Enter Minerva carrying dishpan with note attached.
Minerva—I go first because I’m the oldest.
Jennie (outside)—That ain’t no fair.
Minerva (finger to lips)—Hush, you don’t want to wake Ma. She didn’t come to bed until near morning (puts dishpan under tree). There, that’s a promise it’ll be mighty hard to keep for if there’s anything under the sun I hate doing it’s washing dishes. Three times a day and there’s 365 days in the year, that washes, let me see—three times five is fifteen, three times six is eighteen, and one to carry is nineteen, and three times three is nine and one’s ten. Good gracious, over a thousand times a year and eight in the family means eight plates, eight cups, eight—a million dishes! Oh dear, I wish our family was smaller.
Enter Sam with armful of wood
Sam—It takes a good sight longer for you to put a dishpan down than for me to drop this wood (slams it down). There’s the first load delivered on the contract. Gee, I wish there was a gaswell on our farm. Perhaps I could persuade Ma to use a coal-oil stove.
Enter Jennie with music roll
Jennie—Oh dear, how I hate practising, but Ma says she’s bound she’ll make a musicale out of me. Her chance is better now than it ever was before (puts it on tree).
Sam—Aw, Jen, why didn’t you choose something quiet? Do you want to drive us all insane listening to you running up and down those everlasting scales?