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.
SECOND SYLLABLE.
The soup has boiled, the chief has dined, and now sits with hands folded, looking good-natured. The pail is empty and lying bottom upward on the grass. Enter his meek wife; takes the empty pail; returns with it full of water, slopping it as she walks. The thirsty chief points to his mouth. She produces a large iron spoon, fills it and gives him to drink, afterwards helping herself. They sit and sip from the spoon alternately, when a “pale face” (Preston) enters, with a jug. The chief starts up with eager delight. Pale Face swings the jug slowly, to show that it is full. The chief, smiling and obsequious, advances to shake hands. The squaw looks alarmed; shakes her head at the jug, and insists on giving Pale Face some water. Pale Face declines it; takes stopper out of jug and presents it to chief’s nose with an eloquent gesture, which means, “Now isn’t that good?”
It is evidently whiskey, for the chief sniffs the stopper, laughs and dances, pointing to his mouth.
Squaw weeps; is evidently a good temperance woman; holds the pail to her husband’s lips. He pushes her away, and begs in dumb show for the whiskey.
Faithful squaw shakes her stovepipe hat, wrings her worsted hair, chases Pale Face around and around the stage, trying to make him give up the fatal jug. In vain; chief is allowed to get it; raises it joyfully to his lips.
Faithful squaw, becoming frantic, seizes the pail, and, overdoing her part, pours all the water over Pale Face, drenching him completely.
“Oo! Oo!” he gurgles. “If that isn’t just like you, Flaxie Frizzle!”