you-you loved me-ever so long? Well, I don't think I've any very loud call to be a farmer's wife. (Take up portrait; keep the back to audience.) No, I will not show it to you. (Turn to back.) Oh! very well, Mr. Slowbody. Call again when you can't stay so long. (Turn to front; put portrait in chair.) Jediah couldn't deceive me. Nobody could. I'm too smart to be taken in by—(Move up quickly to back; call off.) Return! Oh! Return, I'll show it to you. (Come down.) He's gone. Now who will bring my letters and carry my hymn-book Sundays and praise my tea-cakes? Jediah will never like my cooking in this world. (Take up portrait.) I must hang Jediahin my room. I wonder if he will love me as much as Return. (Look at portrait.) Oh! Jediah. It was a mercy you sent me your picture. I might have-Oh! Return. Oh! Jediah. [Exit with portrait, back. Slow Curtain. SCENE III. Sarah's kitchen. A table at right with board, flour dredge, rolling pin, knife, plates, etc., and some dough for pie crust. Other simple furniture. The portrait hanging on wall at back. Entrances, right and left, and at back. Summer house-dress with apron. Time, afternoon, a week later. (Enter at right; roll up sleeves to elbow; take up flour dredge; sprinkle flour on board and roll out dough into thin sheet; put some of the sheet of dough on plate and trim it off as for a pie; roll dough out again. Do this while talking.) I do hope Jediah will like my pies. I've writ to Jediah that I couldn't come to see him now, as I have a house full of boarders and I told him to make me a little visit. And yesterday he writ he couldn't afford it. He gives all he has to the poor. (Look at portrait.) Oh! Jediah. I aint fit'to be a helpmeet to such a saint. (Look to left. Wipe hands on apron.) Gracious! Who's that? (Cross to left.) One of the boarders. (Open door as if to admit some one.) Oh! That you, Miss Breezie? Come right in, if you don't mind my cooking. (Offer chair at left.) I'm making a mess of pies. Sit down and be sosherble. (Resume work on pies, adding a second and third layer over the first on the plate and trim them off with the knife; do not notice mistake.) Are you acquainted any in Boston, Miss Breezie? Didn't know but you might be, seeing you've lived there so long. Don't suppose you know the Reverend Jediah Hopkins. Yes, Hopkins— that's the name. Am I sure? Why, certainly. Of course, I know him very well. He's a missionary to the poor. If it was not for speaking of myself-I'd tell you I've often sent him money-for the-- Excuse me, there's Return. (Run up, wiping hands on apron; call off back.) Yes I'm coming. [Exit, back. (Re-enter with a letter.) Another letter from Jediah. (Speak to left.) Sit still. It aint a mite of matter. I can read it by and by. Return brought it over, but he wouldn't come in. (Resume work at table.) Why-yesJediah does write pretty often. He's a perfect saint (Point to picture.) That's his portrait. (Suddenly drop plate on table.) What! No such person? (Point to portrait.) That is-oh, Miss Breezie, you don't mean it! Deceived me? Oh, no, no! I don't believe-You are sure-sure? (Run to back; call off.) Return-Oh! Return. [Exit, back. Oh, what a pile And he kept it all. I'm at home--mak (After pause re-enter slowly and in changed manner ; look about; speak off back.) No. She's gone. There's nobody here. (Suddenly turn the portrait with its face to the wall.) What a mercy she told me. of money I have sent to the poor. (Speak off back.) Come in, Return! ing a pie for you. (Point to seat at left.) Sit down and make yourself at home. (Look at portrait.) That? Oh, Return, don't ask me. I've been-Oh! Return, you knew it all the time. (Take up pie plate.) Look at that. I've put on three bottom crusts and left out the filling. Oh! Return, I aint fit to go alone another day. Me! me, Return! Love you? Oh, Return, you knew it all along. Curtain. CAUGHT.-K. E. BARRY. They were sitting by the fireside, And their heads were close together As their chat grew more engrossing Then he put his arms about her And a shrill voice cried with glee: -Photographi Times. HOW I WON MY WIFE.-W. A. EATON. I was standing alone on a rocky height, How I wished I were he in that tiny boat, With the great sea sunset, and overhead A yearning to see that face once more, And the boat return I had watched from shore. Humming the tune of an old love song; I was roused from my dreams by a sudden blast, I looked above, and the sky was black: I hastily turned to hurry back Ere the storm came on; but I saw the bark Dimly and faintly through the dark, Like an egg-shell rocked on the hissing waves, "God help them!" I muttered beneath my breath. There was no time to think or stay. But what could be done? I flew to where A light was lit at the jetty-stair, And shouted and shrieked with all my might: "Pull if you can, towards this light!" They heard me, thank Heaven!-they come this way. They were nearing the lantern's flickering ray, The despairing eyes that gazed at me But there was the aged man to save From the deep, dark gulf of the yawning wave. And plunged again from the wet sea sands By the fitful light I could dimly see A few strokes more and we reached the strand, A few months more, and the joy-bells rang HE HAD FAITH. A young man, about twenty-one years old, was sitting in the waiting room of a depot with a year-old baby on his knee, and his alarm and helplessness when the child |