Thrown into shadow silhouette by a strong light placed behind a white curtain, the figures of the young patriots appear. Music of fife and drum in orchestra, clear, high, blood-stirring. First a small drummer-boy passes, with a cocked hat, and poised drum-sticks. Then a boy of the same age carrying a musket that is much too large for him. Then two taller patriot lads, very soldier-like. Then a country boy with a hoe over his shoulder. Then two figures, one playing a fife, the other a drum. Then a lone patriot lad with a cocked hat and musket. Then another drummer-boy. Then a boy with a flag, and a half dozen patriots following him. The music grows fainter and fainter, as if with the tread of marching feet.
CHARACTERS
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
NANCY LINCOLN
TOM BUSH
AMY ROBY
POLLY PRENTICE
JASON BROWN
LUCY BROWN FRANCOIS DURAND
LITTLE JOHN LINCOLN
NOCTAH, an Indian
SCENE: The Lincoln kitchen and living-room. Place: Little Pigeon Creek, Indiana. Time, 1823.
The room is bright and clean, showing both thrift and poverty. There are two windows in background, with well-mended, faded curtains of the cheapest cotton. Between these two windows a stout door, which gives on the outside road. On the door is tacked a raccoon skin.
By the window at right a plain pine table and chair. The end of the table is set with a plate, knife, fork, drinking-cup, etc., for one person, and there are corndodgers in generous quantities, and a jug of molasses.
In the middle of the right wall there is a wide-mouthed fireplace, with black andirons, several iron pots, and a skillet. Above the hearth strips of leather nailed to the wall serve as holders for empty powder-horns, knives, etc. There is a pine bench by the hearth, placed so that those sitting on it face the audience. Also a three-legged pine stool. Beyond the hearth, towards the background, a dresser with a few dishes.
Fastened to the wall, left foreground, is a pine shelf on which stand Abraham Lincoln's books, well-worn copies of "Robinson Crusoe" "Aesop's Fables," "Pilgrim's Progress," etc., etc. Above this shelf a clock, battered yet adequate. A bearskin rug on the floor. The whole scene is homely, peaceful, intimate.
The embers on the hearth give out a dull glow which leaves the room in semi-darkness, yet lights up several objects by the hearthstone—namely, a heap of pine cones, some dried spice-wood bushes, a rude corn-popper, a snow-shovel, and a neatly-mended tongs.
In the frosty out-of-doors the wind blows gustily from time to time. Otherwise the room is quite still, save for the ticking of the clock, which points to half-past seven. For a moment after the curtain's rise the stage is deserted. Then come two brisk knocks at the door, and it is opened from without by Polly Prentice, who first thrusts in her head, looks about, and then crosses the threshold, speaking back over her shoulder to Amy Roby and Tom Bush. Polly wears a scarlet cloak, and her cheeks are as red as apples. All carry lanterns.
POLLY.
There's no one home. Wherever can Nancy be? She said if she wasn't here we were to wait for her. Come in, Amy, and you, too, Tom Bush, and be careful to close the door. (All enter.) The fire is nearly spent. B-rrrrrr! It's a cold night for this time of year. My fingers are tingling. That's right, Tom, put on some spice bushes for a blaze. I'll put my lantern over here by yours, Amy. What time is it?
AMY.
Half-past seven. I wish that Nancy would hurry. The corn-husking begins at eight, and we are to call for Jason Brown and Lucy before we start.
TOM
(warming his hands).
Yes, and come back here to have Abe go with us. He's been out in the woods all day, swinging that ax of his. I could hear him down by the spring.
POLLY.
There's his supper set out for him—corn-dodgers and molasses.
AMY
(primly).
Polly, it isn't nice to look at things in other people's houses!
POLLY
(saucily).
You looked at the clock only a minute ago, and I'm sure Abe's supper is as easily seen as the clock is! Easier, too, if you happen to be glancing that way. I wish that Nancy would hurry!
TOM
(as they seat themselves about fire).
And I wish that Abe would hurry. He must be trying for luck.
POLLY.
Luck?
TOM.
Yes, you know they say that rails split by moonlight bring folks good fortune. Not that Abe needs good fortune—he's lucky at everything he puts his hand to. He can shoulder an ax and swing it better than any one I ever saw, and as for his books—there's no one who can beat him.
POLLY.
He's always at them—even after a hard day's work.
TOM.
There's nothing he won't read if he can get his hands on it, and at spelling he's head of his class every time.
AMY
(amused).
You'd think he was a hero, Tom, the way you talk.
