living models. I read your advertisement of “Bachelors’ Paradise;” came down, engaged a room, fitted it up, and looked around for models. But, alas! it was indeed a “bachelors’ paradise!” Not a female figure within three miles! Of course I was obliged to put up with the stock on hand; and with a soldier, a sailor, a tinker, and a tailor, as the only models to be obtained, I have been obliged to draw upon fancy to an alarming extent; and now it seems I am to be deprived of them by my meddling, inquisitive, good old daddy.

Clap. It’s too bad, Mr. Horace. I wish I could help you out of the scrape.

Hor. I wish you could. But as you can’t, suppose you go and hunt up my models, and let me get to work.

Clap. Certainly, sir; I’ll send them in at once.

[Exit, R.

(Horace takes off his coat and puts on breakfast jacket and smoking-cap, then goes off, L., and returns with an easel, which he sets up, L., then goes off, L., and brings in canvas, brushes, and palette; arranges the canvas on easel to face L., places chair L.)

Clap. (Outside, R., while Horace is arranging his picture.) Hallo, down there, Tinpan!

Timothy. (Outside, as if down stairs.) Faith, now, what’s wanting, sure?

Clap. You’re wanted here.

Tim. All right. Be aisy, honey, till I mind the nose uv this tay-kittle.

Clap. Hallo, Picket!

Picket. (As if up stairs.) Yaw, mine fren.

Clap. You’re wanted in the studio.

Pic. Yaw, dat ish goot. I’ll come right avay pefore soon.

Clap. Hallo, Oakum!

Oakum. (Up stairs.) Hallo, yerself!

Clap. Come down for a pose.

Oak. Ay, ay, Clapboard; in a jiffy.

Clap. Hallo, Loopstitch!

Loopstitch. (In the distance.) Oui, oui, monsieur.

Clap. You’re wanted for a posish.

Loop. Vat you mean by dat, eh? Vot you call posish? I no comprehend.

Clap. Well, come and find out.

Hor. The models are aroused. Now for a season of inspiration!

Enter Picket, R., with a musket.

Pic. Ah, Meester Horace, how you vas? Berty mooch?

Hor. Ah, Picket, you’re right on hand.

Pic. Yaw, yaw; I ish coomed right along, by donder, mit mine gun upon mine pack.

Hor. Like a true hero, and with the martial spirit inspiring your bosom—hey?

Pic. Yaw, I shpose vat you mean, but I don’t know.

Enter Oakum, R.

Oak. Hallo! Heow are yeou anyheow? Goin’ at the picter ag’in?

Hor. Yes; I believe I can make my brush fly this afternoon.

Oak. Wal, yeou painter chaps dew beat all creation; that’s a fact. I s’pose yeou know what yeou’re abaout; but darn me if I can see into it. What’s the use er wastin’ yer time a flingin’ away paint on that air diminutive quiltin’-frame. Would do more good ef yeou’d give old Clapboard’s house a coat; it wants it bad enough!

Enter Loopstitch, R.

Loop. Sacre! vat for you want—hey? I have break off mine thread right in de meedle of ze pantaloons.