• CHARACTERS

• Pierrot.
• Pierrette.
• The Manufacturer.

Evening. A room in an old cottage, with walls of dark oak, lit only by the moonlight that peers through the long, low casement-window at the back, and the glow from the fire that is burning merrily on the spectator's left. A cobbled street can be seen outside, and a door to the right of the window opens directly on to it. Opposite the fire is a kitchen dresser with cups and plates twinkling in the firelight. A high-backed oak settle, as though afraid of the cold moonlight, has turned its back on the window and warms its old timbers at the fire. In the middle of the room stands a table with a red cover; there are chairs on either side of it. On the hob, a kettle is keeping itself warm; whilst overhead, on the hood of the chimney-piece, a small lamp is turned very low.

A figure flits past the window and, with a click of the latch, Pierrette enters. She hangs up her cloak by the door, gives a little shiver and runs to warm herself for a moment. Then, having turned up the lamp, she places the kettle on the fire. Crossing the room, she takes a tablecloth from the dresser and proceeds to lay tea, setting out crockery for two. Once she goes to the window and, drawing aside the common red casement-curtains, looks out, but returns to her work, disappointed. She puts a spoonful of tea into the teapot, and another, and a third. Something outside attracts her attention; she listens, her face brightening. A voice is heard singing:

"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She is caught in a tangle of boughs;
And mellow and musical June
Is saying 'Good-night' to the cows."

[The voice draws nearer and a conical white hat goes past the window. Pierrot enters.]

Pierrot [throwing his hat to Pierrette]. Ugh! How cold it is. My feet are like ice.

Pierrette. Here are your slippers. I put them down to warm. [She kneels beside him, as he sits before the fire and commences to slip off his shoes.]

Pierrot [singing:]

"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She will put out her tongue and grimace;
And mellow and musical June
Is pinning the stars in their place."

Isn't tea ready yet?

Pierrette. Nearly. Only waiting for the kettle to boil.

Pierrot. How cold it was in the market-place to-day! I don't believe I sang at all well. I can't sing in the cold.

Pierrette. Ah, you're like the kettle. He can't sing when he's cold either. Hurry up, Mr. Kettle, if you please.

Pierrot. I wish it were in love with the sound of its own voice.

Pierrette. I believe it is. Now it's singing like a bird. We'll make the tea with the nightingale's tongue. [She pours the boiling water into the teapot.] Come along.

Pierrot [looking into the fire]. I wonder. She had beauty, she had form, but had she soul?

Pierrette [cutting bread and butter at the table]. Come and be cheerful, instead of grumbling there to the fire.

Pierrot. I was thinking.

Pierrette. Come and have tea. When you sit by the fire, thoughts only fly up the chimney.

Pierrot. The whole world's a chimney-piece. Give people a thing as worthless as paper, and it catches fire in them and makes a stir; but real thought, they let it go up with the smoke.

Pierrette. Cheer up, Pierrot. See how thick I've spread the butter.

Pierrot. You're always cheerful.

Pierrette. I try to be happy.

Pierrot. Ugh! [He has moved to the table. There is a short silence, during which Pierrot sips his tea moodily.]

Pierrette. Tea all right?

Pierrot. Middling.

Pierrette. Only middling! I'll pour you out some fresh.

Pierrot. Oh, it's all right! How you do worry a fellow!

Pierrette. Heigh-ho! Shall I chain up that big black dog?

Pierrot. I say, did you see that girl to-day?

Pierrette. Whereabouts?

Pierrot. Standing by the horse-trough. With a fine air, and a string of great beads.

Pierrette. I didn't see her.

Pierrot. I did, though. And she saw me. Watched me all the time I was singing, and clapped her hands like anything each time. I wonder if it is possible for a woman to have a soul as well as such beautiful coloring.

Pierrette. She was made up!

Pierrot. I'm sure she was not. And how do you know? You didn't see her.

Pierrette. Perhaps I did see her.