TOM
(eyes a-light).
Well, sometimes he does seem like a hero to me, he's so strong and clever and kind. At school people are always coming to him with their disputes, and out of school, too. Even the Indians respect his knowledge. And with it all he can see a joke as soon as anybody, and isn't a bit puffed up. And then I like him, because even though he's quiet and it takes a long time for him to get angry, when he does get angry it's on the right side. I think some day he'll be a great lawyer. Come, Amy, what do you think he'll be?
AMY
(mischievously).
Well, as you think he knows so much—almost as much as Mr. Andrew Crawford—I think perhaps he'll be a teacher.
TOM.
What do you think he'll be, Polly?
POLLY
(absorbed in examining corn-popper, tongs, etc.).
I don't know. Oh, see! He's mended the tongs. I saw him working at it the other day. (Facing about, laughing.) I'll tell you what I think he'll be—he'll be a mender! (To Amy.) Look out, Amy, that's Abe's precious snow-shovel. Dear knows why he has it out this early.
AMY.
Because paper is expensive, goosey. By the light of some pine cones he can figure on this, and then scrape it off again.
TOM
(admiringly).
Nobody but Abe would think of such a thing. I tell you the day will come when we'll be proud we knew him.
AMY
(gaily).
Bravo, Tom! You'll be making speeches soon, or lead in our next debate.
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
(speaking from outer doorway, ax on shoulder, a gaunt, rawboned, kindly-eyed lad).
Who said debate—?
AMY
(jumping up with a burst of delighted laughter).
There he is now! (To Lincoln.) If any word would bring you, that one would, I know!
POLLY.
Nancy isn't here. She said we were to wait. Go on with your supper, Abe, and don't mind us. I know you're hungry.
LINCOLN.
Thank you, I will. (Puts by ax and goes towards table.) Hungry! I feel half-starved! And my muscles are as stiff as boards. (Turns.) Here, Tom, I'm a fine host—neglecting my guests! There's the corn-popper, and (diving hand into cupboard and bringing out a bag) there's the corn!
NANCY
(appearing in the outer door with Francois Durand, and little John Henry).
And here's Nancy with a bag of salt, just in time. I'm glad you all waited for me. Come to the fire, Francois.
FRANCOIS
(shyly to all, as they kindly make way for him).
Bon soir! Bon soir!
NANCY
(rattling on).
B-rrrrr! It's chilly. It's nice to be in by the fire. How's your supper, Abe? I fixed it for you.
LINCOLN
(genially).
It's fine, Nancy, thank you. (Goes back to table and half-smiles, dryly-humorous.) And the best thing about it is that there's enough of it! (To John.) Well, John, how are you?
JOHN
(drawling, wide-eyed, childlike).
Did you see any bears in the woods?
LINCOLN
(with a twinkle, solemnly imitating him).
No, I didn't see any bea-r-s in the woods; but I brought home some nuts for you! (Gives them.)
[Francois, under pantomimic urging from the group around the fire, has taken up his fiddle, tunes it, and from a mere ghost of an air breaks into a gay tune. Little John Henry takes the corn-popper, swaying it in time to the music, while the rest, with the exception of Lincoln, do a step or so of an old-fashioned reel. Lincoln watches them as he eats. John watches them also, to the detriment of the corn-popping.
NANCY
(pausing in dance, with little shriek of dismay).
Oh, mercy! The corn! I smell it burning!
ALL
(gathering about her, and thus hiding corn-popper from view of audience).
Is it burnt? No! Yes! No! Oh, it's saved. (Lincoln, who has risen, goes back to his supper.)
JOHN.
I didn't mean to!
NANCY
(relenting).
But when Francois plays the fiddle you can't think of anything else, eh?
AMY
(as they group themselves in fire-glow).
Sit over here, Nancy. Isn't the corn splendid?
LINCOLN
(from where he is sitting).
Any news, Tom? How's the wolf-hunting getting on? Anybody got one?
TOM.
I heard in the store to-night that Hugh Foster had killed one. It may be only a rumor. You're not fond of hunting, are you, Abe?
LINCOLN.
Oh, I try at it once in a while, Tom, but I'm not very keen. You boys get more out of it than I do.
TOM.
Remember the raccoon hunt we had last summer?
LINCOLN.
Yes, I remember. (Facing about.) To tell you the truth, Tom, I don't mind if things have to be killed outright; but I hate to see them in cages. I like to see 'em free.
TOM.
I know you do, Abe.
POLLY
(merrily).
Oh, Abe, before you came we were all guessing——
LINCOLN.
