A SEASIDE "SONG SCENA."
Yesterday I celebrated the beginning of my holidays by patronising The Melodities on the beach. The Melodities are a band of entertainers who draw enormous salaries for giving a couple of performances daily in a kind of luxurious open-air theatre.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," announced the Manager soon after I had taken my seat, "our first item will be a Song Scena entitled The Moon, by Bertie Weston, assisted by six members of the company." A quiver of expectation ran through the crowded audience.
Bertie Weston, wearing a uniform resembling (I imagine) that of a Patagonian Vice-Admiral, advanced mincingly to the footlights, and the six others, similarly attired, ranged themselves in a row behind him. Behind these again dropped a back-cloth representing a stone balustrade, blue hills and fleecy clouds.
There was a burst of warm applause, in response to which Bertie politely bowed his thanks. Without further preliminary he commenced—
The crescent moon on high
Is shining in the sky.
Here the six turned up their faces and gazed pensively at the heavens (it was still broad daylight, by the way), at the same time resting their chins on their right hands and their right elbows on their left hands.
The sun is gone,
The stars are wan,