santa Claus with wide-open eyes. Santa Claus, after depositing his pack on the floor, proceeds to the business of filling the stockings.]
Santa Claus (chuckling to himself). Well, well, well! Here's a nice row of stockings—a nice row of dear children's stockings! And here are the blessed children themselves waiting patiently till I don't know what o'clock at night, just to catch a glimpse of old Santa. That's the way with the darlings. They know who loves them. They know—oh yes, yes!—they know old Santa.
Lucy (slipping from Mary's lap and timidly approaching Santa Claus). I love you more than a bushel, dear Santa Claus.
Santa Claus (taking her upon his knee). Bless her heart, of course she does. And she may sit on old Santa's knee and watch him while he fills her own cunning stocking. Here it is, the little one at the end of the row. Now let me see (scratches his head reflectively)—let me see. Ah, yes! here's a tiny gold ring, that shall go into the toe. And here's a little pink tea-set and a lovely, lovely dolly, and a carriage for her to ride in. That must go outside, it is such a wee stocking. I declare, here's another dolly—a jolly sailor-boy, and a dainty box of sweets—all for the sweet baby that loves Santa Claus.
Nan (in an undertone). Now, what do you think, Mr. Tommy?
Tommy (in a loud whisper). Humbug!
Girls. For shame!
Santa Claus (putting Lucy gently back into Mary's arms). Now for the next one! Ah, yes! Here's another little ring, with a blue set, for a girl with blue eyes—
Nan (rapturously). That's me.
Santa Claus. And here goes a silver bracelet and a jolly bottle of mignonette and (searching his pack)—and—let me see—a copy of Old-fashioned Girl—
Nan. Just what I was wishing for!
Santa Claus. And a box of sweets—it won't do to forget that—and a funny puzzle for a clever little head to solve, and a mysterious package—she'll find what's in it in the morning. (Chuckles to himself)
Nan. Now it's yours, Mary dear.
Santa Claus (taking Mary's stocking). Now for the next one. No time to lose. This is a busy night for St. Nick. 'Way down in the very tip-toe shall go this bright little watch, to tick away the happy minutes of the New Year for mother's own little woman.
Nan. You hear that, Tommy.
Tommy. Don't you believe it.
Santa Claus. This work-basket must go outside with the books. And now for the next. Well, this is a big one.
Tommy (in an undertone). I borrowed it of cook—the longest and biggest she had.
Santa Claus (deliberately regarding Tommy's stocking). Is it possible there is a greedy child here?
Nan. Now, Tommy, aren't you ashamed of yourself.
Santa Claus (reflectively). A greedy child. I hope not, I hope not. Well, we'll see. We'll soon see (searching his pack). Here is a splendid pair of skates for a good boy—
Tommy (gleefully). That's me.
Santa Claus. And here's a box of chess-men, and a— Why, upon my word! upon my word! when has this happened before? (Santa Claus pauses in his work, showing every evidence of great astonishment, for as he undertakes to put the gifts into Tommy's stocking, they behave in a most contrary and unaccountable way. They drop to the floor, and the stocking seems to refuse to take them. Santa Claus makes several efforts to insert the gifts in the stocking, but without success.) Well, well, I haven't had an experience like this for many a long year. What will Mrs. Santa Claus say, when I go back to the North Pole and tell her I found a contrary stocking. A contrary stocking, which means but one thing—that the child who hung it does not believe in Santa Claus. (Sadly.) Oh dear, what a pity! what a pity! Well, if I must, I must. (Searches his pack.) It is many a year since I have had any use for these things. I did hope I should never have to take them out again. (Draws from the depth of his pack a broad leather strap, a large slipper, and other articles mentioned later. He meets with no difficulty as he drops them one by one into Tommy's big stocking.) There! (Thrusting in the strap.) If he don't know the use of that, I suppose his father will have to teach him, and this (holding up the slipper before putting it into the stocking), no doubt his mother will know what it is for. Oh dear! oh dear! (Shaking his head sorrowfully.) This is too bad! too bad! It will spoil my Christmas completely. No box of goodies for this stocking— It wouldn't do—no, it wouldn't do at all. I'll have to put in this package of smarty pepper candy, to make the boy's tongue tingle that says Santa Claus is a Humbug.
Nan. What did I tell you?
Lucy. Poor Tommy.