Guessing?
POLLY
(nodding).
What you were going to be. Tom said you'd be a lawyer. Amy said you'd be a great teacher, and I said you'd be a mender!
LINCOLN
(slowly).
A mender—! I never once thought of being a mender, Polly.
NANCY
(with a little cry).
Polly Prentice, look! Look what the time is! Ten minutes to eight! We'll be late for the corn-husking.
LINCOLN
(surprised).
Corn-husking?
POLLY
(dancing about).
Didn't you know there was to be one? Oh, I thought we'd surprise you! We're all going. You, too.
[Lincoln shakes his head.
POLLY
(pouting).
That means you think you have to study. Oh, Abe—!
NANCY
(aside).
Don't tease him, Polly. After we've called for Jason and Lucy we'll come back this way—gracious! Look how the minutes are flying! We must be starting. Where did I put my cloak? Oh, here it is! Hurry, Amy!
[They all dart out the door with every sign of haste, little John following as fast as his legs can carry him. Sounds of laughter from without, growing fainter.
LINCOLN
(to himself).
A corn-husking—!
[Shakes his head. Goes over and gets a book and stretches out in front of fire. A pause.
NOCTAH
(quietly entering).
How!
LINCOLN
(turning).
How!
[Noctah, with the quiet of an accustomed visitor, sits on bench by fire: pulls out a long pipe.
LINCOLN
(after a pause, looking up).
Supper?
NOCTAH.
No. Noctah only want to warm at fire. Like to watch Lincoln. Lincoln get wisdom out of books.
LINCOLN
(ruefully).
Not so much as I'd like to, Noctah. The books are so few that it's just learning by littles [Footnote: Lincoln's own words.]
NOCTAH.
Other people much talk. Lincoln heap silent: heap thinking. (Taps forehead.) Other people try to cheat Indian. Lincoln heap honest.
LINCOLN
(twinkling).
Oh, come now, Noctah. I guess we're all pretty honest hereabout.
[A pause, during which Lincoln stares at the fire, above his book.
NOCTAH.
Lincoln look at fire. See visions of future.
LINCOLN.
There won't be any future if I don't work for it!
[Studies again.
NOCTAH.
Umph!
[Smokes pipe: a silence.
LINCOLN
(after a moment or so, looking up).
Anything I can do for you, Noctah?
NOCTAH.
No. Noctah want nothing.
[Another short silence. Noctah smokes. Lincoln studies. Then Noctah moves towards door.
LINCOLN
(looking up).
Going, Noctah? You know you're welcome to stay if you want to. (Noctah continues impassively towards door.) Well, then, good-night.
NOCTAH.
Good-night.
[Exit Noctah.
[A moment later there comes the sound of Francois' fiddle, and the same gay group breaks into the room, augmented by Jason and Lucy Brown. They surround Lincoln, who has risen.
TOM.
Now, Abe, you know you like a husking better than anything else.
LINCOLN.
Better than most things, Tom; but not better than all.
[Looks toward his books.
JASON
(coaxing).
Come On, Abe, it's no fun without you.
LINCOLN
(decidedly).
Not to-night, Jason.
FRANCOIS.
You'll miss ze husking, Abe.
LINCOLN.
I know that, Francois; but then I'll gain—so much else! (Looks again towards his beloved books.) There's husking to do there, Francois.
NANCY.
You'll be sitting here all lonely, without any friends.
LINCOLN
(with one of his rare smiles).
Without any friends—! Why, Nancy!
[Glances towards his books for a third time.
POLLY
(with a sniff).
He means that he'd rather have Defoe and Bunyan and Aesop than us.
LINCOLN.
Now, Polly.
POLLY
(with conviction).
You would. You know you would.
JASON.
Then you're not coming?
LINCOLN.
No, boys, I'm not coming. I tell you, it's like splitting rails. Once you get tired or give up, your work gets the better of you. I mean to stick to what I've set out to do.
TOM
(regretfully).
Well, then, good-night, Abe.
LINCOLN
(with the utmost friendliness).
Good-night. Good-night. (With a general stir and in the midst of a chorus of leave-taking, he sees them to the door.) Watch your lantern, Amy. Good-night. Good-night, all.
[For a moment he stands and there comes to him the sound of laughter and retreating footsteps, and a gay lilt from Francois fiddle. As the sound grows fainter and fainter he crosses resolutely to the hearth, tosses on a cone or two, places the shovel where it will be within easy reach, and stretches himself on the floor before the fire.
