  A Short Burlesque. BY HARRY MINER. CHARACTERS. Hannis Yorick. Scene.—Interior. Tables, L. Two chairs, C. Door at rear. [Enter Lena, R. 1. E. Lena. Vell, at last the day’s vork vos done, the mistress has gone oud for the evening, an’ I haf the room to mineself. But I don’t better believe dot I vill haf it long, for there vos a leetle Dutch boy—vouldn’t he pe mad if he heard me call himself boy—who vos apt to drop in mit purpose by accident, to see me evenings, und I haf an idea dot he vill pe here right avay gwick pretty soon. I vonder vat he pring me—he alvays prings me sometings nice—de last dime it vos seven yards of sourkraut done up mit blue paper an’ a hay rope. I feel shust as light hearted as a rooster hen, an’ I guess dot I vill sing a leetle. [Sings. Air.—Pretty as a Picture. My heart vos gone, I vos all forlorn, Such a pretty boy has von me, Such a nobby boy, De Deitcher’s joy—— Hannis. (Outside.) Lena. Lena. Vell, Hannis. Han. May I stay oud? Lena. Of course. Open de latch, spring de door, an’ coom in. [Enter Hannis. Han. Lena, you vos lookin’ as nice as a rosebud mit the catarrh. Lena. Oh, Hannis! Han. Dat vos drue. Vos dat you singing, Lena? Lena. It vos. Han. Vhy, I thought dat it was somebody shoveling coal. [Lena hits him a slap in the face. Hannis makes a wry face. Han. There, you hab cracked the spine of my jaw. Lena. Then vhy vill you dry to be funny? But come, sit down on yourself, Hannis. Han. What on—a moonpeam? Lena. On a chair, stupid. [Brings chair to front of stage and both take seats.] Vot vos it you brought me? Han. You like candy, Lena? Lena. You know dot I do. Han. Then what made you ask me? But it vosn’t candy. Candy vos unhealdy. So I hab brought you a dog. Lena. A dog! vot vill I do mit a dog? Han. Shoot him; you see he vos a nice dog; he vos the image of you. Lena. Oh, Hannis! Han. Und I thought dot mebbe you might wear him in your locket, or haf him stuffed into a pracelet or something like dot. Lena. You vos joking. Han. Shust you go und tell dot dog dot he vos a liar. You vill see vedder I vos joking. Lena. An’ is a dog all dat you haf bringed me? Han. No, Lena, I have brought you somedings else. Lena. Vell, vot? Han. I don’t vant to tell you. Lena. Why not? Han. You wud make fun of me, tell me dot I vos too fresh, und had petter go wash my mouth oud with salt. Lena. No I von’t. Han. Promise id. Lena. Yes. Han. Vell, dear, I vill gif mineself avay. Lena, you vos a nice leetle Yarman girl. Lena. Dot fact vos gray-headed. Han. Und, Lena, I lofe you. Lena. Oh, my, vasn’t you ashamed. Han. Yes, I vos plushing beneath my bosom protector. But for all dot I lofe you. Lena, nod—— [Enter Byron Smith L. 2 E. Stalks tragically forward. Halts and points finger at Hannis and Lena. Byron. Ha—ha! what is this that looms before my vision! ’Tis love’s young dream! ’Tis Cupid’s victory won. Two hearts with but a single thought, Two souls that beat as one! Han. Is this a lunatic asylum, Lena? Lena. Oh, no, dot vas only the poet dot board mit the mistress. How you vas dis evening, Mr. Smith? Byron. Fair maiden, I stoop to kiss your snow-white hand. Han. No, sir, not dis week. Dis vos my girl, I do all her kissing by gontract. Shust you mind your pisness and I’ll mind yours. Byron. My nut-brown sylph, tell me, I pray, who this uncouth barbarian is? Han. (Jumping up.) Hold my coat, Lena. Lena. Vot for? Han. He has insulted you. I vill preak his fist wit mine head. He called you a nut-brown maid. You vas a white Dutch girl. By Shumping Shadrach I will pull out his teeth with mine boot. Lena. Shust you sit on an ice-box, Hannis, he means no harm. Byron. You are right, my starry-eyed gazelle. Han. Vhy don’t you call her a plack-eyed camel, und be done wid id? Byron. Presumptuous meddler, I am a poet. Away with dross, with sordid gold, I would not be a miser old; But with my pen, my rapid pen, I’m sure I’ll charm the hearts of men! Han. Haf you been drinking vhisky, my friendt? Lena. Don’t make fun of him, Hannis; dot vos peyewtiful poetry. Han. I know von man dot would gif a thousand dollars to hear dot. Lena. You do? Han. Yes; he vos stone deaf in poth eyes. But I say, Mr. Poet. Byron. Say on, Lucullus. Han. My name vos Hannis, not Bluecollars. But as I vos saying—don’t you think, Mr. Poet, dot three vos company, two vos a crowd? Byron. What does the gifted bard of Avon say about that? Ah, now I remember! Two lovers alone in silent joy, A blue-eyed maiden, a black-haired boy; It might be better, it could be worse, Another person would be a curse. Han. Then vhy don’t you dake a tumbles and fly avay mit yourself? Byron. I do not understand you. Lena. Don’t mind him, Mr. Smith; I love your poetry. Byron. Thanks; shall I give you another specimen? Han. For heaven’s sake; hush! Lena. Please do, Mr. Smith. Byron. This is the seventeenth stanza of my lovely dirge, “Life.” There are three thousand and two more verses: Life is a mockery, Life is a cheat—— Han. (Interrupting.) Ven ve vos hungry, There’s nothing to eat! Byron. What mean you, sir, by basely changing my lines? Han. Pring an almanac und find oud. There vos a nice dog outside, Mr. Fresh. Byron. A dog—a dog—a little dog, A puppy small, but sharp, Watching in all of puppyish glee, His master’s Hebrew harp. Han. No, sir; he vosn’t vatching any harp. Just yer go oud und feel of his teeth to see how oldt he vos. Byron. I am happy here. Han. I vosn’t. Say, Mr. Poet, von day there vas a feller coom to see his gal. Byron. Come to ask her would she marry, Begged her to no longer tarry, Love had marked her for his quarry. Han. Dot vos id. Vell, there vos anudder veller. Byron. Ah, yes: A sneaking rival, hump-backed, old. With broad acres and heaps of gold. Han. I could schwear to it. The sucker that I vas delling about, looked as if he vosn’t rich enough to puy a pound of air. Vell, he kept coming in und boddering dem lovers all the dime. Byron. Base hell-hound. Han. Dat might haf peen his name. But vot vould you haf done to dot Canarsie cod-fish? Byron. I would have clutched him by the neck. And hauled him down—down—down! And when they asked me where he was, Like the tempest’s howlings I’d repeat, “Down—down in hell! ’Twas there I sent him!” Han. You vould do dot? Byron. Assuredly. Han. Mr. Gall, I vill take your vord at you! Lena. Spare him, Hannis. Han. Queen Elizabeth Tilton, interceding for the life of Owen Murphy. [Tableau. THE END. |
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