The Country School: An Entertainment in Two Scenes

Title: The Country School: An Entertainment in Two Scenes

Author: Martha Russell Orne

Release date: September 13, 2018 [eBook #57893]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57893

Credits: Produced by Stewart A. Levin

The dress may be left largely to individual taste. Short pantaloons, jumpers, long-sleeved tires, caps, broad-brimmed straw hats, heavy cowhide boots, are suggested for the gentlemen; while short dresses, the historic pantalette, sun-bonnets, tires, aprons, etc., are proposed for the ladies. The latter should have their hair braided or hanging in long curls. All should be neatly dressed in “ye olden time” costumes, except one or two, who may represent the tatterdemalion fraternity. One of these may be the bright boy of the class, the other the dullard, who stumbles through his lessons, loses his place, has a passion for catching flies, throwing spit-balls, etc. One boy may have a penchant for drawing pictures on his slate or the blackboard, in which his teacher and mates play a prominent part as models. One girl a proneness for chewing gum, another for large pickles; another thinks herself smart, but generally manages to give wrong answers. A few names have been suggested in the dialogue, but they may be easily varied. Where a name is not necessary,

the author has used the word “Pupil,” so that the parts may be distributed according to the number of performers.

The by-play that goes on among the scholars who are not reciting must be of such a nature that it will not attract the attention of the teacher unless it is a part of the programme.

The motion song can be introduced elsewhere in the dialogue if advisable.

As a rule, pupils should raise hands (at the same time saying “Huh! huh!” or snapping thumb and finger), and obtain permission before speaking; but where the dialogue becomes spirited, this rule may be broken.

An indefinite number can take part in this entertainment.

BOY. Say, Seth, old Hickory’s coming! Got your hands all waxed, sonny? ’Cause you’ll have to ketch it hot and heavy this morning. Teacher’s awful mad about your stealing Squire Green’s apples.

SETH CRANE (who has book-bag, etc.). Don’t care. I ain’t going to school to-day, anyway. I’m going to play hookey.

BOY. Did your ma say you might?

SETH. Bet your life she didn’t. I’m not tied to my ma’s apron strings, Bubby; I’m no baby!

BOY. Here he comes! Run, Seth, or he’ll ketch you.

(SETH runs off. Teacher passes along saying “Good-morning” etc., to children.)

BOY. (still whittling, to group which comes up). Say, boys, Seth Crane’s going to play hookey. Let’s pay, him back for saying we stole Squire Green’s apples, will you, and tell his mother? She’s a daisy, though, ain’t she?

SECOND BOY. Agreed! But who’ll tell the old lady?

BOY. Let Daniel. He’s teacher’s pet anyway, and if he’s late, nothing’ll be said. Will you go, Dan?

DANIEL. Yes. The old lady’ll give me some of her nice doughnuts. (Smacking lips, he runs off. Boys pass off in other direction, crying, “Save some for us, Dan,” etc.)

The above merely serves to indicate the general nature of the dialogue that may be characteristically employed, the precise points to be made depending for their humorous value so entirely upon the identity of the actor in each case and their contradiction of his well-known character and dignity, that they must be left to the invention of the players. The dialogue, whatever its nature, should be accompanied by an incessant pantomimic action of characteristic boyish antics and practical jokes, made inexpressibly ludicrous by whiskers, bass voices, and other personal anachronisms.

At the close of this introductory part, and while the curtain is rising on the school scene, a large bell should be rung vigorously.

SCENE.—The interior of the little red schoolhouse of our grandfathers. Teacher’s desk at R., stove L., chair for committee man in front of stove, desks at back, leaving an open space in front for classes, etc. Blackboard and map at back. Blackboard down in R. corner, by teacher’s desk, facing house. Door at back, C. As pupils enter they courtesy to the teacher, and after hanging hats and bonnets on nails, take their seats. One pupil is granted the privilege of ringing the bell at the door, whereupon the rest enter. The school is them called to order and the roll is read. Each answers “here” or “present” to his name. When the name of “James Peters” is read there is no reply. At length one of the girls explains that he “had to stay to hum to mind the baby.” Another scholar reports that “the reason Molly Jenkins didn’t come was because she hadn’t no shoes.”

