Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin

Shall I do your hair, Laura?’

      ‘No—thanks; Margery has such a capital knack at hair-dressing, and she doesn’t come on yet.’

      During this conversation Polly was struggling with Aunt Truth’s trained white wrapper. It was rather difficult to make it look like a court dress; but she looked as fresh and radiant as a rose in it, for the candle-light obliterated every freckle, and one could see nothing but a pair of dancing eyes, the pinkest of cheeks, and a head running over with curls of ruddy gold.

      ‘Now, Bell, criticise me!’ she cried, taking a position in the middle of the tent, and turning round like a wax figure. ‘I have torn out my hair by the roots to give it a “done up” look, and have I succeeded? and shall I wear any flowers with this lace surplice? and what on earth shall I do with my hands? they’re so black they will cast a gloom over the stage. Perhaps I can wrap my handkerchief carelessly round one, and I’ll keep the other round your waist, considerable, tucked under your Watteau pleat. Will I do?’

      ‘Do? I should think so!’ and Bell eyed her with manifest approval. ‘Your hair is very nice, and your neck looks lovely with that lace handkerchief. As for flowers, why don’t you wear a great mass of yellow and white daisies? You’ll be as gorgeous as—’

      ‘As a sunset by Turner,’ said Laura, with a glance at Polly’s auburn locks. ‘Seems to me this is a mutual admiration society, isn’t it?’ and she sank languidly into a chair to have her hair dressed.

      ‘Yes, it is,’ cried Polly, boldly; ‘and it’s going to “continner.” Meg, you’re a darling in that blue print and pretty hat. I’ll fill my fern-basket with flowers, and you can take it, as to have something in your hand to play with. You look nicer than any Phœbe I ever saw, that’s a fact. And now, hurrah! we’re all ready, and there’s the boys’ bell, so let us assemble out in the kitchen. Oh dear! I believe I’m frightened, in spite of every promise to the contrary.’

      When the young people saw each other for the first time in their stage costumes there was a good deal of merriment and some honest admiration. Geoff looked very odd without his eyeglasses and with the yellow wig that was the one property belonging to this star dramatic organisation.

      The girls had not succeeded in producing a great effect with the masculine costumes, because of insufficient material. But the boys had determined not to wear their ordinary clothes, no matter what happened; so Jack had donned one of Hop Yet’s blue blouses for his Sylvius dress, and had ready a plaid shawl to throw gracefully over one shoulder whenever he changed to the Banished Duke.

      His Sylvius attire was open to criticism, but no one could fail to admire his appearance as the Duke, on account of a magnificent ducal head-gear, from which soared a bunch of tall peacock feathers.

      ‘Oh, Jack, what a head-dress for a Duke!’ laughed Margery; ‘no wonder they banished you. Did you offend the court hatter?’

      Phil said that at all events nobody could mistake him for anything but a fool, in his ‘Touchstone’ costume, and so he was jest-er going to be contented.

      Scott Burton was arranging Pancho’s toilette for the wrestling-match, and meanwhile trying to raise his drooping spirits; and Rosalind was vainly endeavouring to make Adam’s beard of grey moss stay on.

      While these antics were going on behind the scenes, the audience was seated on the knoll, making merry over the written programmes, which had been a surprise of Geoff’s, and read as follows:—

      THE PRINCESS’ THEATRE.

       July 10th, 188–.

      * * *

      Appearance of the Greatest Dramatic Company on Earth (fact).

      The Coolest Theatre in the World.

      * * *

      A Royal Galaxy and Boyaxy of Artists in the play of AS YOU LIKE IT, By William Shakespeare, or Lord Bacon.

      * * *

      Cast.

      ‘Alas! unmindful of their doom, the little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come, or cares beyond to-day.’

      Rosalind— The Lady Bell-Pepper. (Her greatest creation.)

      Celia. The Countess Paulina.

      Phœbe. The Duchess of Sweet Marjoram.

      Audrey. A talented Incognita of the Court.

      Orlando. Hennery Irving Salvini Strong. (Late from the Blank Theatre, Oil City.)

      Adam. Dr. Paul Winship. (By kind permission of his manager, Mrs. T. W.)

      Lightning Change Artist:

      Banished Duke / Sylvius. Lord John Howard

      Touchstone / Jacque. Duke of Noble

      (N.B.—The Duke of Noble has played the ‘fool’ five million times.)

      Oliver. Mr. Scott Burton. (Specially engaged.)

      Charles the Wrestler. Pancho Muldoon Sullivan. (His first appearance.)

      The Comb Orchestra will play the Music of the Future.

      The Usher will pass pop-corn between the Acts. Beds may be ordered at 10.30.

      The scene between Adam and Orlando went off with good effect; and when Celia and Rosalind came through the trees in an affectionate attitude, and Celia’s blithe voice broke the stillness with, ‘I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, 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