The Mimic Stage E-Book

George M. Baker

• Herausgeber: George M. Baker
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The gratifying success of a previous volume of “Amateur Dramas,” and the increasing demand for pieces of a light character suitable for representation without the usual costly theatrical accessories, has induced the writer to prepare a second volume for publication. Like the first, it contains pieces which have been specially prepared for occasional exhibitions, society benefits, and parlor theatricals, and which have only been admitted to “the mimic stage” after having stood the test of public approval. For their production, no scenery is required. A moderate-sized room, having folding-doors or hanging curtains to separate the audience from the actors; costumes such as the modern wardrobe will easily supply, with now and then a foray on some good old grandmother’s trunks; a wig or two; a few pieces of chalk; red paint; and India-ink,—is all the “extraordinary preparations” and “great expense” necessary.

Leseprobe

The Mimic Stage

George M. Baker

First digital edition 2017 by Anna Ruggieri

CONTENTS

PREFACE

DOWN BY THE SEA

A CLOSE SHAVE

CAPULETTA

THE GREAT ELIXIR

THE MAN WITH THE DEMIJOHN

AN ORIGINAL IDEA

“MY UNCLE, THE CAPTAIN.”

NO CURE, NO PAY: A FARCE.

HUMORS OF THE STRIKE

BREAD ON THE WATERS

PREFACE.

The gratifying success of a previous volume of “Amateur Dramas,” and the increasing demand for pieces of a light character suitable for representation without the usual costly theatrical accessories, has induced the writer to prepare a second volume for publication. Like the first, it contains pieces which have been specially prepared for occasional exhibitions, society benefits, and parlor theatricals, and which have only been admitted to “the mimic stage” after having stood the test of public approval. For their production, no scenery is required. A moderate-sized room, having folding-doors or hanging curtains to separate the audience from the actors; costumes such as the modern wardrobe will easily supply, with now and then a foray on some good old grandmother’s trunks; a wig or two; a few pieces of chalk; red paint; and India-ink,—is all the “extraordinary preparations” and “great expense” necessary. For benefits, fairs, and temperance gatherings, many of the pieces will be found particularly appropriate. To give variety, three dialogues, originally published in “Oliver Optic’s Magazine,” have, by the kind permission of its popular editor, been added to the collection. Amateur theatricals have now become a part of the regular winter-evening amusements of young and old; and, with proper management, no more rational, pleasant, and innocent diversion can be devised. Endeavoring to avoid bluster and rant, relying more on touches of nature, hits at follies and absurdities, for success, the writer trusts his little book may contain nothing which can detract from the good name those amusements now enjoy.

DOWN BY THE SEA.A DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

Crusty (a man of means, generally considered a mean man).

Tonsor (a barber).

McGinnis (his assistant).

Zeb (a colored apprentice).

Heavyface (a hypochondriac).

Simper (an exquisite).

Act 1.

John Gale’s house down by the sea. Fireplace, r. Doors, r., l., and c. Table right of c., at which Mrs. Gale is ironing. March seated on a stool, l., arranging fishing-lines.

March, (sings.)

“Oh, my name was Captain Kyd

As I sailed, as I sailed.

Oh, my name was Captain Kyd

As I sailed!”

Mrs. G. Do, March, stop that confounded racket!

March. Racket! well that’s a good one. Mother Gale, you’ve got no ear for music.

Mrs. G. More ear than you have voice. Do you call that singing?

March. To be sure I do. (Sings.)

“Oh, my name was Captain—”

Mrs. G. March Gale, if you don’t stop that catawauling, I’ll fling this flat-iron right straight at your head.

March. Now, don’t, Mother Gale. Don’t you do it. The iron would enter my soul. (Sings.)

“As I sailed, as I sailed.”

Mrs. G. Dear, dear! what does ail that boy? March Gale, you’ll distract our fine city boarders.

March. Not a bit of it. Don’t they come from the great city where there’s lots of grand uproars, organ-grinders, and fiddlers. I tell you, Mother Gale, they are pining for the delights of the city; and I’m a public benefactor, when, by the sound of my musical voice, I wake in their hearts tender recollections of “Home, sweet Home.” (Sings.)

“As I sailed, as I sailed.”

Mrs. G. I do wish you were sailing. Now, do stop, that’s a good boy. You make my head ache awfully.

March. Do I? why didn’t you say that before: I’m done. But, Mother Gale, what do you suppose sent these rich people to this desolate spot?