TEACHER. I see a few new scholars here. I will now take their names. What name do you call yourself, sir?

J. C. SMITH. I don’t call myself any names! But Nappy Jones does, and ef he ever does it again (doubling up his fists and threatening the same, who returns the compliment ), I’ll lick him, see ef I don’t! My name is Julius Caesar Smith, and don’t you forget it.

TEACHER. How old are you, Julius Caesar?

J. C. S. I’m five years old next Christmas.

TEACHER. That will do. The next scholar.

J. CALL. I’m Jule Call, and my brother’s name is Bill Call.

TEACHER. Your brother can speak for himself. It is very improper to say “Jule” and “Bill;” you should say Julius. Now, what is your name?

J. C. Julius Call, sir.

TEACHER. Next?

B. CALL. Bilious Call, sir.

TEACHER. What, sir!

B. C. Bilious Call. (In surprise.)

TEACHER. There is no such proper name as “Bilious.” Your name is probably William.

J. C. He’s my brother Bill anyway, and ef I’m Julius he’s Bilious, ain’t we?

TEACHER. Silence I want no impudence from any of my pupils. (JULIUS, silenced but not convinced, shakes his head and gesticulates to his friends, all of whom show him their sympathy with his views.) What is your name, my dear?

Z. S. Zenobia Snellings, may it please you, sir. (Makes low courtesy.)

TEACHER. Are you a native of this place?

Z. S. Yes, sir—part of the year.

TEACHER. Part of the year! What do you mean?

Z. S. Vacations I spend with Aunt Nancy at __________ . (Supply a neighboring town.)

(Interruption in the shape of DANIEL WEBSTER TOMKINS, who rushes in out of breath and trips over the threshold, upsetting lunch basket, revealing contents.)

D. W. T. Has bell rang?

TEACHER (severely pointing to the door). Try that again, Daniel.

D. W. T. I got enough of it that time. Let some other feller try it. (Rubbing knees and elbows.)

TEACHER. Sit down, sir.

D. W. T. Wait till I pick up some of these cold wittles round here.

TEACHER (resuming). Next, what shall I call you?

V. M. W. Venus Matildy Weeks. I’m her sister. (Pointing.)

TEACHER. Her name’s Snellings and yours Weeks; how’s that?

V. M. W. Well, we didn’t used to be any relation, but we married her mother—me and my father.

TEACHER. Oh, I see a second marriage. Who are you? (Silence.) I mean the boy with red hair. (Boys nudge and girls giggle.)

C. C. F. (rising slowly.) C-C-C-Christopher C-C-C-Colum-b-b-b-bus F-F-Fitts. I st-st-st-stutter! (Sitting.)

TEACHER. Ah! do you?

C. C. F. (rising slowly). Ye-ye-yes, sir! s-s-s-s-sometimes. (Sitting.)

TEACHER. Next!

B. F. S. (drawling). My father knows you. He used ter go to school with you. Says you and him played hookey one day and tumbled inter the mill-pond—and—he! he! ye both got a flogging!—My name’s Benjamin Franklin Squeers, like my father’s. (Scholars titter.)

TEACHER. That will do, Benjamin Franklin. Your father evidently had some one else in mind. The class may sing the multiplication table. (Class sing “Five times one are five,” etc., to the tune of Yankee Doodle.)

TEACHER. You may now all take your books and slates. The infant class may pass out on the floor. You may look at the words on the board and get ready to read them. (Class forms a semicircle in front of teacher’s desk or board. Teacher writes the following on board:)

1. Herod the tetrarch. 2. This is a worm; do not tread on it. 3. This is the heir; come, let us kill him.

FIRST BOY (reads slowly). He—rode—the—Don’t know that word.

TEACHER. Didn’t I tell you to study while I was writing?

BOY. Yes, sir. (Crying.)

TEACHER. Then go on.

BOY. Boo-hoo! I can’t read it.

TEACHER. Try it again immediately.