Santa Claus. And here is a tin horn (tries it) without any blow in it. My good horns are for good boys to toot in my honor on Christmas day. Now a book—here is one—a nice Spelling Book, full of all the hard words that were ever invented, and not a picture in it. And here is another—a book on Good Manners—it is for the boy to study who says that Santa Claus is a Fraud.
Tommy. Boo-hoo! boo-hoo! boo-hoo! boo-hoo! I didn't mean it! Oh, I didn't mean it at all! I was just a-fooling. Boo-hoo! Oh, dear! Boo-hoo-o-o-o!
Lucy (putting her arms around his neck). Oh, poor, poor Tommy! I'll give you my nice candy. Don't cry, Tommy.
Tommy. Boo-hoo! I didn't mean it. I won't do so again. I'll stand by you forever. Indeed I will, Mr. Santa Claus, if you'll only forgive my badness. (Tommy kneels and clasps the knees of Santa Claus imploringly.) Oh, please forgive me, and I'll never, never doubt you again, dear, good Santa Claus!
Mary (entreatingly). Dear Santa Claus, please forgive him.
Nan. He don't deserve it, but please try him.
Lucy. Santa Claus, please love Tommy again.
Santa Claus (heartily). Well, well, well! I want to forgive him badly enough, and for your sakes I will. But, mind you this, Tommy, my lad, I must have your true allegiance from this time forth.
Tommy. Oh, good Santa Claus, I promise it truly, truly! Honor bright! Hope to die!
Santa Claus. I believe you, my lad. There, there. Give me your hand. I want to be good friends with every child in the whole happy world on the glad Christmas day. Now, we'll try again. (He draws out the strap, etc., from Tommy's stocking, and deftly inserts in their places skates, books, etc.) Ah, the magic stocking opens to receive gifts for a loyal child. Here go the skates, and the boys' own Swiss Family Robinson. (Searches his pack.) Aha, this tool-chest evidently belongs here, and this big horn, with a jolly toot in it (tries it), and, ah, yes, a whole menagerie of candy pigs and elephants and monkeys, and not a pepper drop in the lot. (Tommy looks on in delight, and the children hug each other gleefully.) Now, bless your sweet hearts, I must be going. Here I am, delaying as if there were not hundreds of stockings to be filled before daylight. (Kisses little Lucy.) Good-night, my precious one. Good-night, my darlings, and a merry, merry Christmas to you all!
[Santa Claus gathers up his pack, straps it upon his shoulders, and departs.]
[Song, with soft accompaniment of sleigh-bells.]
Hurrah for the merry Christmas-time,
And the jolly Christmas cheer,
And the reindeer sleigh when it comes this way,
And brings old Santa Claus dear.
Hurrah and hurrah!
For the merry Christmas-time, and the happy Christmas cheer!
Hurrah and hurrah!
For our Santa Claus so dear!
[Softly.]
Hurrah and hurrah!
For the merry Christmas-time, and the happy Christmas cheer!
Hurrah and hurrah!
For our Santa Claus so dear!
Curtain.
[THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE.]
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
VII.—THE POETRY BOOK, AND THE END.
The Imp then arranged the wires so that the Poetry Book could recite itself to Jimmieboy, after which he went back to his office to see who it was that had been ringing the bell.
"My first poem," said a soft silvery voice from the top shelf, towards which Jimmieboy immediately directed his attention—"my first poem is a perfect gem. I have never seen anything anywhere that could by any possibility be finer than it is, unless it be in my new book, which contains millions of better ones. It is called, 'To a Street Lamp,' and goes this way:
"You seem quite plain, old Lamp, to men,
Yet 'twould be hard to say
What we should do without you when
Night follows on the day;
"And while your lumination seems
Much less than that of sun,
I truly think but for your beams
We would be much undone.
"And who knows, Lamp, but to some wight,
Too small for me to see,
You are just such a wondrous sight
As old Sol is to me!"
"Isn't that simply lovely?" said the soft silvery voice when the poem was completed.
"Yes; but I don't think it's very funny," said Jimmieboy. "I like to laugh, you know, and I couldn't laugh at that."
"Oh!" said the silvery voice, with a slight tinge of disappointment in it. "You want fun, do you? Well, how do you like this? I think it is the funniest thing ever written, except others by the same author:
"There was an old man in New York
Who thought he'd been changed to a stork;
He stood on one limb
'Til his eyesight grew dim,
And used his left foot for a fork."