From outside a sudden gust of wind brings clearly a last snatch of the air that Francois is playing in the distance. Lincoln raises his bead and listens, smiles whimsically to himself, and then opens his books.
LINCOLN.
And now for the husking!
[He lies full length, absorbedly studying in the fire-glow as the curtain falls.
COSTUMES
ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Blue flannel shirt. Faded black knee-breeches and much-worn coat. Tall boots which he wears for out-of-doors, and changes for old slippers.
POLLY. A brown woolen dress and scarlet cloak. Hair worn in quaint fashion with combs.
NANCY LINCOLN. Dark-scarlet woolen dress, and brown cloak. All the dresses of the girls are of the simplest. Their cloaks likewise.
AMY ROBY. Deep-blue woolen dress. Little white apron with pockets. Dark-blue cloak with hood.
LUCY BROWN. Dark-green woolen dress and cloak.
TOM BUSH. Dark-brown flannel shirt. Dark-blue knee-breeches.
JASON BROWN. Faded red flannel shirt. Dark-blue knee-breeches.
FRANCOIS DURAND. Tan-colored flannel shirt. Dark-brown knee-breeches. Crimson sash-belt.
NOCTAH. The usual Indian costume of buckskin. Fringed tunic. Long trousers. Moccasins, or imitation moccasins of khaki. (The suit should be of khaki also—the nearest imitation of buckskin.) He should wear a wig of long, coarse black hair. If this wig cannot be had, simulate it thus: make a tight-fitting skull-cap of black cheesecloth. Stitch it where the parting in the hair should come. Make two braids of plaited black cheesecloth, and fasten them to the skullcap so that they will fall over the ears. They should be bound with a few wisps of red and green. Noctah wears neither war-paint nor feathers, but his face and hands should be stained brown.
FOR INDOOR ARRANGEMENT OF THE PAGEANT OF PATRIOTS
While an outdoor stage is by far the best setting for a pageant there are times and seasons when such a setting is not obtainable, and the indoor pageant becomes advisable. And while no number of footlights can hope to give the actual radiance of sunlight and blue sky, the indoor pageant has several assets in its favor. It lends itself to such festivals as Lincoln's and Washington's birthdays, and its performers need have no fear of rain. Its dancers are sure of a level space. Its woodland scenes can be arranged to suit the occasion, and the enhancing effects of fire-glow, sunrise, or dimming twilight can be obtained as in no other way.
If a painted forest scene cannot be had, tree branches fastened to green screens placed right, left, and background can be made to do for the outdoor setting. The screens can be covered with forest-green burlap or cheesecloth. Real pine trees, in stands covered with green to imitate bank of moss, are very effective. For a log to be used as a seat, two vinegar barrels fastened together, covered with bark-brown burlap splashed with green paint for moss and white for lichen. Red electric light bulbs half hidden under fagots for the outdoor fire effect.
The procession at the end can cross the stage, or march through the assembly-room or hall in which the pageant is given. An armory or large gymnasium is an ideal place in which to give the indoor arrangement of the pageant if the stage of a small auditorium or theater is not procurable. Many of the directions for the producing of the outdoor pageant can be applied to the indoor one, and, therefore, those who direct the indoor arrangement of the pageant are referred to the outdoor arrangement. The directions for the final tableau, the march, and the costume of The Spirit of Patriotism will be found there. Throughout the pageant, its entire acts and marches, patriotic airs should be played as much as possible.
THE HAWTHORNE PAGEANT
1. CHORUS OF SPIRITS OF THE OLD MANSE
2. PROLOGUE BY THE MUSE OF HAWTHORNE
3. FIRST EPISODE (In Witchcraft Days)
4. DANCE INTERLUDE
5. SECOND EPISODE (Merrymount)
6. PROCESSION OF PLAYER FOLK
From the dim world of dreams
Fraught with shadows and gleams
We entreat you and beckon and call.
Heed and harken you well,
Lend your hearts to our spell,
Let the soul of the Past hold you thrall.
Radiant, mystical, free
Unseen spirits were we
As we guarded the Manse long ago;
Moving soft through each room
In the twilight's gray gloom
While the fire on the hearth flickered low.
Hope and joy—these we brought;
Peace and fair dreams we wrought
For the Manse whose bright hearth was our goal.
Oh, then harken you well!
Lend your hearts to our spell,
Let the tide of the years backward roll.