BOY. He (boo-hoo! ) rode—the—tater—cart! (Weeps profusely.)

TEACHER. Next scholar read it.

GIRL. Herod—the—the—the (is prompted by someone ) the tetrarch.

TEACHER. Very good. Next boy, the second sentence.

BOY. This—is—a—warm—This—is—a—warm—doughnut—tread on it.

TEACHER (presenting dunce cap). Put that on and stand in the corner. (Boy scuffs to corner, where he spends his time throwing spitballs and eating doughnuts, thrown him by pupils when the teacher is not looking.) Next read. (Boy steps up to ask teacher about an example.)

GIRL (prompted by one of the boys). Thith ith a wurrum. Be—careful—not—to—tread—on—it (again prompted ), or it will bite you.

TEACHER (to boy). You have multiplied wrong. Let me see: five times nine are forty-five, put down the five and carry the four, etc. (Class push and pull, but straighten into line when the teacher looks up). Next read.

BOY. This—is—the—hair—comb. Let—us—kill—him!

TEACHER. I am ashamed of you. Does c-o-m-e spell comb? (Sends boy with slate to his seat.) Hands up—those who can tell me what it does spell. Well, John?

JOHN. It spells come.

TEACHER. Right. You may read it.

JOHN. This—is—the—hair. Come—let—us—kill—him. Ow-oo-oo! (Dancing round.)

TEACHER. Well, John! What’s the matter?

JOHN. Somebody pulled my hair!

TEACHER (severely). Who pulled John’s hair?

PUPIL. I did; I couldn’t help it. (Hanging head.)

TEACHER. Couldn’t help pulling hair! That is a likely story. You may pass to the foot.

PUPIL. No, I couldn’t. I went to raise my hand and his hair was right in the way. (Scuffs to foot.)

TEACHER. I will try you on one more sentence, and if you cannot read that properly you must take your seats and study. (Writes: “Stephen says that the girls are knitting.” ) Next read.

PUPIL. Step-hen! (Hands of class go up.)

TEACHER. Wrong! Next! (Is interrupted by boy who wants a drink. Two boys are appointed to get a bucket of water and pass it to the others in tin cups.)

NEXT PUPIL. Stephen—says—that—the—girls—are—kissing. (Boys laugh.)

GIRL (indignantly). He didn’t read that right!

TEACHER. Very well. You may read it.

GIRL (still unmollified ). Stephen says that girls are kittens.

(Teacher sends class to seats in disgrace to study their lesson.)

BOY (in seat). Teacher, how many is five less one?

TEACHER. Think that out yourself. If there were five crows in Squire Green’s field and you should shoot one, how many would there be left?

BOY. Only one.

TEACHER. What? Think again.

BOY. The other four would fly off, wouldn’t they?

GIRL (raising hand ). How many scruples are there in a drachm?

TEACHER. Jonathan, tell Maria how many scruples there are in a drachm.

JONATHAN. Don’t know, only that ma said as how pa took his dram every morning without any scruples. I guess some drams don’t have no scruples.

TEACHER. Both of you refer to your tables.

GIRL (raising hand ). Teacher, why does an elephant have a trunk?

BOY (raising hand ). So’s’t he’d be an elephant, of course!

TEACHER. I will now hear the class in history. (They pass out to places, the boys trying to get a drink on the way.) The first scholar may tell me something about Christopher Columbus.

FIRST GIRL. Christopher was once a little boy like me—no, I mean he was a little girl like me—no, I don’t!—well, he went to school like me anyway. His mother’s name was Geneva.

BOY. Hoh! It wasn’t either. That was his father’s name.

ANOTHER GIRL. Teacher, wasn’t Geneva where he was born?

TEACHER. Yes, Mary, go on.

MARY. Somebody bought him a yacht or a steamer, I believe, and one Friday he sailed over here to America and asked us if we had been discovered yet, and we told him “No.” “All right,” he said, “you have.” So he took some of our Indians home with him to tell the king that they had been discovered, and we named the United States after him.