"That's the kind," said Jimmieboy, enthusiastically. "I could listen to a million of that sort of poems."
"I'd be very glad to tell you a million of them," returned the voice, "but I don't believe there's electricity enough for me to do it under twenty-five minutes, and as we only have five left, I'm going to recite my lines on 'A Sulphur Match.'
"The flame you make, O Sulphur Match!
When your big head I chance to scratch,
"Appears so small most people deem
You lilliputian, as you seem.
"And yet the force that in you lies
Can fight with brilliance all the skies.
"There's strength enough in you to send
Great cities burning to their end;
"So that we have a hint in you
Of what the smallest thing can do."
"Don't you like that?" queried the voice, anxiously. "I do hope you do, because I am especially proud of that. The word lilliputian is a tremendous word for a poet of my size, and to think that I was able, alone and unassisted, to lift it bodily out of the vocabulary into the poem makes me feel very, very proud of myself, and agree with my mother that I am the greatest poet that ever lived."
"Well, if you want me to, I'll like it," said Jimmieboy, who was in an accommodating mood. "I'll take your word for it that it is a tremendous poem, but if you think of repeating it over again to me, don't do it. Let me have another comic poem."
"All right," said Pixyweevil—for it was he that spoke through the book. "You are very kind to like my poem just to please me. Tell me anything in the world you want a poem about, and I'll let you have the poem."
"Really?" cried Jimmieboy, delighted to meet with so talented a person as Pixyweevil. "Well—let me see—I'd like a poem about my garden rake."
"Certainly. Here it is:
"I had a little garden rake
With seven handsome teeth,
It followed me o'er fern and brake,
O'er meadow-land and heath.
"And though at it I'd often scowl,
And treat it far from right,
My garden rake would never growl,
Nor use its teeth to bite."
"Elegant!" ejaculated Jimmieboy. "Say it again."
"Oh no! we haven't time for that. Besides, I've forgotten it. What else shall I recite about?" queried Pixyweevil.
"I don't know; I can't make up my mind," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh dear me! that's awful easy," returned Pixyweevil. "I can do that with my eyes shut. Here she goes:
"Shall I become a lawyer great,
A captain of a yacht,
A man who deals in real estate,
A doctor, or a what?
Ah me! Oh ho!
I do not know.
I can't make up my mind.
"I have a penny. Shall I buy
An apple or a tart?
A bit of toffee or a pie,
A cat-boat or a cart?
Ah me! Oh ho!
I do not know.
I can't make up my mind."
"Splendid!" cried Jimmieboy.
"That's harder—much harder," said Pixyweevil, "but I'll try. How is this:
"I bought one day, in Winnipeg,
A truly wondrous heavy egg;
And when my homeward course was run
I showed it to my little son.
'Dear me!' said he,
When he did see,
'I think that hen did
Splen-did-ly!'
"I saw a bird—'twas reddish-brown—
One day while in a country town,
Which sang, 'Oh, Johnny, Get Your Gun';
And when I told my little son,
In tones of glee
Said he, 'Dear me!
I think that wren did
Splen-did-ly!"
"That's the best I can do with splendid," said Pixyweevil.
"Well, it's all you can do now, anyhow," came a voice from the doorway, which Jimmieboy immediately recognized as the Imp's; "for Jimmieboy's mamma has just telephoned that she wants him to come home right away."
"It was very nice, Mr. Pixyweevil," said Jimmieboy, as he rose to depart. "And I am very much obliged."
"Thank you," returned Pixyweevil. "You are very polite, and exceedingly truthful. I believe myself that, as that 'Splendid' poem might say, if it had time,
"I've truly ended
Splen-did-ly."
And then Jimmieboy and the Imp passed out of the library back through the music and cookery room. The Imp unlocked the door, and, fixing the wires, sent Jimmieboy sliding down to the back hall, whence he had originally entered the little telephone closet.
"Hullo!" said his papa. "Where have you been?"
"Having a good time," said Jimmieboy.
"And what have you done with the key of my cigar-box?"
"Oh, I forgot," said Jimmieboy. "I left it in the telephone door."
"What a queer place to leave it," said his papa. "Let me have it, please, for I want to smoke."
And Jimmieboy went to get it, and, sure enough, there it was in the little box, and it unlocked it, too; but when his father came to open the door and look inside, the Imp had disappeared.