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Seeing the Elephant
Seeing the Elephant
SEEING THE ELEPHANT
CHARACTERS
Silas Somerby, a Farmer, occasionally addicted to the bottle.
Harry Holden, his right-hand Man.
Bias Black, a Teamster.
Pat Murphy, a Laborer.
Johnny Somerby, Silas’s Son.
Rachel Somerby, his Wife.
Sally Somerby, his Daughter.
COSTUMES
Silas, dark pants, short, thick boots, yellow vest, a towel pinned about his neck, gray wig, face lathered.
Harry, gray pants, blue shirt, black neckkerchief, dark coat.
Bias, thick boots, blue frock, woolly wig, black face, long whip.
Pat Murphy, in shirt sleeves, blue overalls, cap, wig.
Johnny, close-cut hair, pants of his father’s, rolled up at bottom, drawn up very high with suspenders, thin coat, short and open, very broad brimmed straw hat.
Rachel and Sally, neat calico dresses.
Scene. —Room in Somerby’s House. Old-fashioned sofa, R.; table, C., laid for breakfast. Harry seated R. of table, eating; rocking-chair, R. C. Sally seated, L., shelling peas or paring apples. Entrances, R., L., and C.
Sally. (Singing.)
“Roll on, silver moon,
Guide the traveller his way,
While the nightingale’s song is in tune;
For I never, never more
With my true love shall stray
By the sweet, silver light of the moon.”
Harry. Beautiful, beautiful! “There’s music in that air.” Now take a fresh roll, and keep me company while I take another of your mother’s delicious fresh rolls.
Sally. Making the sixth you have devoured before my eyes!
Harry. Exactly. What a tribute to her cooking! She’s the best bred woman in the country. Her pies are miracles of skill; her rolls are rolls of honor; her golden butter is so sweet, it makes me sweet upon her.
Sally. Well, I declare, Harry Holden, that’s poetry!
Harry. Is it? Then hereafter call me the poet of the breakfast table. My lay shall be seconded with a fresh egg.
Sally. Another? Land sakes! you think of nothing but eating.
Harry. Exactly, when I’m hungry. My hunger once appeased, I think of this good farm – the broad fields, mowing, haying, the well-fed cattle, and sometimes, when I am very hungry, I think of the time when I leaned over the fence, and gazed enchanted upon the pretty girl milking her cow – whose name was Sally.
Sally. Eh – the cow?
Harry. Now, Sally, don’t destroy the poetry of my language.
Sally. Don’t be ungrammatical, Harry; and do stop talking nonsense.