Pierrot. Now, look here, Pierrette, it's no good your being jealous. When you and I took on this show business, we arranged to be just partners and nothing more. If I see anyone I want to marry, I shall marry 'em. And if you see anyone who wants to marry you, you can marry 'em.

Pierrette. I'm not jealous! It's absurd!

Pierrot [singing abstractedly].

"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She has scratched her white chin on the gorse;
And mellow and musical June
Is bringing the cuckoo remorse."

Pierrette. Did you see that girl after the show?

Pierrot. No. She had slipped away in the crowd. Here, I've had enough tea. I shall go out and try to find her.

Pierrette. Why don't you stay in by the fire? You could help me to darn the socks.

Pierrot. Don't try to chaff me. Darning, indeed! I hope life has got something better in it than darning.

Pierrette. I doubt it. It's pretty much the same all the world over. First we wear holes in our socks, and then we mend them. The wise ones are those who make the best of it, and darn as well as they can.

Pierrot. I say, that gives me an idea for a song.

Pierrette. Out with it, then.

Pierrot. Well, I haven't exactly formed it yet. This is what flashed through my mind as you spoke: [He runs up on to the table, using it as a stage.]

"Life's a ball of worsted,
Unwind it if you can,
You who oft have boasted

[He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly, in order to gloss over the false accenting.]

That you are a man."

Of course that's only a rough idea.

Pierrette. Are you going to sing it at the show?

Pierrot [jumping down from the table]. You're always so lukewarm. A man of artistic ideas is as sensitively skinned as a baby.

Pierrette. Do stay in, Pierrot. It's so cold outside.

Pierrot. You want me to listen to you grumbling, I suppose.

Pierrette. Just now you said I was always cheerful.

Pierrot. There you are; girding at me again.

Pierrette. I'm sorry, Pierrot. But the market-place is dreadfully wet, and your shoes are awfully thin.

Pierrot. I tell you I will not stop in. I'm going out to find that girl. How do I know she isn't the very woman of my dreams?

Pierrette. Why are you always trying to picture an ideal woman?

Pierrot. Don't you ever picture an ideal man?

Pierrette. No, I try to be practical.

Pierrot. Women are so unimaginative! They are such pathetic, motherly things, and when they feel extra motherly they say, "I'm in love." All that is so sordid and petty. I want a woman I can set on a pedestal, and just look up at her and love her.

Pierrette [speaking very fervently].

"Pierrot, don't wait for the moon,
There's a heart chilling cold in her rays;
And mellow and musical June
Will only last thirty short days."

Pierrot. Oh, I should never make you understand! Well, I'm off. [As he goes out, he sings, sidelong, over his shoulder in a mocking tone, "Baby, don't wait for the moon." Pierrette listens for a moment to his voice dying away in the distance. Then she moves to the fire-place, and begins to stir the fire. As she kneels there, the words of an old recitation form on her lips. Half unconsciously she recites it again to an audience of laughing flames and glowing, thoughtful coals.]

[Overcome by tears, she hides her face in her hands. A slow, treble knock comes on the door; Pierrette looks up wonderingly. Again the knock sounds.]

Pierrette. Come in. [The door swings slowly open, as though of its own accord, and without, on the threshold, is seen The Manufacturer, standing full in the moonlight. He is a curious, though kindly-looking, old man, and yet, with all his years, he does not appear to be the least infirm. He is the sort of person that children take to instinctively. He wears a quaintly cut, bottle-green coat, with silver buttons and large side-pockets, which almost hide his knee-breeches. His shoes have large buckles and red heels. He is exceedingly unlike a prosperous manufacturer, and, but for the absence of a violin, would be mistaken for a village fiddler. Without a word he advances into the room, and, again of its own accord, the door closes noiselessly behind him.]

Pierrette [jumping up and moving towards him]. Oh, I'm so sorry. I ought to have opened the door when you knocked.

Manufacturer. That's all right. I'm used to opening doors. And yours opens much more easily than some I come across. Would you believe it, some people positively nail their doors up, and it's no good knocking. But there, you're wondering who I am.