TEACHER. That is right in the main. One or two points I might take exceptions to. The next may take George Washington and tell us about him. (Is interrupted by a boy in seat who raises his hand and asks how many days there are in a year.) Who can tell Julius how many days in a year?

VENUS. Three hundred and sixty-five days and a fourth.

BOY. What d’ye mean by “a fourth”?

DANIEL. Fourth of July, of course!

TEACHER. We will hear the next scholar.

PUPIL. George was born in Washington, D.C., and was named for that city.

C. C. FITTS. W-w-what d-d-does d-d-d-D.C. m-mean?

PUPIL. Down South, don’t it, teacher?

TEACHER. Go on with your recitation. You ask too many questions.

PUPIL. His mother’s maiden name was Miss Hatchet—and his father’s maiden name was George.

TEACHER. Next, go on.

SECOND PUPIL. When Washington wasn’t fighting he lived on the top of Mount Vernon, and his tomb is in one side of the mountain.

TEACHER. What day is celebrated as his birthday?

ALL (eagerly). The Twenty-second of February!

TEACHER. Why should his birthday be celebrated any more than mine?

(Thoughtful silence.)

GIRL (raising hand triumphantly). Because he never told a lie!

TEACHER. You may take your seat until you can be more respectful to your elders.

SCHOLAR (at back of room, or near door). Say, teacher, there’s somebody knocking at the door. I guess it’s the committee!

TEACHER. Class, toe the line! Scholars, if any one of you gets out of order while the committee is here I’ll flog you! Do you understand?

CHORUS. Yes, sir!

TEACHER. Martha Washington Hibbs, you may open the door.

MRS. CRANE. I’ve brought him, Mr. Snodgrass! Neow, Seth Crane, you miserable little truant you, jest go and set deown in that ere seat and behave yourself as ef you hed some bringing-up, or you’ll get it when you get home—and you sha’n’t go out to play for a week. Do you hear?

SETH (boo-hooing). ’Tain’t my seat! It belongs to a gerrul! My seat’s over there.

MRS. CRANE. You go set deown, or I’ll put ye deown. (SETH sits.) Neow, Mr. Snodgrass, I jest want you tu make my son behave, and ef he don’t, I want yeou to flog him!—not enough to hurt him, for he’s a very delicate child, and I wouldn’t hev the dear boy hurt for nothing; but easy like, just enough to make him mind. (Wiping her eyes.) He is a most affectionate boy—Seth, dear, go right to studying (to SETH, who growls, “I won’t” )—and more easily led than driven. But he’s so nervous! I’m afraid he’ll never live to grow up. Whenever you see him whispering or playing in school, Mr. Snodgrass, you may be sure it’s all nervousness. He was a-goin’ to play truant to-day, because he thinks you don’t like him! What a be-u-tiful school you have—sech handsome-looking boys and girls.

TEACHER (offering chair). Yes, a very fine school for these parts. Won’t you be seated?

MRS. CRANE. Mercy sakes alive! no. My punkin pies’ll be burned to cinders, all on account o’ that vagabond a-settin’ there and grinnin’ (shaking a warning finger at him)—ef I don’t give you a walloping when you get hum!—Call reound, Mr. Snodgrass, and git some o’ eour new apple juice. Jeremiah’ll be glad tu hev ye. Good-mornin’.

TEACHER. I thank you, ma’am. I will with pleasure. Good-morning.

(Exit MRS. CRANE, with a card reading “BACK SHORTLY” pinned on her back by some mischievous scholar.)

BOY (in seat ). What does c-u-t-i-c-l-e mean?

TEACHER. What have you all over your hands and face?

BOY. Freckles.

TEACHER. Well, that is not what I was thinking of Christopher!

C. C. FITTS. I g-g-guess it’s d-d-dirt!

TEACHER. There’s a dictionary somewhere in the schoolhouse. You may hunt it up and look for that word. (The two boys, appearing tired and discouraged, start on their quest, looking in the most unlikely places, even on the nails where pupils’ garments are hung. The quest should be a quiet one, the fun lying in its utter hopelessness.)

BOY (in seat ). I don’t understand this question. (Reads.) A milkman spilled a pint of milk out of an eight-gallon can, how much milk was left?

