SCENE. A handsomely furnished parlor; a bridal company assembled; bridegroom and bride and Judge Harvey, father of the bride. On a marble table are standing decanters and glasses of wine, which are being distributed to the guests. The bride should be beautifully attired in white, and the appearance of the whole company imposing.

GUESTS. Pledge with wine! Pledge with wine!

JUDGE HARVEY (in a low tone, advancing toward his daughter). Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for once; the company expect it. Do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette. In your own home act as you please; but in mine, for this once, please me.

Every eye turns toward the bride.

BRIDE (smilingly accepting a brimming beaker, and raising it to her lips; then, suddenly starting back, with a piercing voice, exclaims:). Oh, how terrible!

GUESTS (in alarm). What is it? What can it be?

BRIDE (holding the glass from her and regarding it with horror). Wait! Wait! I will tell you! I see (pointing her jeweled finger at the wine) a sight that beggars descriptionand yet listen, I will paint it for you if I can. It is a lonely spot,-tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow on the water's edge. There is a thick, warm mist, that the sun seeks vainly to pierce. Trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; but there a

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group of Indians is gathered-they flit to and fro, with something like sorrow on their dark brows. In their midst lies a manly form; but his cheek, how deathly! his eyes wild with the fire of fever! One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say, kneels, for see, he is pillowing that poor head upon his bosom. Genius in ruin! Oh, the high, holylooking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look, how he throws back the damp curls! See him clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shriek for life! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved! Oh, hear him call piteously his father's name! See him twine his fingers together as he calls for his sister, the twin of his soul, weeping for him in his distant land! (The bridal party shrink back, and the Judge sinks, overpowered, to his seat at her side, bowing his head.) See, his arms are lifted to heaven; he prays, how wildly, for mercy. Hot fever throbs in his veins. The friend beside him is weeping, awe-stricken, the dark men move silently away, and leave the living and dying together. (Smothered sob from some one. The bride stands upright, with quivering lip and tearful eyes. She draws the glass toward her, and, in a low but awfully distinct voice, goes on.) It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and its beams lie gently on his forehead. He moves not—his eyes are set in their sockets, dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friends whisper the name of father and sister. Death is here!-Death! and no soft hand, no gentle voice, to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back-one convulsive shudder-he is dead! (A groan runs through the assembly. The bridegroom covers his face and weeps.) Dead (in a more broken voice)! Dead! And there they scoop him a grave, and there, without a shroud, they lay him down on that damp, reeking earth. The only son of a proud father; the only idolized brother of a fond sister (the Judge groans bitterly), and he sleeps in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies, my father's son, my own twin-brother, a victim to this deadly poison. Father (turning suddenly to Judge H.), father, shall I drink it now?

JUDGE H. (in a smothered voice.) No, no, my child! in God's name, no!

The bride lifts the goblet and drops it to the floor. The guests transfer silently their glasses to the table, without tasting the wine. Looking at the fragments, she turns to the company, saying: BRIDE. Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer are the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he (turning to the bridegroom) to whom I have given my hand, who watched over my brother's dying form in the last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?

BRIDEGROOM. Yes, Marion, God helping me, I will !

NOTE.

[Tableau as curtain falls.

The above is dramatized from a reading in "One Hundred Choice Selections No. 2," entitled "PLEDGE WITH WINE.'

MAY COURT IN GREENWOOD.-LAURA U. CASE.

MAY QUEEN- White dress; crown, scepter and garland of flowers SYLVA White dress, with overdress of green tarletan, looped with light vines; wreath, and bouquets of green leaves.

LYRA-White dress; a silver bugle hangs at her side; she wears a silver coronet.

FLORA-White dress, trimmed with flowers; a wreath of flowers upon her head.

UNDINE-White dress, with a long veil of sea-green tissue, like a bridal-veil, dotted with white glass beads, like dew-drops. She wears a coronet of sea-shells.

