Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays
Chapter 255 : [_A very bare room in a tenement house, uncarpeted, the boards being much worn, and fr

[_A very bare room in a tenement house, uncarpeted, the boards being much worn, and from the walls the bluish whitewash has scaled away; in the front on one side is a cooking-stove, and farther back on the same side a window; on the opposite side is a door opening into a hallway; in the middle of the room there is a round, worn dining-room table, on which stands a stunted, scraggly bit of an evergreen-tree; at the back of the room, near the window, stands an old-fas.h.i.+oned safe with perforated tin front; next it a door opening into an inner room, and next it in the corner a bed, on which lies a pallid woman; another woman, very old, sits in a rocking-chair in front of the stove and rocks.

There is silence for a long s.p.a.ce, the old woman rocking and the woman on the bed giving an occasional low sigh or groan. At last the old woman speaks._]

THE OLD WOMAN. David an' Michael might be kapin' the Christmas wid us to-morrow night if we hadn't left the ould counthry. They'd never be crossin' the sea--all the many weary miles o' wetness an'

fog an' cold to be kapin' it wid us here in this great house o'

brick walls in a place full o' strange souls. They would never be for crossin' all that weary, cold, green wather, groanin' an'

tossin' like it was the grave o' sivin thousan' divils. Ah, but it would be a black night at sea! [_She remains silent for a few minutes, staring at the stove and rocking slowly._] If they hadn't to cross that wet, cold sea they'd maybe come. But wouldn't they be afeard o' this great city, an' would they iver find us here?

Six floors up, an' they niver off the ground in their lives. What would ye be thinkin'? [_The other woman does not answer her. She then speaks petulantly._] What would ye be thinkin'? Mary, have ye gone clane to slape? [_Turns her chair and peers around the back of it at the pallid woman on the bed, who sighs and answers._]

THE WOMAN. No, I on'y wisht I could. Maybe they'll come--I don't know, but father an' Michael wasn't much for thravel. [_After a pause and very wearily._] Maybe they'll not come, yet [_slowly_], maybe I'll be kapin' the Christmas wid them there. [_The Old Woman seems not to notice this, wandering from her question back to her memories._]

THE OLD WOMAN. No, they'll niver be lavin' the ould land, the green land, the home land. I'm wis.h.i.+ng I was there wid thim. [_Another pause, while she stares at the stove._] Maybe we'd have a duck an' potatoes, an' maybe something to drink to kape us warm against the cold. An' the boys would all be dancin' an' the girls have rosy cheeks. [_There is another pause, and then a knock at the door. "Come in," the two women call, in reedy, weak voices, and a thin, slatternly Irish woman enters._]

THE NEIGHBOR. G.o.d avnin' to ye; I came in to ask if I might borrow the loan o' a bit o' tay, not havin' a leaf of it left.

THE WOMAN. We have a little left, just enough we was savin' for ourselves to-night, but you're welcome to it--maybe the girls will bring some. Will ye get it for her, mother? Or she can help herself--it's in the safe. It's on the lower shelf among the cups an' saucers an' plates.

[_The Old Woman and Neighbor go to the safe and hunt for the tea, and do not find it readily. The safe has little in it but a few cracked and broken dishes._]

THE NEIGHBOR [_holding up a tiny paper bag with an ounce perhaps of tea in it._] It's just a sc.r.a.p!

THE OLD WOMAN. To be sure! We use so much tay! We're that exthravagant!

THE NEIGHBOR. It hurts me to take it from ye--maybe I'd better not.

THE OLD WOMAN. The girls will bring more. We always have a cupboard full o' things. We're always able to lend to our neighbors.

THE NEIGHBOR. It's in great luck, ye are. For some of us be so poor we don't know where the next bite's comin' from. An' this winter whin iverything's so high an' wages not raised, a woman can't find enough to cook for her man's dinner. It isn't that ye don't see things--oh, they're in the markets an' the shops, an' it makes yer mouth wather as ye walk along the sthrates this day before the Christmas to see the turkeys an' the ducks ye'll niver ate, an' the little pigs an' the or'nges an' bananies an' cranberries an' the cakes an' nuts an'--it's worse, I'm thinkin', to see thim whin there's no money to buy than it was in the ould counthry, where there was nothing to buy wid the money ye didn't have.

