be merry,’ there was a hearty burst of applause which almost frightened them into silence.
At the end of the first act everybody was delighted; the stage-manager, carpenter, scene-shifter, costumier, and all the stars were called successively before the curtain.
Hop Yet declared it was ‘all the same good as China theatre’; and every one agreed to that criticism without a dissenting voice.
To be sure, there was an utter absence of stage-management, and all the ‘traditions’ were remarkable for their absence; but I fancy that the spirits of Siddons and Kemble, Macready and Garrick, looked down with kind approval upon these earnest young actors as they recited the matchless old words, moving to and fro in the quaint setting of trees and moonlight, with an orchestra of cooing doves and murmuring zephyrs.
The forest scenes were intended to be the features of the evening, and in these the young people fairly surpassed themselves. Any one who had seen Neilson in her doublet and hose of silver-grey, Modjeska in her shades of blue, and Ada Cavendish in her lovely suit of green, might have thought Bell’s patched-up dress a sorry mixture; yet these three brilliant stars in the theatrical firmament might have envied this little Rosalind the dewy youth and freshness that so triumphed over all deficiencies of costume.
Margery’s camping-dress of grey, shortened to the knee, served for its basis. Round the skirt and belt and sleeves were broad bands of laurel-leaf trimming. She wore a pair of Margery’s long grey stockings and Laura’s dainty bronze Newport ties. A soft grey chudda shawl of Aunt Truth’s was folded into a mantle to swing from the shoulder, its fringes being caught up out of sight, and a laurel-leaf trimming added. On her bright wavy hair was perched a cunning flat cap of leaves, and, as she entered with Polly, leaning on her manzanita staff, and sighing, ‘Oh Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!’ one could not wish a lovelier stage picture.
And so the play went on, with varying fortunes. Margery was frightened to death, and persisted in taking Touchstone’s speeches right out of his mouth, much to his discomfiture. Adam’s beard refused to stay on; so did the moustache of the Banished Duke, and the clothes of Sylvius. But nothing could damp the dramatic fire of the players, nor destroy the enthusiasm of the sympathetic audience.
Dicky sat in the dress-circle, wrapped in blankets, and laughed himself nearly into convulsions over Touchstone’s jokes, and the stage business of the Banished Duke; for it is unnecessary to state that Jack was not strictly Shakespearean in his treatment of the part.
As for Polly, she enjoyed being Celia with all her might, and declared her intention of going immediately on the ‘regular’ stage; but Jack somewhat destroyed her hopes by affirming that her nose and hair wouldn’t be just the thing on the metropolitan boards, although they might pass muster in a backwoods theatre.
‘Hello! What’s this?’ exclaimed Philip, one morning. ‘A visitor? Yes—no! Why, it’s Señor Don Manuel Felipe Hilario Noriega coming up the cañon! He’s got a loaded team, too! I wonder if Uncle Doc is expecting anything.’
The swarthy gentleman with the long name emerged from one cloud of dust and disappeared in another, until he neared the gate where Philip and Polly were standing.
Philip opened the gate, and received a bow of thanks which would have made Manuel’s reputation at a Spanish court.
‘Going up to camp?’
‘Si, señor.’
‘Those things for us?’
‘Si, señor.’
‘What are they?’
‘Si, señor.’
‘Exactly! Well, are there any letters?’
‘Si, señor.’ Whereupon he drew one from his gorgeously-decorated leather belt.
Philip reached for it, and Polly leaned over his shoulder, devoured with curiosity.
‘It’s for Aunt Truth,’ she said; ‘and—yes, I am sure it is Mrs. Howard’s writing; and if it is—’
Hereupon, as Manuel spoke no English, and neither Philip nor Polly could make inquiries in Spanish, Polly darted to the cart in her usual meteoric style, put one foot on the hub of a wheel and climbed to the top like a squirrel, snatched off a corner of the canvas cover, and cried triumphantly, ‘I knew it! Elsie is coming! Here’s a tent, and some mattresses and pillows. Hurry! Help me down, quick! Oh, slow-coach! Keep out of the way and I’ll jump! Give me the letter. I can run faster than you can.’ And before the vestige of an idea had penetrated Philip’s head, nothing could be seen of Polly but a pair of twinkling heels and the gleam of a curly head that caught every ray of the sun and turned it into ruddier gold.
It was a dusty, rocky path, and up-hill at that; but Polly, who was nothing if not ardent, never slackened her pace, but dashed along until she came in sight of the camp, where she expended her last breath in one shrill shriek for Aunt Truth.
It was responded to promptly. Indeed, it was the sort of shriek that always commands instantaneous attention; and Aunt Truth came out of her tent prepared to receive tragic news. Bell followed; and the entire family would have done the same had they been in camp.
Polly thrust the letter into Mrs. Winship’s hand, and sank down exhausted, exclaiming, breathlessly, ‘There’s a mattress—and a tent—coming up the cañon. It’s Elsie’s, I know. Philip is down at the gate—with the cart—but I came ahead. Phew! but it’s warm!’
‘What!’ cried Bell, joyfully. ‘Elsie at the gate! It can’t be true!’ And she darted like an arrow through the trees.
‘Come back! come back!’ screamed Polly.
‘Elsie is not at the gate. Don S. D. M. F. H. N. is there with a team loaded down with things. Isn’t it from Mrs. Howard, Aunt Truth?’
‘Yes, it is. Written this morning from Tacitas Rancho. Why, how is this? Let me see!’
Tacitas Rancho, Monday morning.
Dear Truth,—You will be surprised to receive a letter from me, written from Tacitas. But here we are, Elsie and I; and, what is better, we are on our way to you.
(‘I knew it!’ exclaimed the girls.)
Elsie has been growing steadily better for three weeks. The fever seems to have disappeared entirely, and the troublesome cough is so much lessened that she sleeps all night without waking. The doctor says that the camp-life will be the very best thing for her now, and will probably complete her recovery.
(‘Oh, joy, joy!’ cried the girls.)
I need not say how gladly we followed this special prescription of our kind doctor’s, nor add that we started at once.
(‘Oh, Aunt Truth, there is nobody within a mile of the camp; can’t I, please can’t I turn one little hand-spring, just one little lady-like one?’ pleaded Polly, dancing on one foot and chewing her sun-bonnet string.
‘No, dear, you can’t! Keep quiet and let me read.’)
Elsie
