  SCENE.—A large hall in Santa Claus’ Snow-palace. Throne-chair R. U. E.; table and chair L.; bell cord L.; as curtain rises Gussie is discovered at table L., writing in a large book. Enter, Snow-fairies, C., and come down to front. SONG OF SNOW-FAIRIES. To the tune of “My Boyhood’s Happy Home Down on the Farm.” We are fairies of the snow, And every where we go We make the hearts of children glad and gay; From their window seats so warm, They look out upon the storm And dream of future childish sports and play. Chorus. We fulfill a mission too, As every one should do; Who have a mission worthy of the name, From our home in Northern clime, Come we forth at Christmas time A quiet share in Christmas joys to claim. On earth’s cold and frozen face Each white snow-flake takes its place, All unite a cosy mantle thus to form, Universal mother keep, Covered during winter’s sleep ’Till spring-time’s sun shines forth again so warm. At close of song Gussie comes down to front, makes an extravagant bow to the Fairies. Gus. Well now, that’s clevah, deucedly clevah doncherno, but ladies, you distract my mind from the duties incident to my exalted office. I must really ask you to depaht. I must indeed. Fai. (Fairies stamp their feet indignantly and speak in chorus) Listen to that! The horrid man! Distract his mind indeed, bah! (to Gussie) You never had a mind. Gus. Beg pardon ladies, but it is twue, evewy word twue. This is Chwistmas Eve and in one hour fwom this time I must have the “World’s Directory of Deserving Didlets” weady for Santa Claus before he starts out upon his annual journey. Fai. (in chorus) Is that true? Why did you not say so before? Queen. (Fairies go to entrances R. and L., Queen goes to C. All turn and look at Gussie as Queen says) Gussie, we go, but we return; and when we do return we will sing—Comrades!! Gus. Well, I flatter myself, that was nicely done. Other fellows may have some trouble in managing the ladies, but it is no trouble at all, when you know how. Gussie old boy, you are clevah, deucedly clevah. Enter, Santa Claus, C. Santa. Well my good fellow, are all things prepared? Is the Directory ready for my journey to-night? Gus. (making profound bow) Yes, your majesty, it will be ready in fifteen minutes. Santa. By-the-way, Gus— Gus. (interrupting) Gussie, sir, Gussie. Santa. Well, Gussie, how are the children panning out this year? Are there as many as usual? Gus. More, your majesty, many more. Santa. More? Well, well! And the Smiths, I suppose there are a few Smiths left? Gus. Ah! your majesty, their name is Legion! Santa. Legion! Eh? Um, ah! yes, Legion. Well, it may rest us a little to have them change their name. What is it Shakespeare has to say on the subject of changing names? Smith—Smith—by any other name would—um—no! no! that is not exactly what I want. Gus. Oh! I say, your majesty, have you heard of the accident? Santa. Accident? Whose accident? Gus. The Jones’, sir. Santa. The Jones’? And what is the matter with the Jones’? Gus. (sorrowfully) Dead! Santa. What, dead? All dead? Gus. Oh no! your majesty, not all of them, but Johnny and his sister Sue— Santa. (starting towards Gussie angrily) Villain, I fain would smite thee! (stops suddenly and draws hand across forehead) No! no! what would I do? Destroy the last lingering specimen of an almost extinct race? I will spare thee, dude. Proceed with thy labors. (Santa walks up and down stage thoughtfully, while Gussie makes a great show of writing in his book. Santa stops to watch him as he writes all the way across one page and as far to one side as he can reach) What are you doing there? Gus. Your majesty, I am writing the name of the child of a Russian exile, but I fear you will have to carry a few K’s and Z’s loose in your pocket, for of a verity the book will not contain them all. (gong heard striking off L., Santa listens, Gussie starts) Great smoke, I am discovered! There goes that chestnut bell! Santa. It is the ninth hour; I must hasten. (to Gussie) Summon my household that I may bid them good-by. (Gussie pulls bell-rope, L., great noise of tin pans, cans, cat calls, etc., heard) There, there, that will do. We do not want to perform the miracle of raising the dead. Fairies rush in R., Holidays L., Mrs. Claus C., followed by Kitty Mrs. C. Wh-wh-where’s the fire! Omnes. Yes, where’s the fire. Santa. The fire? There is no fire my dears. Mrs. C. (seizing Santa’s sleeve and trying to lead him off L.) Then let us get out of this house at once, hubby, there is going to be an earth-quake! Didn’t you hear that noise? Gus. Oh! pshaw, that was only a fall in the temperature. Omnes. Is that so? Oh! I am so glad. Santa. Yes, but I don’t want you to be glad. It is very disrespectful in you, to say the least, to be glad at a time like this. Mrs. C. Why my dear hubby, what is the matter with the time? Santa. The matter is, my dear, that I am going to leave you presently. Omnes. Going to leave us? Kitty. Going to leave us? Why papa, you will be too early for the World’s Fair. Santa. I am not going to the World’s Fair, daughter. Have you forgotten that this is Christmas Eve, my regular night out? Mrs. C. Why, so it is; I had forgotten. To-night you go forth to distribute gum-drops, drums and dollies to the children of all Christendom. It is very kind of you my dear, I am sure, and I am sorry that you are compelled to tear yourself away, but you will return to-morrow? Santa. I am glad that you appreciate me, my dear. Let me advise you to keep a good thing while