Pierrette. I was wondering if you were hungry.

Manufacturer. Ah, a woman's instinct. But, thank you, no. I am a small eater; I might say a very small eater. A smile or a squeeze of the hand keeps me going admirably.

Pierrette. At least you'll sit down and make yourself at home.

Manufacturer [moving to the settle]. Well, I have a habit of making myself at home everywhere. In fact, most people think you can't make a home without me. May I put my feet on the fender? It's an old habit of mine. I always do it.

Pierrette. They say round here:

"Without feet on the fender
Love is but slender."

Manufacturer. Quite right. It is the whole secret of the domestic fireside. Pierrette, you have been crying.

Pierrette. I believe I have.

Manufacturer. Bless you, I know all about it. It's Pierrot. And so you're in love with him, and he doesn't care a little bit about you, eh? What a strange old world it is! And you cry your eyes out over him.

Pierrette. Oh, no, I don't often cry. But to-night he seemed more grumpy than usual, and I tried so hard to cheer him up.

Manufacturer. Grumpy, is he?

Pierrette. He doesn't mean it, though. It's the cold weather, and the show hasn't been paying so well lately. Pierrot wants to write an article about us for the local paper by way of an advertisement. He thinks the editor may print it if he gives him free passes for his family.

Manufacturer. Do you think Pierrot is worth your tears?

Pierrette. Oh, yes!

Manufacturer. You know, tears are not to be wasted. We only have a certain amount of them given to us just for keeping the heart moist. And when we've used them all up and haven't any more, the heart dries up, too.

Pierrette. Pierrot is a splendid fellow. You don't know him as well as I do. It's true he's always discontented, but it's only because he's not in love with anyone. You know, love does make a tremendous difference in a man.

Manufacturer. That's true enough. And has it made a difference in you?

Pierrette. Oh, yes! I put Pierrot's slippers down to warm, and I make tea for him, and all the time I'm happy because I'm doing something for him. If I weren't in love, I should find it a drudgery.

Manufacturer. Are you sure it's real love?

Pierrette. Why, yes!

Manufacturer. Every time you think of Pierrot, do you hear the patter of little bare feet? And every time he speaks, do you feel little chubby hands on your breast and face?

Pierrette [fervently]. Yes! Oh, yes! That's just it!

Manufacturer. You've got it right enough. But why is it that Pierrot can wake up all this poetry in you?

Pierrette. Because—oh, because he's just Pierrot.

Manufacturer. "Because he's just Pierrot." The same old reason.

Pierrette. Of course, he is a bit dreamy. But that's his soul. I am sure he could do great things if he tried. And have you noticed his smile? Isn't it lovely! Sometimes, when he's not looking, I want ever so much to try it on, just to see how I should look in it. [Pensively.] But I wish he'd smile at me a little more often, instead of at others.

Manufacturer. Ho! So he smiles at others, does he?

Pierrette. Hardly a day goes by but there's some fine lady at the show. There was one there to-day, a tall girl with red cheeks. He is gone to look for her now. And it is not their faults. The poor things can't help being in love with him. [Proudly.] I believe everyone is in love with Pierrot.

Manufacturer. But supposing one of these fine ladies were to marry him?

Pierrette. Oh, they'd never do that. A fine lady would never marry a poor singer. If Pierrot were to get married, I think I should just ... fade away.... Oh, but I don't know why I talk to you like this. I feel as if I had known you for a long, long time. [The Manufacturer rises from the settle and moves across to Pierrette, who is now folding up the white table-cloth.]

Manufacturer [very slowly]. Perhaps you have known me for a long, long time. [His tone is so kindly and impressive that Pierrette forgets the table-cloth and looks up at him. For a moment or two he smiles back at her as she gazes, spellbound; then he turns away to the fire again, with the little chuckle that is never far from his lips.]

Pierrette [taking a small bow from his side-pocket]. Oh, look at this.