Mrs. G. It’s their whims, I s’pose: rich people are terrible whimsical. Mr. Raymond told your father he wanted a quiet place down by the sea.

March. Blest if he hasn’t got it! It’s almost as desolate here as poor old Robinson Crusoe’s Island.

Mrs. G. Well, well! p’raps he had a hankering for this spot, for he was born down here. Ah, me! how times do change. I remember the time when Abner Raymond was a poor fisherman’s boy. Law sakes, boy, when I was a gal, he used to come sparking me; and he and John Gale have had many a fight, all along of me. Well, he went off to the city, got edicated, and finally turned out a rich man.

March. You don’t say so. Why, Mother Gale, you might have been a rich lady.

Mrs. G. P’raps I might, March; p’raps I might: but I chose John Gale; and I never regretted it, never.

March. Bully for you, Mother Gale, and bully for Daddy Gale, too. He’s a trump. But I say, Mother Gale, isn’t Miss Kate a beauty? My eyes! Keep a sharp look-out, Mother Gale, a sharp eye on our Sept.; for, if I’m not much mistaken, he’s over head and ears in love with her.

Mrs. G. Goodness, gracious! what an awful idea!

March. Awful! perhaps it is; but she likes it. I’ve seen them on the rocks as chipper as a pair of blackbirds; her eyes glistening and her cheeks rosy, while Sept. was pouring all sorts of soft speeches into her ears.

Mrs. G. Heavens and airth! this won’t do! I’ll tell your father of this the minit he comes home.

March. No you won’t, Mother Gale. Hush, here’s the young lady now.

(Enter Kate, r.)

Kate. May I come in?

Mrs. G. To be sure you may, and welcome (places a chair, r., and dusts it with her apron). It’s awful dirty here.

Kate (sits). Dirt? I have not yet been able to discover a particle in the house. It’s a miracle of cleanliness. Well, March, what are you doing?

March. Oh! fixin’ up the lines a little.

Kate. Who was singing? While I was sewing I’m sure I heard a musical voice.

March. No: did you though? Do you hear that, Mother Gale. Miss Kate heard a musical voice. I am the owner of that voice, and I’m mighty proud of it; for there’s precious little I do own in this world.

Kate. You should cultivate it.

Mrs. G. Fiddlesticks! there’s no more music in that boy than there is in a nor’easter.

March. Now, Mother Gale, don’t show your ignorance of music. Yes, Miss Kate, I should cultivate it; but then, you see. I’m an orphan.

Kate. An orphan?

March. Yes, an orphan,—a poor, miserable, red-headed orphan. The only nurse I ever had was the sea, and a precious wet one she was.

Kate. Do you mean to say you are not the son of John Gale?

March. That’s the melancholy fact: I’m nobody’s son. I was found upon the sands, after a fearful storm and a shipwreck, very wet and very hungry, by Daddy Gale. This little occurrence was in the month of March. Fearing, from my youth and inexperience, I should be likely to forget the circumstances of my birth, Daddy Gale christened me March, and it’s been march ever since. You march here, and you march there.

Kate. And September?

March. Oh! Sept. came in the same way, by water, a little sooner, the September before. Daddy Gale evidently expected to complete the calendar, and have a whole almanac of shipwrecked babbies.

Kate. He is not Mr. Gale’s son?

March. No, he’s a nobody, too: we’re a pair of innocent but unfortunate babbies.

Kate. Strange I have not heard this before. I have been here nearly a month.

Mrs. G. Bless your dear soul, John Gale doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s precious fond of these boys; and I tell him he’s afeard somebody will come and claim ’um. But he’s done his duty by them. No matter how poor the haul, how bad the luck, he always manages to lay by something for their winter’s schooling; and, if ever anybody should claim them, they can’t complain that they have’nt had an edication.

March. That’s so, Mother Gale, all but my singing; but I have strong hopes of somebody coming to claim me. I feel I was born to be something great,—a great singer, or something else.

Mrs. G. Something else, most likely.

March. Yes. I expect to see my rightful owner appearing in a coach and four to bear me to his ancestrial castle.

Mrs. G. Fiddlesticks!

March. Mother Gale, your ejaculations are perfectly distressing. I don’t open my mouth to indulge in a few fond hopes, but you ram your everlasting “fiddlesticks” down my throat to choke all my soaring fancies.

Mrs. G. Well, I should think your throat be sore, with all those big words.