The forest scenes were intended to be the features of the evening, and in these the young people fairly surpassed themselves. Any one who had seen Neilson in her doublet and hose of silver-grey, Modjeska in her shades of blue, and Ada Cavendish in her lovely suit of green, might have thought Bell’s patched-up dress a sorry mixture; yet these three brilliant stars in the theatrical firmament might have envied this little Rosalind the dewy youth and freshness that so triumphed over all deficiencies of costume.
Margery’s camping-dress of grey, shortened to the knee, served for its basis. Round the skirt and belt and sleeves were broad bands of laurel-leaf trimming. She wore a pair of Margery’s long grey stockings and Laura’s dainty bronze Newport ties. A soft grey chudda shawl of Aunt Truth’s was folded into a mantle to swing from the shoulder, its fringes being caught up out of sight, and a laurel-leaf trimming added. On her bright wavy hair was perched a cunning flat cap of leaves, and, as she entered with Polly, leaning on her manzanita staff, and sighing, “Oh Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!” one could not wish a lovelier stage picture.
And so the play went on, with varying fortunes. Margery was frightened to death, and persisted in taking Touchstone’s speeches right out of his mouth, much to his discomfiture. Adam’s beard refused to stay on; so did the moustache of the Banished Duke, and the clothes of Sylvius. But nothing could dampen the dramatic fire of the players, nor destroy the enthusiasm of the sympathetic audience.
Dicky sat in the dress-circle, wrapped in blankets, and laughed himself nearly into convulsions over Touchstone’s jokes, and the stage business of the Banished Duke; for it is unnecessary to state that Jack was not strictly Shakespearean in his treatment of the part.
As for Polly, she enjoyed being Celia with all her might, and declared her intention of going immediately on the “regular” stage; but Jack somewhat destroyed her hopes by affirming that her nose and hair wouldn’t be just the thing on the metropolitan boards, although they might pass muster in a backwoods theatre.
“Hello! What’s this?” exclaimed Philip, one morning. “A visitor? Yes—no! Why, it’s Señor Don Manuel Felipe Hilario Noriega coming up the cañon! He’s got a loaded team, too! I wonder if Uncle Doc is expecting anything.”
The swarthy gentleman with the long name emerged from one cloud of dust and disappeared in another, until he neared the gate where Philip and Polly were standing.
Philip opened the gate, and received a bow of thanks which would have made Manuel’s reputation at a Spanish court.
“Going up to camp?”