THE WOMAN. It's all one to us poor folk whether there be things to buy or not. [_She speaks gaspingly, as one who is short of breath._] I'm on'y thinkin' o' the clane air at home--if I could have a mornin' o'

fresh suns.h.i.+ne--these fogs an' smoke choke me so. The girls would take me out to the counthry if they had time an' I'd get well. But they haven't time. [_She falls into a fit of coughing._]

THE OLD WOMAN. But it's like to be bright on Christmas Day. It wouldn't iver be cloudy on Christmas Day, an' maybe even now the stars would be c.r.a.pin' out an' the air all clear an' cold an' the moon a-s.h.i.+nin' an'

iverything so sthill an' quiet an' bleamin' an' breathless [_her voice falls almost to a whisper_], awaitin' on the Blessed Virgin. [_She goes to the window, lifts the blind, and peers out, then throws up the sash and leans far out. After a moment she pulls the sash down again and the blind and turns to those in the room with the look of pathetic disappointment in little things, of the aged._] No, there's not a sthar, not one little twinklin' sthar, an' how'll the shepherds find their way?

Iverything's dull an' black an' the clouds are hangin' down heavy an'

sthill. How'll the shepherds find their way without the sthar to guide thim? [_Then almost whimpering._] An' David an' Michael will niver be crossin' that wet, black sea! An' the girls--how'll they find their way home? They'll be lost somewhere along by the hedges. Ohone, ohone!

THE NEIGHBOR. Now, grannie, what would ye be sayin'? There's niver a hedge anywhere but granite blocks an' electric light poles an' plenty o'

light in the city for thim to see all their way home. [_Then to the woman._] Ain't they late?

THE WOMAN. They're always late, an' they kape gettin' lather an' lather.

THE NEIGHBOR. Yis, av coorse, the sth.o.r.es is all open in the avnin's before Christmas.

THE WOMAN. They go so early in the mornin' an' get home so late at night, an' they're so tired.

THE NEIGHBOR [_whiningly_]. They're lucky to be young enough to work an'

not be married. I've got to go home to the childer an' give thim their tay. Pat's gone to the saloon again, an' to-morrow bein' Christmas I mis...o...b.. he'll be terrible dhrunk again, an' me on'y jist well from the blow in the shoulder the last time. [_She wipes her eyes and moves towards the door._]

THE OLD WOMAN. Sthay an' kape Christmas wid us. We're goin' to have our celebratin' to-night on Christmas Eve, the way folks do here. I like it best on Christmas Day, the way 'tis in the ould counthry, but here 'tis Christmas Eve they kape. We're waitin' for the girls to come home to start things--they knowin' how--Mary an' me on'y know how to kape Christmas Day as 'tis at home. But the girls'll soon be here, an'

they'll have the three an' do the cookin' an' all, an' we'll kape up the jollity way into the night.

THE NEIGHBOR [_looks questioningly and surprised at the Woman, whose eyes are on the mother._] Nay, if Pat came home dhrunk an' didn't find me, he'd kill me. We have all to be movin' on to our own throubles.

[_She goes out, and the old woman leaves the Christmas-tree which she has been fingering and admiring, and sits down in the rocking-chair again. After a while she croons to herself in a high, broken voice. This lasts some time, when there is the noise of a slamming door and then of footsteps approaching._]

THE WOMAN. If I could on'y be in the counthry!

THE OLD WOMAN. Maybe that would be the girls! [_She starts tremblingly to her feet, but the steps come up to the door and go by._] If David and Michael was to come now an' go by--there bein' no sthar to guide thim!

THE WOMAN. Nay, mother, 'twas the shepherds that was guided by the sthar an' to the bed o' the Blessed Babe.

THE OLD WOMAN. Aye, so 'twas. What be I thinkin' of? The little Blessed Babe! [_She smiles and sits staring at the stove again for a little._]

But they could not find Him to-night. 'Tis so dark an' no sthars s.h.i.+nin.' [_After another pause._] An' what would shepherds do in a ghreat city? 'Twould be lost they'd be, quicker than in any bog. Think ye, Mary, that the boys would be hootin' thim an' the p'lice, maybe, would want to be aristin' thim for loitherin'. They'd niver find the Blessed Babe, an' they'd have to be movin' on. [_Another pause, and then there is the sound of approaching footsteps again. The Old Woman grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, intently listening._]--That would sure be the girls this time! [_But again the footsteps go by. The Old Woman sighs._] Ah, but 'tis weary waitin'! [_There is another long pause._] 'Twas on that day that David an' me was plighted--a brave Christmas Day wid a s.h.i.+nin' sun an' a sky o' blue wid fair, white clouds. An' David an' me met at the early ma.s.s in the dark o' the frosty mornin' afore the sun rose--an' there was all day good times an' a duck for dinner and puddin's an' a party at the O'Brady's in the evenin', whin David an' me danced. Ah, but he was a beautiful dancer, an' me, too--I was as light on my feet as a fairy. [_She begins to croon an old dance tune and hobbles to her feet, and, keeping time with her head, tries a grotesque and feeble sort of dancing. Her eyes brighten and she smiles proudly._] Aye, but I danced like a fairy, an' there was not another couple so sprightly an' handsome in all the country. [_She tires, and, looking pitiful and disappointed, hobbles back to her chair, and drops into it again._] Ah, but I be old now, and the strength fails me. [_She falls into silence for a few minutes._] 'Twas the day before the little man, the little white dove, my next Christmas that Michael was born--little son! [_There is a moment's pause, and then the pallid woman on the bed has a violent fit of coughing._]