(Spoken by the Muse of Hawthorne)
Ye who have known the great Enchanter's art,
Whose magic fired your brain and stirred your heart,
Whose touch, more potent than King Midas' gold,
Wrought Tales of Tanglewood and Tales Twice Told,
Whose Marble Faun and Mosses from the Manse
Still hold the lasting colors of Romance;
Who built 'for you the Hall of Fantasy
Through whose bright portals you might pass and see
Hester and Miriam and Goodman Brown
And Pyncheron, who dwelt in Salem Town—
Malvin and Endicott and Ethan Brand,
John Inglefield and that old crone whose hand
Was lent to fashioning Scarecrows built of straw—
All these through the Enchanter's eyes you saw,
Strange folk who trod the bleak New England shores,
Tithingmen, Sachems, Witches, Sagamores,
Puritans, Soldiers, Scholars, Quaker maids,
Royalists splendid in their rich brocades!
To-day the past has opened wide her door,
Scenes long since gone return to us once more,
Touched with the alchemy of history's gold.
First, ancient Salem, as it was, behold
In the grim days when "Witchcraft!" was the cry,
When folk declared that they saw witches fly
On devil's broomsticks straight across the moon,
While the wind piped by night a witch's tune;
When, e'en by day, intrepid witch-wives spoke,
Then vanished upward through the chimney smoke!
The Witches' Wood—this our first scene will show,
And all that once transpired there long ago.
Our second scene will picture Merrymount
Where lived gay royalists who took no count
Of Puritanic manners, and who sang
And laughed till all the woods about them rang
With outlaw merriment. These you will see
Engaged in maypole dance and minstrelsy,
While Puritans with grave and somber mien
Condemn such light-foot revels on the green!
These have you known on Hawthorne's living page.
Now shall you see them pictured on our stage.
Grant us your patience: lend your ears as well.
The rest our pageant now will strive to tell.
CHARACTERS
GOODY GURTON
PHILIPPE BEAUCOEUR
VIGILANT WINTHROP
HOLDFAST BRADFORD
JOHN GILES
GOODWIFE PRUDENCE HUBBARD
MERCY HUBBARD
BARBARA WILLIAMS, her playmate
DORCAS WORDELL
ANNE BROWN
REPENTANCE FOLGER
ROGER BLACKTHORNE
FEAR-NOUGHT CALDWELL
RENOUNCE WILTON
TABITHA BRETT
FAWNFOOT, an Indian maiden
GOODWIFE ABIGAIL WILLIAMS
The scene is an open glade near Salem, 1692.
Trees right, left, and background. Flowers, Ferns. Berry-vines. Herbs. Tabitha Brett, a Puritan child, enters from left. She carries a quaint pewter bowl, and looking about her spies berries, whereupon she calls back over her shoulder to Renounce Wilton.
TABITHA
(calling).
Renounce! There are berries here! Yet not so many as Goodwife Prudence Hubbard bade us bring. Perhaps 'tis too near the edge of the town, and others have been before us.
RENOUNCE
(entering from left).
Others before us—Do you mean witches, Tabitha?
TABITHA.
Hush! Speak not that word! There are no witches flying in the daytime!
RENOUNCE
(wide-eyed).
But at night, Tabitha, who can tell how many witches may be abroad? Dost thou not know that this is ofttimes called the "Witches' Wood" and Holdfast Bradford says that on the stroke of midnight 'tis here that they foregather. Canst thou not picture them whirling over the tree-tops?
TABITHA (with a cry).
Be still, Renounce Wilton! Oh, what was that? (Clutches her.) A shadow? (With more composure.) If you do talk of witches we shall lose half the berries we have gathered, and Goodwife Hubbard will scold us roundly.
[Eats a few berries.
RENOUNCE.
You should not eat the berries, Tabitha.
TABITHA.
I know. But they are so sweet. As sweet as the barley sugar Goody Gurton gives us.
RENOUNCE.
I marvel that our mothers let us hunt for berries at all.
TABITHA
(childishly).
Aye, 'tis not often they are minded to let us stray to the edge of the forest. I think there is something stirring that we are not to hear, and that is why our fingers are kept busy. My mother and Goodwife Prudence Hubbard were deep in talk together; but when I passed they put their fingers on their lips.
RENOUNCE
(pretending to be vastly impressed).
Did they so!
TABITHA
(looking about her).
I wish I knew where some wild plums grew.
RENOUNCE
(as they continue to gather berries).
Philippe Beaucoeur could tell us, did he but wish to.
TABITHA.
Renounce Wilton! I am ashamed of thee! Thou dost not mean that thou hast held converse with Philippe Beaucoeur, who is half French and lives in the woods like an Indian.