Manufacturer [in mock alarm]. Oh, oh, I didn't mean you to see that. I'd forgotten it was sticking out of my pocket. I used to do a lot of archery at one time. I don't get much chance now. [He takes it and puts it back in his pocket.]

Pierrot [singing in the distance].

"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
She is drawing the sea in her net;
And mellow and musical June
Is teaching the rose to forget."

Manufacturer [in a whisper as the voice draws nearer]. Who is that?

Pierrette. Pierrot. [Again the conical white hat flashes past the window and Pierrot enters.]

Pierrot. I can't find her anywhere. [Seeing The Manufacturer.] Hullo! Who are you?

Manufacturer. I am a stranger to you, but Pierrette knew me in a moment.

Pierrot. An old flame perhaps?

Manufacturer. True, I am an old flame. I've lighted up the world for a considerable time. Yet when you say "old," there are many people who think I'm wonderfully well preserved for my age. How long do you think I've been trotting about?

Pierrot [testily, measuring a length with his hands]. Oh, about that long.

Manufacturer. I suppose being funny all day does get on your nerves.

Pierrette. Pierrot, you needn't be rude.

Manufacturer [anxious to be alone with Pierrot]. Pierrette, have you got supper in?

Pierrette. Oh, I must fly! The shops will all be shut. Will you be here when I come back?

Manufacturer [bustling her out]. I can't promise, but I'll try, I'll try. [Pierrette goes out. There is a silence, during which The Manufacturer regards Pierrot with amusement.]

Manufacturer. Well, friend Pierrot, so business is not very brisk.

Pierrot. Brisk! If laughter meant business, it would be brisk enough, but there's no money. However, I've done one good piece of work to-day. I've arranged with the editor to put an article in the paper. That will fetch 'em. [Singing]:

"Please come one day and see our house that's down among the trees,
But do not come at four o'clock for then we count the bees,
And bath the tadpoles and the frogs, who splash the clouds with gold,
And watch the new-cut cucumbers perspiring with the cold."

That's a song I'm writing.

Manufacturer. Pierrot, if you had all the money in the world you wouldn't be happy.

Pierrot. Wouldn't I? Give me all the money in the world and I'll risk it. To start with, I'd build schools to educate the people up to high-class things.

Manufacturer. You dream of fame and wealth and empty ideals, and you miss all the best things there are. You are discontented. Why? Because you don't know how to be happy.

Pierrot [reciting]:

"Life's a running brooklet,
Catch the fishes there,
You who wrote a booklet
On a woman's hair."

[Explaining.] That's another song I'm writing. It's the second verse. Things come to me all of a sudden like that. I must run out a third verse, just to wind it up.

Manufacturer. Why don't you write a song without any end, one that goes on for ever?

Pierrot. I say, that's rather silly, isn't it?

Manufacturer. It all depends. For a song of that sort the singer must be always happy.

Pierrot. That wants a bit of doing in my line.

Manufacturer. Shall you and I transact a little business?

Pierrot. By all means. What seats would you like? There are the front rows covered in velvet, one shilling; wooden benches behind, sixpence; and, right at the back, the twopenny part. But, of course, you'll have shilling ones. How many shall we say?

Manufacturer. You don't know who I am.

Pierrot. That makes no difference. All are welcome, and we thank you for your courteous attention.

Manufacturer. Pierrot, I am a maker of dreams.

Pierrot. A what?

Manufacturer. I make all the dreams that float about this musty world.

Pierrot. I say, you'd better have a rest for a bit. I expect you're a trifle done up.

Manufacturer. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't tumble to my calling. A child or one of the "people" would in a moment. I am a maker of dreams, little things that glide about into people's hearts and make them glad. Haven't you often wondered where the swallows go to in the autumn? They come to my workshop, and tell me who wants a dream, and what happened to the dreams they took with them in the spring.

Pierrot. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that.

Manufacturer. When flowers fade, have you never wondered where their colors go to, or what becomes of all the butterflies in the winter? There isn't much winter about my workshop.