THE WOMAN. Mother, could ye get me a cup o' wather? If the girls was here to get me a bite to ate, maybe it would kape the breath in me the night.

THE OLD WOMAN [_starts and stares at her daughter, as if she hardly comprehended the present reality. She gets up and goes over to the window under which there is a pail full of water. She dips some out in a tin cup and carries it to her bed._] Ye should thry to get up an' move about some, so ye can enjoy the Christmas threat. 'Tis bad bein' sick on Christmas. Thry, now, Mary, to sit up a bit. The girls'll be wantin' ye to be merry wid the rest av us.

THE WOMAN [_looking at her mother with a sad wistfulness_]. I wouldn't spoil things for the girls if I could help. Maybe, mother, if ye'd lift me a little I could sit up. [_The Old Woman tugs at her, and she herself tries hard to get into a sitting posture, but after some effort and panting for breath, she falls back again. After a pause for rest, she speaks gaspingly._] Maybe I'll feel sthronger lather whin the girls come home--they could help me--[_with the plaint of longing in her voice_]

they be so late! [_After another pause._] Maybe I'll be sthrong again in the mornin'--if I'd had a cup of coffee.--Maybe I could get up--an' walk about--an' do the cookin'. [_There is a knock at the door, and again they call, "Come in," in reedy, weak voices. There enters a little messenger boy in a ragged overcoat that reaches almost to his heels. His eyes are large and bright, his face pale and dirty, and he is fearfully tired and worn._]

THE WOMAN. Why, Tim, boy, come in. Sit ye down an' rest, ye're lookin'

weary.

THE OLD WOMAN. Come to the stove, Timmie, man, an' warm yourself. We always kape a warm room an' a bright fire for visitors.

THE BOY. I was awful cold an' hungry an' I come home to get somethin' to eat before. I started out on another trip, but my sisters ain't home from the store yit, an' the fire's gone out in the stove, an' the room's cold as outside. I thought maybe ye'd let me come in here an' git warm.

THE OLD WOMAN. Poor orphan! Poor lamb! To be shure ye shall get warm by our sthove.

THE BOY. The cars are so beastly col' an' so crowded a feller mostly has to stand on the back platform. [_The Old Woman takes him by the shoulder and pushes him toward the stove, but he resists._]

THE BOY. No, thank ye--I don't want to go so near yet; my feet's all numb an' they allays hurt so when they warms up fast.

THE OLD WOMAN. Thin sit ye down off from the sthove. [_Moves the rocking-chair farther away from the stove for him._]

THE BOY. If ye don't mind I'd rather stand on 'em 'til they gets a little used to it. They been numb off an' on mos' all day.

THE WOMAN. Soon as yer sisters come, Timmie, ye'd betther go to bed--'tis the best place to get warm.

THE BOY. I can't--I got most a three-hour trip yet. I won't get home any 'fore midnight if I don't get lost, and maybe I'll get lost--I did once out there. I've got to take a box o' 'Merican Beauty roses to a place eight mile out, an' the house ain't on the car track, but nearly a mile off, the boss said. I wisht they could wait till mornin', but the orders was they just got to get the roses to-night. You see, out there they don' have no gas goin' nights when there's a moon, an' there'd ought to be a moon to-night, on'y the clouds is so thick there ain't no light gets through.

THE OLD WOMAN. There's no sthar s.h.i.+nin' to-night, Tim. [_She shakes her head ominously. She goes to the window for the second time, opens it as before, and looks out. Shutting the window, she comes back and speaks slowly and sadly._] Niver a sthar. An' the shepherds will be havin' a hard time, Tim, like you, findin' their way.

THE BOY. Shepherds? In town? What shepherds?

THE WOMAN. She means the shepherds on Christmas Eve that wint to find the Blessed Babe, Jesus.

THE OLD WOMAN. 'Tis Christmas Eve, Timmie; ye haven't forgot that, have ye?