was passing. Miss James, young ladies.

Miss James. So happy, I am sure. I was quite by meself, do you know, and Miss Sayres kindly spoke to me. Do you not find it rather lonely here?

Olive. Oh, not at all.

Victoria. It's simply perfect. We all know each other, and how could we be lonely?

Miss James. You all know each other? Just fancy! A party of girls travelling together. How very odd!

Olive. No, Miss James, we have made each other's acquaintance since we came here. But American girls get acquainted easily.

Miss James. Only fancy that, now! It is truly a democratic country. In England, you know, at the watering-places, I stay with mamma a whole season, and we never speak to strangers. Mamma is very particular.

Madge. Well, Miss James, to make you feel easier about us, we will give you references.

Miss James. I dare say you are all right. But in England it is so different, so much more established, you know. This is the land of the people.

Grace. Have you been to Chicago?

Miss James. No; but we are going there, of course.

Grace. Chicago is fine, when you get there; but it's dangerous travelling. Great herds of buffalo wander on the plains, and bands of Indians lie in ambush for the trains.

Miss James. Only fancy! How do the trains ever pass?

Grace. It all depends on your engineer. If he understands his business, he shoots at lightning speed through Indians and buffaloes. But you can't feel quite safe till you get there.

Miss James. I must tell mamma of this. I am sure she will not go.

Miss Sommerfield. We should go on with our preparations, girls. Has anybody a suggestion to make?

Helen. I have an idea. We have among the hotel guests a fine pianist. Perhaps he would play for us.

Grace. You mean that gloomy-looking man with such a name?

Olive. With a long mustache, and eyes with white in them?

Helen. Speak of him respectfully. He plays like an angel.

Victoria. What's his name?

Helen. Stradelerewsky.

Charlotte. Oh, horrors! Say it again slowly.

Helen. Strad-e- (think of the Stradivarius fiddle) le-rewsky (think of Paderewsky). Now, say it altogether.

All. Strad-e-le-rew-sky.

Charlotte. That name alone on the programme would be worth the price of admission.

Victoria. Well, who's going to bell the cat?

Miss James. Beg your pardon? What cat?

Grace. She means who is going to ask that scowling ever-with-a-cigar-in-his-mouth musician to play for us.

Miss James. I prefer not to. I have not been introduced, and mamma—

Grace. Will you, Miss Sommerfield?

Miss Sommerfield. Oh yes, I have been introduced.

Grace. Is he French?

Victoria. No; unmistakably Italian.

Helen. Or Polish, or Russian, or some sort of a Slav.

Miss Sommerfield. Russian, I think. He speaks English and French.

Ida. Did you talk French with him?

Miss Sommerfield. Yes.

Ida. I wish I could speak French. I can't even conjugate avoir.

Miss James. It is easy: j'ai, tu es, il—

Ida. Oh, please, Miss Sommerfield, go now, there's a dear, and speak English, so that you can report what he says.

Miss Sommerfield. All right. I go. There's no time like the present. [Exit.]

Grace. Madge, she's a darling.

Madge. I knew you would like her.

Charlotte. Girls, let's go on with our rehearsal. Has any one found a poem, or written one, for this occasion?

Olive. I have found a dainty thing on sea-weeds. Will you hear it?

Madge. Please, dear.

Olive (reads):

The violet gems the forest,
The daisy stars the field,
And every wayside bank and brook
Their fragrant treasures yield.
Oh, sweet the air of summer,
With thoughts of God in flowers!
For bloom and beauty hand in hand
Walk down the passing hours.

But naught, dear child, is fairer,
Nor lovelier tinting shows,
Than those fair things which cradled are
Where oft the storm-wind blows.
The sea-weed's hues are rarer
Than painter's art can trace;
And only fairy looms can weave
The sea-weed's floating lace.

Helen. Why, Olive, that's just sweet. Where did you find it?

Olive. In my mother's day-book. Mother writes a poem now and then, and locks it up in her drawer. She says it isn't good enough to publish.

Victoria. It is good enough. The magazines print a lot of things not so good as that.

Olive. Thank you.

Victoria. Girls, do you want anything funny? My brother Charlie dashed off some rollicking lines for me last night.

Charlotte. Oh yes. Let's have something funny.

Victoria. It's arrant nonsense.

Madge:

"A little nonsense now and then,"
Said good old Dr. Lee,
"Is relished by the best of men.
That's just the case with me."

The doctor was jumping a rope when he said that.

Victoria (reads):

ODE TO A CLAM.

Oh! clam at high-water,
Here's somebody's daughter
A sighing and crying your measure to take;
She cares for you only,
Poor bivalve so lonely,
Because you are good in a Yankee clambake.
Perhaps she'll shout louder
To see you in chowder.
Poor clam, for your sake
I've a dreadful heart-ache.

Charlotte. Capital. We wouldn't miss that for anything. Who else is ready?

Ida. I have a little poem about a shell. [Reads.]

What is the song you are singing forever,
Sad as the sound of a knell,
Deep as the tone of a bell,
Oh! sorrowful, murmuring shell,
Singing and singing forever?

Grace. Mine is about sweet charity. [Reads.]

Of all things touched with heavenly clarity,
There's nothing can compare with sweet, sweet charity!

Charlotte. Girls, we ought to have some singing. Do you know that old tune, "Home Again"? Why not sing that? It will please the older ones, and seem a compliment to them. It might do for the last thing on the programme.

Ida. That's beautiful.

Madge. Sing the tune, Charlotte, and let me catch the rhythm.

Home again, home again,
From a foreign shore;
And, oh! it fills my soul with joy
To see my friends once