Pierrot. I had never thought of it before.

Manufacturer. It's a kind of lost property office, where every beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its way. And there I make my celebrated dream, the dream that is called "love."

Pierrot. Ho! ho! Now we're talking.

Manufacturer. You don't believe in it?

Pierrot. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't last. If there is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is soul, there isn't form. Oh, I've tried hard enough to believe it, but, after the first wash, the colors run.

Manufacturer. You only got hold of a substitute. Wait until you see the genuine article.

Pierrot. But how is one to tell it?

Manufacturer. There are heaps of signs. As soon as you get the real thing, your shoulder-blades begin to tingle. That's love's wings sprouting. And, next, you want to soar up among the stars and sit on the roof of heaven and sing to the moon. Of course, that's because I put such a lot of the moon into my dreams. I break bits off until it's nearly all gone, and then I let it grow big again. It grows very quickly, as I dare say you've noticed. After a fortnight it is ready for use once more.

Pierrot. This is most awfully fascinating. And do the swallows bring all the dreams?

Manufacturer. Not always; I have other messengers. Every night when the big clock strikes twelve, a day slips down from the calendar, and runs away to my workshop in the Land of Long Ago. I give him a touch of scarlet and a gleam of gold, and say, "Go back, little Yesterday, and be a memory in the world." But my best dreams I keep for to-day. I buy babies, and fit them up with a dream, and then send them complete and carriage paid ... in the usual manner.

Pierrot. I've been dreaming all my life, but they've always been dreams I made myself. I suppose I don't mix 'em properly.

Manufacturer. You leave out the very essence of them. You must put in a little sorrow, just to take away the over-sweetness. I found that out very soon, so I took a little of the fresh dew that made pearls in the early morning, and I sprinkled my dreams with the gift of tears.

Pierrot [ecstatically]. The gift of tears! How beautiful! You know, I should rather like to try a real one. Not one of my own making.

Manufacturer. Well, there are plenty about, if you only look for them.

Pierrot. That is all very well, but who's going to look about for stray dreams?

Manufacturer. I once made a dream that would just suit you. I slipped it inside a baby. That was twenty years ago, and the baby is now a full-grown woman, with great blue eyes and fair hair.

Pierrot. It's a lot of use merely telling me about her.

Manufacturer. I'll do more. When I shipped her to the world, I kept the bill of lading. Here it is. You shall have it.

Pierrot. Thanks, but what's the good of it?

Manufacturer. Why, the holder of that is able to claim the goods; you will notice it contains a complete description, too. I promise you, you're in luck.

Pierrot. Has she red cheeks and a string of great beads?

Manufacturer. No.

Pierrot. Ah, then it is not she. Where shall I find her?

Manufacturer. That's for you to discover. All you have to do is to search.

Pierrot. I'll start at once. [He moves as if to go.]

Manufacturer. I shouldn't start out to-night.

Pierrot. But I want to find her soon. Somebody else may find her before me.

Manufacturer. Pierrot, there was once a man who wanted to gather mushrooms.

Pierrot [annoyed at the commonplace]. Mushrooms!

Manufacturer. Fearing people would be up before him, he started out overnight. Morning came, and he found none, so he returned disconsolate to his house. As he came through the garden, he found a great mushroom had grown up in the night by his very door-step. Take the advice of one who knows, and wait a bit.

Pierrot. If that's your advice.... But tell me this, do you think I shall find her?

Manufacturer. I can't say for certain. Would you consider yourself a fool?

Pierrot. Ah ... of course ... when you ask me a direct thing like that, you make it ... er ... rather awkward for me. But, if I may say so, as man to ma ... I mean as man to ... [he hesitates].

Manufacturer [waiving the point]. Yes, yes.

Pierrot. Well, I flatter myself that ...

Manufacturer. Exactly. And that's your principal danger. Whilst you are striding along gazing at the stars, you may be treading on a little glow-worm. Shall I give you a third verse for your song?