SECOND BOY (in seat ). Hoh! that’s easy. There wasn’t none left.

TEACHER. Explain.

SECOND BOY. ’Cause the rest was water.

TEACHER (resuming). The next may tell me about some Bible character. Who was Esau?

PUPIL. Esau lived six hundred years before Christ. He wrote fables for a living, and sold the copyright of them for a bottle of potash.

GIRL (raising hand ). I thought it was Æsop that wrote fables.

BOY (raising hand ). And didn’t Esau sell his birthright, or was it copyright?

BOY (in seat, raising hand ). It says in my book that some of the stars are bigger’n the earth; ’tain’t true, is it?

TEACHER. Certainly. Why not?

BOY. ’Cause why don’t they keep the rain off, then?

C. C. FITTS. ’C-c-cause they’re round and the r-r-r-rain s-s-slides off onto us!

GIRL. What’s the capital of Turkey?

TEACHER. Can you answer that, John?

JOHN (who has been inattentive). It hasn’t any capital. Pa says it’s bankrupt.

BOY. If you multiply forty-two apples by six pounds of beef the answer’ll be mince pies, won’t it?

TEACHER (to scholars in seats). Class, can two concrete numbers be multiplied together?

CHORUS. No, sir!

BOY. I don’t see anything concrete about apples, or beef either.

GIRL. Does the Isthmus of Panama connect the north and south pole?

TEACHER. Look at your map and see.

GIRL. Does s-l-o-u-g-h spell slough?

TEACHER. Yes.

GIRL. Then c-o-u-g-h spells cow, doesn’t it?

TEACHER. No, that spells cough.

GIRL. B-o-u-g-h spells buff, then, and p-l-o-u-g-h, pluff?

TEACHER. No, bough and plough are the words you have spelled.

GIRL. Then does d-o-u-g-h spell dow, or duff, or doff?

TEACHER. It spells neither; your last word is dough.

GIRL. Is r-o-u-g-h row, or row, or roff? [o as in mow, o as in how]

TEACHER. None of them. It is rough.

GIRL (in despair). Well, how can you tell?

SCHOLAR (near door). Teacher, I just seen the committee, Squire Small, coming down the hill past Squire Green’s barn. (Laughing.) He tried to jump the wall and tumbled over it. I guess his rheumatiz caught him.

TEACHER (hastily). This class may take their seats. (Rap at door.) All who are out of their seats may return to them. Remember what I said about disorder. Heads erect. Remember your manners. Maria Sophrony, the door. (Enter COMMITTEE-MAN; all rise.)

CHORUS (drawling). Good-morning—Mr. Committee-man!

COM. Good-mornin’, boys and gals! Good-mornin’, Mr. Snodgrass. (Shakes hands.) Thought I’d jest drap in to examine ye, bein’ the deestrict committee, an’ see how the edification was gettin’ on. I spose ye hev ’ritin’ an’ riffentick an’ readin’ every day?

(A boy begins to draw a caricature of the visitor on black board at back.)

TEACHER. Oh, yes, yes, every day,—that is, we shall after we get fully started; but it’s rather early in the term to examine, isn’t it?

COM. No!—no!—an’ histery, an’ filoserpy, an’ quotations, an’ flirtations, an’ kerdrilles, an’ all them things.

TEACHER. Yes, yes; that is, most of them.

COM. (severely). Most on ’em, Mr. Snodgrass? Don’t ye hev ’em all?

TEACHER. Oh, yes! all you would approve of.

COM. Wal, s’pose ye call out a class and let me examine ’em. (Takes off coat and seats himself, placing his hat on floor.)

TEACHER. What will you have, geography or spelling?

COM. Wal, yeou jest hand me a spellin’-book an’ I’ll put ’em through a course o’ sprouts on that.

TEACHER. First class in spelling, rise and take places. (A general scramble for places.)

FIRST PUPIL. Teacher, I’m head. I got above him yesterday.

SECOND PUPIL. He didn’t. I spelled catalepsy first and got above him. (Trying to pass.)