# Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3809/A Seaside Song Scena

A SEASIDE "SONG SCENA."
Yesterday I celebrated the beginning of my holidays by patronising The Melodities on the beach. The Melodities are a band of entertainers who draw enormous salaries for giving a couple of performances daily in a kind of luxurious open-air theatre.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," announced the Manager soon after I had taken my seat, "our first item will be a Scong Scena entited The Moon, by Bertie Weston, assisted by six members of the company." A quiver of expectation ran through the crowded audience.
Bertie Weston, wearing a uniform resembling (I imagine) that of a Patagonian Vice-Admiral, advanced mincingly to the footlights, and the six others, similarly attired, ranged themselves in a row behind him. Behind these again dropped a back-cloth representing a stone balustrade, blue hills and fleecy clouds.
There was a burst of warm applause, in response to which Bertie politely bowed his thanks. Without further preliminary he commenced—
The crescent moon on high Is shining in the sky.
Here the six turned up their faces and gazed pensively at the heavens (it was still broad daylight, by the way) at the same time resting their chins on ​their right hands and their right elbows on their left hands.
The sun is gone,
The stars are wan,
Oh come, my love, we'll wander, you and I.
Here the six ceased to regard the sky, split into pairs and by pantomimic gesture invited one another to wander.
Across the hills we'll go,
While birds sing soft and low,
The singer paused for an instant, while the six, now formed into a semi-circle, hummed together softly a suggestion of distant nightingales. Not an imitation—that would be too banal—but a suggestion. In point of fact I thoUght I detected the air of "The Little Grey Home in the West."
While the silver moon adorns the summer sky.
After a brief pause, brightened by what are vulgarly termed twiddly bits on the piano, the soloist sang the chorus softly and appealingly, with a sort of treacly intonation:—
Moon, moon, moon,
We'll come soon, soon,
Across the hills while all the world is dreaming.
Moon, moon, moon,
I'd like to swoon, swoon,
The heads of the six drooped listlessly and their hands fell languidly to their sides; their eyes closed.
When I see your white rays beaming, gleaming, streaming.
The six awoke briskly and commenced to glide around the stage, describing circles, figures of eight, and other more intricate patterns, while Bertie swayed his body rhythmically from side to side, his arms and hands outstretched and palms turned downwards. In this formation they all repeated the chorus together.
Bertie now cleared his throat and started on the second verse without delay. The six stood sideways, their hands in their trousers pockets and their faces turned to the audience.
Oh, moon of dainty grace,
Shine on my loved ones face.
The footlights were suddenly switched off and each of the six produced a small electric torch and illuminated his neighbour's features. The effect was startling. Presently the footlights re-appeared as abruptly as they had vanished and the torches were extinguished.
Upon the hill
The night is still.
Again there was a short pause, during which the six breathed lightly through their teeth, producing a faint and long-drawn sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh.
Oh come, my love, together let us haste.
The six ceased sh-sh-ing and grace-fully invited one another to haste.
Away, away. we'll roam
To seek our fairy home,
While the silver moon illuminates the place.
The six placed both hands on their breasts and stood with bowed heads, motionless except for a continuous and rhythmic bending of the knees, while Bertie sang the chorus softly, lingeringly. Then, stretching out their arms, they swayed their bodies from side to side as their leader had previously done, while Bertie himself drifted in and out between them, and all rendered the chorus for the second time.
Moon, moon, moon,
We'll come soon, soon,
Across the hills while all the world is dreaming.
Moon, moon, moon,
I want to swoon, swoon,
When I see your white rays beaming, gleaming, streaming.
There was a moment's emotional silence, broken by a thunder of rapturous applause. The Song Scena, all too short, was finished.
Anxious not to risk spoiling the impression, I arose and left hastily before the next turn.