RENOUNCE
(with spirit).
I will hold converse with whom I please, Tabitha Brett. French or no French, Philippe Beaucoeur is a brave lad, and there is naught about the wild things that he does not know. 'Twas because he lives in the forest and not in Salem Town as we do.
TABITHA
(in an awed voice).
Have you ever seen the place where Philippe lives? Barbara Williams says it a fearsome spot. The forests about it are all black and solemn, and the pines seem to whisper together, and there Philippe dwells in a hut he himself hath builded.
RENOUNCE (sagely).
They say he hath dwelt alone there ever since his father died. Think of it! In the forest! I should fear the Indians! But then, I am not like Betty Hubbard, who hath no fears at all. And as for Philippe Beaucoeur, there is naught that can make him tremble. He says that 'tis on account of his "ancestree." And then he laughs and makes a gesture: "Blue blood of France is never chilled by terror, Mistress."
TABITHA.
"Blue blood of France—!" Who ever heard the like? I never saw blue blood, nor didst thou! The color of blood is scarlet, as thou knowest right well. Prick thy finger and see!
DORCAS WORDELL
(off stage, left).
Tabitha Brett! Tabitha Brett! Where are you?
TABITHA
(calling in answer).
Here, Dorcas, here! Renounce Wilton and I are gathering berries.
DORCAS
(entering excitedly).
You'll gather no more berries when you've heard the news. Sure, there be stirring things afoot this day in Salem. What dost think? Barbara Williams hath been bewitched!
RENOUNCE.
Dorcas!
DORCAS
(importantly).
Aye, since yesternight she hath clean disappeared. The evening meal was set: she did not come. They have searched the woods, and the marshland, and the roadways. 'Tis plain she hath been spirited away, and Goodwife Abigail Williams is nigh out of her mind. But now that they've found the witch——
TABITHA
(eagerly).
Found her——
DORCAS
(triumphantly).
Aye, found her! And you'll never guess who 'tis! Hark! They're coming! She was hobbling this way as I passed, little dreaming that her evil deeds would find her out so soon! The half o' Salem must be at her heels. Look! Look!
GOODY GURTON'S VOICE
(from left, a cry of terror).
I am no witch. Good sirs, I am no witch. Mercy! Mercy!
RENOUNCE
(startled).
'Tis Goody Gurton's voice! Why, she is a poor old woman who hath never done harm to any.
CRIES
(off stage, left).
A witch! A witch! A-aaaaah! A witch!
[The crowd surges in from left, dragging in the midst of it poor old Goody Gurton. They separate and form a wide semicircle of which Holdfast Bradford and trembling Goody Gurton form the center. In the crowd are Goodwife Williams, Goodwife Hubbard, Mercy Hubbard, Goodwife Brown, Repentance Folger, Vigilant Winthrop, John Giles, Roger Blackthorne, and other people of Salem.
BRADFORD.
Silence, and look! Look, people of Salem! You know this spot right well. 'Tis here that witches are reported to hold their wicked revels. What better place have we in which to try a witch? Custom hath had it aforetime that we have tried them in the courthouse. Now let us try them on their own ground. 'Twill show that we fear neither them nor their master. Neither their black books, nor their caldron's brew. Stand forth, Goody Gurton, the accused. What have you to say? There is the woman whose child you have bewitched and stolen.
GOODY GURTON
(in a trembling, aged voice).
I stole no child. I have bewitched no one. I am a poor old woman, as you all know. I get my living by my needle, and my brews of herbs.
BRADFORD.
Stand forth, Abigail. Is it not true that half the town hath searched for Barbara Williams since yesterday at sundown, and not a trace of her hath been found?
GOODWIFE WILLIAMS
(wildly).
Aye, 'tis true! My child has gone from me! She is bewitched and stolen! Bewitched and stolen! Everywhere I looked and found no token: but at the door of Goody Gurton I found this!
[Holds up small white Puritan cap.
THE CROWD.
A-aaaaaah!
BRADFORD.
How came this cap to your door, Goody Gurton?
GOODY GURTON
(in a shaking voice).
The children often visit me for sweetmeats. I gave the child a little barley sugar. She may have dropped the cap. I do not know.
BRADFORD.
Where did she turn after she left your doorway?
GOODY GURTON.
I did not look which way she went. I do not know. Oh, worshipful sir——
BRADFORD. Silence! Who else accuses Goody Gurton?
GOODWIFE HUBBARD.
We've seen strange things about, have we not, neighbors?
ALL.
Aye! Aye!