"Life's a woman calling,
Do not stop your ears,
Lest, when night is falling,
Darkness brings you tears."

[The Manufacturer's kindly and impressive tone holds Pierrot as it had held Pierrette some moments before. Whilst the two are looking at each other, a little red cloak dances past the window, and Pierrette enters with her marketing.]

Pierrette. Oh, I'm so glad you're still here.

Manufacturer. But I must be going now. I am a great traveler.

Pierrette [standing against the door, so that he cannot pass]. Oh, you mustn't go yet.

Manufacturer. Don't make me fly out of the window. I only do that under very unpleasant circumstances.

Pierrot [gaily, with mock eloquence]. Pierrette, regard our visitor. You little knew whom you were entertaining. You see before you the maker of the dreams that slip about the world like little fish among the rushes of a stream. He has given me the bill of lading of his great masterpiece, and it only remains for me to find her. [Dropping to the commonplace.] I wish I knew where to look.

Manufacturer. Before I go, I will give you this little rhyme:

"Let every woman keep a school,
For every man is born a fool."

[He bows, and goes out quickly and silently.]

Pierrette [running to the door, and looking out]. Why, how quickly he has gone! He's out of sight.

Pierrot. At last I am about to attain my great ideal. There will be a grand wedding, and I shall wear my white coat with the silver braid, and carry a tall gold-topped stick. [Singing:]

"If we play any longer, I fear you will get
Such a cold in the head, for the grass is so wet.
But during the night, Margareta divine,
I will hang the wet grass up to dry on the line."

Pierrette, I feel that I am about to enter into a man's inheritance, a woman's love.

Pierrette. I wish you every happiness.

Pierrot [singing teasingly:]

"We shall meet in our dreams, that's a thing understood;
You dream of the river, I'll dream of the wood.
I am visiting you, if the river it be;
If we meet in the wood, you are visiting me."

Pierrette. We must make lots of money, so that you can give her all she wants. I'll dance and dance until I fall, and the people will exclaim, "Why, she has danced herself to death."

Pierrot. You're right. We must pull the show together. I'll do that article for the paper at once. [He takes paper, ink, etc., from the dresser, and, seating himself at the table, commences to write.] "There has lately come to this town a company of strolling players, who give a show that is at once musical and droll. The audience is enthralled by Pierrot's magnificent singing and dancing, and ... er ... very much entertained by Pierrette's homely dancing. Pierrette is a charming comedienne of twenty, with ..." what color hair?

Pierrette. Fair, quite fair.

Pierrot. Funny how one can see a person every day and not know the color of their hair. "Fair hair and ..." eyes?

Pierrette. Blue, Pierrot.

Pierrot. "Fair hair and blue eyes." Fair! Blue! Oh, of course it's nonsense, though.

Pierrette. What's nonsense?

Pierrot. Something I was thinking. Most girls have fair hair and blue eyes.

Pierrette. Yes, Pierrot, we can't all be ideals.

Pierrot. How musical your voice sounds! I can't make it out. Oh, but, of course, it is all nonsense! [He takes the bill of lading from his pocket and reads it.]

Pierrette. What's nonsense?... Pierrot, won't you tell me?

Pierrot. Pierrette, stand in the light.

Pierrette. Is anything the matter?

Pierrot. I almost believe that nothing matters. [Reading and glancing at her.] "Eyes that say 'I love you'; arms that say 'I want you'; lips that say 'Why don't you?'" Pierrette, is it possible! I've never noticed before how beautiful you are. You don't seem a bit the same. I believe you have lost your real face, and have carved another out of a rose.

Pierrette. Oh, Pierrot, what is it?

Pierrot. Love! I've found it at last. Don't you understand it all?

"I am a fool
Who has learned wisdom in your school."

To think that I've seen you every day, and never dreamed ... dreamed! Yes, ah yes, it's one of his beautiful dreams. That is why my heart seems full of the early morning.

Pierrette. Ah, Pierrot!