SCENE. A forest; a rustic bower, or arbor, at the end of the stage; in the centre a moss-covered throne, in front of which stands Sylva and Lyra.

SYLVA. Go, Lyra, and from out thy bugle's throat

Send forth a call whose silvery tones shall float
Adown each leafy corridor, and tell

Thy sister nymphs, in grotto, cave and dell,
To haste to Greenwood bower.

When morning flung her roseate portals wide,
From 'neath the glittering arch was seen to ride
A courier, fleet, who to my wardens told,

The May Queen comes this day, in state, to hold
Her court in Greenwood bower.

Lyra goes out; a bugle blast is heard, first clear, then softly, as though dying in the distance. Sylva passes to the bower, arranging festoons and trailing vines from its arches.

While overhead, through lattice-work of green,
Through tasseled larch, and aspen's silvery sheen,
At hide-and-seek the merry sunbeams play,
With feathery ferns, green moss, and lichens gray,
I'll deck my Greenwood bower.

Enter Lyra, Undine, and Flora.

UNDINE. And has the May-day come?

FLORA.
I only know
That where the sweetest buds and blossoms grow
The Mayers came for flowers.

LYRA.

The Queen was seen
This very morn, upon the village green,

To lead the dance. The magpie, chattering dame,
Had brought the joyous news, and when I came
I heard the rarest strains of melody;

Each bird was warbling forth, from bush and tree,
The May Queen's praise.

UNDINE.

Adown the glen, last night,
I saw a nymph-like seraph take her flight;
The moonbeams lit her face, where roses red
Seemed washed, by tears, to lily's snow, instead;
And yet there hovered, still, the tender trace
Of smiles, about the youthful, artless face.
She ever backward looked, and wept anew,
And fast, and faster, down the woodland flew.
FLORA. "Twas April, sure!
LYRA.

Ah, yes, like petted child,
She ever laughed to cry, and, sobbing, smiled.
You pitied grief, her laughter rang instead ;
You sued for smiles, she, weeping, hung her head.
FLORA. The fickle-hearted thing! and yet how sweet
Her coming seemed!

LYRA.

Ha ha! the gay retreat
The old March made! He never turned, not he,
To see who his successor fair might be,

But fumed and stormed,

FLORA.

And 'neath his angry tread,
My brave-heart crocuses lay crushed and dead!
LYRA. He chilled my songsters till their trilling notes
Were well-nigh frozen music in their throats.
FLORA. He very lamb-like came a month before,
But lion-like he went, with blustering roar.
UNDINE. We all will hail with happy hearts the day
That brings us once again the merry May.

ALL. The merry, merry month of May!
SYLVA (coming forward).

I ween,

If truth ye speak, no fitter sight was seen

Than that each woodland nymph should haste to bring,
To grace the May Queen's court, an offering.

Go forth, and seek the choice, the rare, the sweet,
And lay your treasures at the May Queen's feet.

Lyra, Undine, and Flora go out. Singing is heard without
Enter Queen and the Mayers. Two little girls walk before the
Queen, scattering flowers in her path. The Mayers follow,
singing:

Chorus.

Tune, "Fair as the Morning."

Come to the woodland, Queen of the May,
Realm of the Twilight, sister of Day,
Haunt of the dryad, home of the fay,
Beautiful Greenwood bower!

Sweet and clear as chime of fairy bells,
Song and laughter floating through the dells
Rouses the cavern, where Echo dwells,
Echo, the elfin-king!

SYLVA (to Queen).

To Greenwood bower, on this thy festive day,
I bid thee welcome. Welcome, Queen of May!
QUEEN. Thanks, goddess, for thy courtesy. I ween
No loyal subject e'er saluted queen

In kindlier phrase.

SYLVA (leading Queen to throne).

And wilt thou seated be,

Upon the mossy throne I've reared for thee?

Enter Flora, with basket of flowers.

FLORA. While from the glad earth the flowers are springing, Greeting with fragrance this beautiful day,