GOODWIFE HUBBARD.
Last night the wind wailed in my chimney. And when I crossed the fields at twilight I had a feeling that something followed me.
MERCY HUBBARD
(piping up).
And Goodman Folger's cow hath died since yesternight. And Goody Gurton was seen going by the pasture.
VIGILANT WINTHROP.
Aye, there be many signs. Last night the moon rose red.
JOHN GILES.
And the week before there were more bats flying than I have ever seen in Salem.
GOODWIFE BROWN.
And Goodwife Eaton says that all night long in the woods behind her house there is something crying—she cannot tell whether it be an owl or a child.
REPENTANCE FOLGER.
Last eve, when the wind was blowing, something flapped past me like a witch's cloak.
BRADFORD.
What have you to say to these things, Goody Gurton?
GOODY GURTON
(quite simply).
Why, naught, sir, naught. I noted myself that last week the moon rose red, and that last night the wind blew shrewdly.
BRADFORD.
How comes it that you were leaving the streets of Salem, and walking here in the forest? 'Twas here in the forest we found you.
GOODY GURTON.
I came to hunt for some simples...for spearmint and checkerberry and tansy.
BRADFORD
(with deep sternness).
And for wolfbane and hellbore and all other hideous herbs that witches brew in their caldrons. You stand accused, Goody Gurton.
GOODY GURTON
(bewildered).
Accused?
BRADFORD.
Of witchcraft.
THE CROWD
(alternately surging close to her, and falling back).
A-aaah! To the pond with her! To the pond!
JOHN GILES.
If she sinks she is a witch, if she swims——
GOODY GURTON.
Have mercy——
GOODWIFE HUBBARD
(with a shiver).
The water in the pond is deep and cold.
WINTHROP.
Here come Caldwell and Blackthorne with a ducking-chair. (Blackthorne and Caldwell carry between them a rude chair fashioned hastily from wood on which the bark still clings.) Well and swiftly fashioned, Blackthorne!
GOODY GURTON.
Mercy! Mercy! Gentle sirs, neighbors, goodwives! I am no witch! I swear it. I had naught, naught to do with Barbara Williams.
BRADFORD.
A last chance, Goody. Call up your evil powers. Bring back the child, and it shall be the stocks; but not the pond. Call! Call!
GOODY GURTON.
I have no words. I cannot bring her back. Mercy! Mercy!
BRADFORD
(curtly).
To the pond!
GOODY GURTON
(in a tremulous shriek as Blackthorne and Caldwell begin to bind her in the ducking-chair).
Oh, no, no, no! I am no witch! I swear it! Will no one speak for me—will no one——
[Philippe Beaucoeur, who has approached from right but a moment before, and been partly hidden from view by those in front of him, now steps forward boldly. The knife in his red sash-belt glitters in the sun. His dark face is a-light with interest. His bearing is gallantly determined.
PHILIPPE BEAUCOEUR.
I will speak!
RENOUNCE.
It is Philippe!
PHILIPPE
(boldly).
Stand back, Master Bradford. Be not so swift with your ducking-chair, Goodman Caldwell. By what right have ye bound this poor old woman?
BRADFORD
(angrily).
By what right can a Jackanapes confront his elders?
PHILIPPE
(coolly).
By the right of free speech in a free country. By the right of seeing defenseless age that lacks a champion.
GOODY GURTON
(her voice sunk to a low moan).
Mercy! Mercy!
PHILIPPE
(gallantly alert, hand on knife).
You have said your say against her. Is there one who hath spoken a word for her?
BRADFORD
(blustering).
He has no right to confront us. He is not of Salem.
[Nevertheless, since Philippe is the only one armed, none step forward to seize him.
PHILIPPE
(with light scorn).
The worshipful Bradford speaks true. I dwell in a kinder place. The forest accuses neither man nor woman. Nay, do not frown at me, Holdfast Bradford. My hand is as well matched as yours.
JOHN GILES.
By all the signs she is a witch. The moon rose red, and the wind——
THE CROWD
(not to be cheated).
Aye! Aye!
PHILIPPE.
What if the moon rose red? What if the wind wailed in the chimney? Are ye children round the nursery fire that such things should be to you as signs? Ye have seen the same a thousand times before. Is this all ye can say against her? Is there naught ye can say for her—ye who have known her kindness? John Giles, who sat with thy brother when he had the fever? Goodwife Anne Brown, who helped thee keep watch the night thy father's ship was lost at sea? Tabitha Brett, who healed thy childish hurts, and drove away thy tears with sweetmeats? Thrice shame upon you all! The poor old woman!