you have it. Kitty. Yes, papa is a good man; at least, I suppose he is a good man. Good is a relative term, and men are so scarce in this kingdom of the North Pole, that I cannot judge by comparison. Santa. Daughter, I am an exceptional creature in every way. Thank the Fates that you have never been permitted to meet a less worthy specimen of the race than your papa. Gus. (Gussie giggles) Speaking of men, how about me? Omnes. Oh! you don’t count; you’re a dude. Kitty. Papa, are men as scarce in the land of mortals as they are here? Santa. No, my child, no indeed; there are not enough to go around to be sure; and under the present system, old maids seem to be a compulsory blessing; still they are numerous, quite so. Kitty. (rapturously) Oh! papa, let’s move! Mrs. C. Why, what is the matter with the child? (goes over to Kitty) My dear you must be ill: come, take a milk-shake and go to bed. Gus. (aside) Milk-shake! I believe I am feeling a kind of goneness too. Santa. No! no, there is nothing the matter with the child, only a little natural curiosity, that is all; but Kitty you would better remain content to know no man but your papa; he is an exceptional creature, I assure you. Omnes. Yes, your papa is a model man. Santa Claus sings A MODEL MAN. It is, my friends, quite difficulty to find a fault in me, I have in some queer way escaped total depravity. Though in unbroken line I trace descent from mother Eve, There is no sin in my make-up; I’m perfect, I believe. Chorus. He is a perfect paragon, old Santa Claus. He never swears above his breath—unless he has a cause; Enumerate his virtues I think we hardly can, But taken all in all he is a perfect Model Man. Our brightest plans in this vain world are apt to go amiss, But keep your temper; don’t destroy your hopes of future bliss; Don’t scold your wife, don’t kick your dog, let me your model be; I scold my wife? Not for my life! She’d surely wallop me. Another thing:—Avoid conceit; quit blowing your own horn, But be like me, as modest as the blush of early morn, And when we’ve reached the end of life, with pride we look back Upon the wide swath we have cut, a broad and shining track. Gus. Well now that’s clevah, deucedly clevah, by Jove. Methinks I’ll warble a little myself. Omnes. Oh! spare us, spare us! Gus. Just as you please ladies, but it is your misfortune that you do not appreciate good music. Kitty. Papa, that is a very pretty custom of yours, of every year giving presents to the children of mortals; so pretty indeed, that I wonder you have not tried it at home, that you have never given your daughter a Christmas present. Santa. My dear child, it would be useless; the wealth of my kingdom is at your command; your every wish is gratified. What more could I give you than you already have? Kitty. But surely, surely, there is something in the land of mortals which I have not. Could you not bring me a gift from there? Santa. I had not thought of that. Yes, ask what e’er thou wilt, be it in my power to do so I will grant it. Kitty. You have given your word. Santa. Yes, and my word is worth twenty piastries on the dollar. Kitty. Then papa, bring me—bring me—a man! Mrs. C. What is the child saying? Omnes. She says she wants a man! Santa. (aside) Caught out on a foul! How am I to get out of this predicament? I have given my word and I would rather break a dollar bill than break my word. (thinks) Ah, I have it! I will bring her a man, but oh, such a man! I will bring her a boodler, a fee-grabber, a Farmer’s Alliance advocate, ha! ha! ha! She will be disgusted with the whole race and I will save my honor and my child. (turns to Kitty.) Daughter, you shall have your man. During this speech all indulge in business of surprise at Kitty’s rash request. Kitty. Papa, you are a gem! Santa. A gem, daughter? You mean a jewel do you not? Gus. No she means tin-types; three for a quarter, doncherno. (sleigh-bells heard off R., Gussie in horror) Great smoke! There goes that chestnut bell again. Santa. Ah! my sleigh and my fleet-footed reindeers are ready. I must away. Enter, Footman and Coachman, C., and stand one on each side of entrance. Footman. Your majesty, we are ready. Santa. And so am I. My friends you well might envy me my ride to-night, with the pale moon shining overhead and the white snow gleaming beneath the feet of my fleet-footed reindeers. And the bells, what melody their little metal tongues peal forth upon the frosty air. Surely it is a subject worthy the pen of a poet; the description of a sleigh-ride on a night like this. Santa Claus sings SLEIGHING SONG. To the tune of “The Village Blacksmith.” Cling, cling, cling, cling; hark, the merry jingle; Cling, cling, cling, cling; swift it’s drawing nigh; How it makes my nerves with joy to tingle, What’s the reason why? Ancient and hoary though I be, My beard a cloud of gray, There is no other sport to me Like riding in a sleigh. Chorus. Ancient and hoary though he be His beard a cloud of gray, He says “There is no other sport to me Like riding in a sleigh.” Cling, cling, cling, cling: ring ye merry sleigh-bells, Cling, cling, cling, cling; on the frosty air. What tales of joy each little metal tongue tells, Joy without a care. Swift as swallows in their flight My eight fleet reindeers go, With stars above to furnish light Reflected by the snow. Repeat chorus softly as Santa Claus exits C., followed by Footman and Coachman, the rest gazing after him. CURTAIN. END OF ACT I. |
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