Pierrot. Oh, how my shoulders tingle! I want to soar up, up. Don't you want to fly up to the roof of heaven and sing among the stars?

Pierrette. I have been sitting on the moon ever so long, waiting for my lover. Pierrot, let me try on your smile. Give it to me in a kiss. [With their hands outstretched behind them, they lean towards each other, till their lips meet in a long kiss.]

Pierrette [throwing back her head with a deep sigh of happiness.] Oh, I am so happy. This might be the end of all things.

Pierrot. Pierrette, let us sit by the fire and put our feet on the fender, and live happily ever after. [They have moved slowly to the settle. As they sit there, Pierrot sings softly:]

"Baby, don't wait for the moon,
The stairs of the sky are so steep;
And mellow and musical June
Is waiting to kiss you to sleep."

[The lamp on the hood of the chimney-piece has burned down, leaving only the red glow from the fire upon their faces, as the curtain whispers down to hide them.]

Percy MacKaye was born in New York, March 16, 1875, the son of Steele MacKaye, a well-known dramatist and theatrical inventor of his day. "My own early dramatic training," writes the son, "was in the theatre in relation with my father's work there as dramatist, actor, and director." In another place he says: "I have not sought to conceal, or to put aside, the grateful enthusiasm I feel, as a son and comrade of Steele MacKaye, for those examples of untiring devotion to the theatre and of constructive achievement in its art, by which his life has been an inspiration to my own, to follow—however haltingly and through different means—the trail of his large leadership." Percy MacKaye was graduated from Harvard in 1897 and later spent a year studying at the University of Leipzig. After travel abroad, he returned to New York in 1900 and taught there in a private school till 1904. He spent some time in the next five years lecturing on the Drama of Democracy and the Civic Theatre at various American universities. In 1904 he joined the colony of artists and men of letters at Cornish, New Hampshire, the home of Saint-Gaudens, Maxfield Parrish, Winston Churchill, and others. Since that date Percy MacKaye has devoted himself wholly to poetry and the drama, writing community masques, plays of various kinds, and operas.[32] It is interesting to note that one of the latest products of his pen, Washington, the Man Who Made Us, A Ballad Play, was translated into French and presented by M. Copeau's players, at the ThÉÂtre du Vieux Colombier, during their second season in New York, and later acted in English by Walter Hampden, the scene designs being made by Robert Edmond Jones. In October, 1920, he was invited to Miami University, Oxford, Ohio, not to teach but to continue his own creative work, quite untrammeled, filling there the first fellowship in creative literature ever established in this country.

Yankee Fantasies, a collection of five one-act plays of which Gettysburg is one, is the expression of Percy MacKaye's belief that the American dramatist may find "north of Boston," or, in fact, in almost any rural neighborhood, material for "quaint and lovely interpretation of our native environment now ignored." These plays, published in 1912, testified also to his conviction that the time had come for the development of the one-act play in this country, not only because this form is distinctive and capable of expressing what the full-length play cannot, but also because a receptive audience was already organized. He found even then that amateurs in schools, colleges, and elsewhere were clamoring to perform one-act plays, to see them performed, and to read them. At that date Little Theatres were just beginning to be, but in the preface to Yankee Fantasies, the author advocated the establishment of Studio Theatres, in essence experimental, many of which have since come into existence under different names, wherein playwrights might practice the new craft of the one-act play as in a workshop. The one-act play may be said to have arrived in the nine years that have elapsed since Gettysburg was published.

The one-act play has shown no tendency, however, to rival the short-story in the matter of local color. Kentucky, California, Iowa, Louisiana, to name but a few of the favored states which have served as rich backgrounds for many finely flavored narratives of American life, have been neglected as sources of dramatic material. But though Percy MacKaye may perhaps be matched with Mary Wilkins, there is no writer who has made notable use in the one-act play of localities, associated, for example, with the art of George W. Cable, Bret Harte, James Lane Allen, or Hamlin Garland. One of the paths of glory for the American dramatist lies undoubtedly in this direction.