GOODWIFE WILLIAMS
(wildly).
Let her give back my child! Here is the cap that I found on her door-sill.
PHILIPPE.
Let me look at the cap, Goodwife Williams. (Turns it inside out.) There is a name embroidered on the band. (Reads.) "Hester Wordell." Not thy child's cap at all.
[Hands it back.
GOODWIFE WILLIAMS.
'Tis more witchcraft!
PHILIPPE.
And is that witchcraft, too?
(A child's voice in the woods at right is heard singing:)
"In May I go a-walking to hear the linnets sing,
The blackbird and the throstle a-praising Queen and King:
It cheers the heart to hear them, to see the leaves unfold,
The meadows covered over with buttercups of gold."
GOODWIFE WILLIAMS.
'Tis Barbara's voice! 'Tis Barbara! (Enter Barbara, fleet as a shadow, from right, followed by Fawnfoot. Both take the unconsciously tripping steps that belong to the wild freedom of youth.) It is my child! Barbara! Where hast thou been since yesternight?
BARBARA.
With Fawnfoot yonder. She taught me to play games, and angle for fish, and——What be they staring at?
BRADFORD
(dryly).
Goodwife Williams, for children that rouse a village there is but one remedy.
GOODWIFE WILLIAMS
(humbly).
A physic?
BRADFORD
(almost roaring).
No! A slipper! See that it is administered. And light songs, such as we heard but now, are scarcely seemly on a young one's lips. She should learn graver measures.
[In groups of twos and threes the Puritans solemnly exeunt, left, Bradford marching ahead. Fawnfoot, with agile grace, disappears into background, dancing with her own shadow as she goes. Philippe and Goody Gurton are left alone. Philippe bends over the ducking-chair, and with his knife cuts the thongs which bind Goody Gurton, the while he talks, half-tenderly, half-gaily, for the first time allowing a hint of accent to creep into his speech.
PHILIPPE.
They do not even stop to unbind thee! It is a strange thing, this witchcraft, that so turns the head!
GOODY GURTON.
You do for me what others do not do—you whom I have scarcely seen before!
PHILIPPE.
A good deed sown is ofttimes a good deed reaped. So say they in la belle France, and my tongue loves the words. 'Twas long ago that you did a kindness for me when my father lay ill of a fever; but—I—I have not forgotten. (He cuts the final thong that binds her.) Whither now, Goody Gurton? Nay, it would seem that we have need of each other. For you—a shoulder to lean on: for me—often I am lonely. I think what it would mean in my hut in the forest to look up and see a grand'mere sitting there! We be two outcasts; but the woods are kind. There is a song about that oversea: it says—
(Sings)
Blue the sky above you,
Dans la foret;
True the hearts that love you,
Courageux et gai!
Come, Grand'mere, home!
[They exeunt right, he bearing himself with a proud erectness, she leaning upon his shoulder with the peaceful dependence of a soul whose problem is solved. The scene ends.
COSTUMES
The Puritan women and girls wear black dresses with white lawn kerchiefs and cuffs, and Puritan caps. One or two of the women wear black cloaks, falling to the edge of their gowns. The material of which these dresses and cloaks may be made is black cambric with the glazed side turned in. The kerchiefs and cuff of lawn or white cheesecloth.
For the men and lads full black knee-breeches, black doublets with the sleeves a little fulled; white cuffs and Puritan collars. Long black cloaks ankle-length. Beaver hats. Any well-illustrated edition of "Pilgrim's Progress" will give an excellent idea of these costumes. (See notes on Hawthorne Pageant, page 220.)
PHILIPPE BEAUCOEUR. Philippe Beaucoeur wears a tan-Colored costume cut on Indian lines (supposedly dressed deerskin) with a sash of scarlet, such as the French voyageurs were in the habit of wearing. A fur slung across his shoulders and caught at his girdle. The costume is fringed, Indian-like, but is not painted Of beaded. The breeches come to the knee. Tan stockings and moccasins. The costume made of cotton khaki.
FAWNFOOT. The typical Indian maiden costume. Cotton khaki, gorgeously painted at the neck. Bead chains and bracelets. Tan stockings. Moccasins. Hair worn in braids. Scarlet head-band across forehead. Black quill.
This play may be given by a cast of girls. (See notes on Hawthorne Pageant.)
Music. The song which Barbara Williams sings can be found in "Songs of the West," by S. Baring Gould. ("Folk Songs of Cornwall and Devon, collected from the Mouths of the People.")