Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1882-10-20
"THE NEIGHBORS BAIRN." ."
a sketch by Henry Irving, the Famous
EnrIiah AcInr.


English Actor.
At the present time while the progress of
realism is making an epoch in stage manage
ment q little special attention may not mop
portunely be givento the humanitari an branch
of the stage realism-th of food. The old
days of pasteboard pie and wooden chickens
are gone from good theatres-let us hope for
ever. The real veal and ham Ter" in the in
teresting production of Dot at the Folly
was quite a success and brought the dinner
hour instincts of all present to the aid of his
trionic effect / was much struck not long
since by the thoughtful consideration mani
tested by a charming young lady in a success
full opera boufTe, who took care that the vast
amount of real bread which she had cut so
gracefully, was ultimately distributed to that
portion Of the French army in the rear who
seemed to have been hitherto inadequately
supplied with rations, and to whom the night
ly addition to their present emolumont may
have been Of some little service.
When year ago we produced at the Ly
ceum, as a first piece, the old Scotch drama OF
"Cramond Brig" the various members of the
company playing in the piece had full choice
of wherewithal to wash down their "heed and
harrigles," (of which, by the way, over hun
dred were consumed during the run and the
miller's supper became nightly jollity, ex-
cept, perhaps, to the Scotch nobility and the
kings huutsmen, who, with watery mouths
aud eager eyes. crowded the wings, forbidden
by the irony of the dramatic fate TO enter up
on the scene until the supper had been clear
ed away.
This piece reminded me of an incident
which came under my notice a good many
years ago. In the off season Of large pro
vincial theatre in which l was stock actor,
l took an engagement at small town, then
known us one of the most thriving seaports
of the North. The salary was little, the parts
were long, aud there was not much oppor-
tuuity for gaining renown. However, it was
better than remaining idle, as, at the worst,
the amount Of debt TO bo accumulated was
minimized. The manager was not q bad fel-
low, and having been good actor in his time,
was only too glad to be surrounded by a class
of actors whose services he could only obtain
by the opportunity afforded by the bright
summer-in those palmy days the darkest
and wntriest season to the airy comedian or
the thoroughly legitimate iragedian. Our
opening bill consisted of "Cramond Brig"
Lord Darnley," Wallace, the Hero OF Scot
land. and "Gilderoy, the Bonnie Boy" in
all Of which l played, besides contributing
my share in the national anthem, which was
right Loyalty and loudly sung by the entire
strength of the company. After the rehearsal
Of "Cramond Brig" our jolly manager said
NON, 10Y ~ ! NllhlA Nlhlu "a ltAl supper w.
night; no pasteboard and parsley, but real
sleeps head and little drop of real Scotch. "
A tumult of applause.
The manager was rs good as his word, for
at night there was real head, well equipped
with turnps aud carrots, and the drop Of
real Scotch The "neighbor's BARN" an
important character in the scene, came in and
took her scat AS usual beside the millers chair.
She was a pretty, sad eyed intelligent child
of some nine years old. In the course Of the
meal when Jack Howison was freely passing
the whiskey, she leaned over to him aud said,
PLEASE, will you give me a little = He look
ed surprised. she was so earnest in her re-
| quest that l whispered to her, ITO morrow,
perhaps, if you want it very much, you shall
| have a thimbleful"
Tomorrow night came, and, to my amu-e-
ment she produced from the pocket of her
little plaid dress n bright piece of brass and
| held it out to me.
II said, "What's this p
"A thimble, sir"
But what am to do with it ?"
"You said that you would give me a thin
bleful of whiskey if wanted it, and l do
| want it,"
This was said so naturally that the audience
laughed and applauded. looked over to the
miller and found him with the butt-end Of
| his knife and fork on the table, and his eyes
wide open, gazing at us in astonishment
| However, we were both experienced enough
to pass of this unrehearsed effect as part of
the piece. l filed the thimbe, and the child
| took it back carefully to her little 'creepy"
stool beside the miller. I watched her, and
| presently saw her turn her back to the audi
ence and pour it into q little halfpenny tin
snuff box. She covered the box with a bit of
paper and screwed on the lid, thus making
the box pretty water-tight, and put it into her
pocket
When the curtain fell, our manager came
forward and patted the child's head. "Why,
my little GIRL" said he, ''you are quite gen
ius. Your gag is the best thing in the piece.
We must have it in every night. But, my
child, you mustn't drink the whiskey. No, no
that would never do"
"Oh, sir indeed wont; give you my word
I wont !" she said quite earnestly, and ran to
her dressing. room.
"Cramond Brig" had an unprecedented run
of six nights, and the little lady always got
her thimblefuIo of whiskey and her round of ap-
plause. And each time l noticed that she
corked up the former safely in the snuf-box.
| was curious as to what she could possibly
want with the spirit, and who she was, and
where she came from. asked her, but she
seemed so unwilling to tell, and turned SC
red, that did not press her but found out
that it was the old stOTy-no mother, and a
drunken father.
Still it was strange; what could she want
with the whiskey-a child like herr 1t could
not be for the drunken father. l was com
pletely at fault. took fancy to the little
thing and wished to fathom her secret for a
secret felt sure there was. After the per
formanceI saw my little body come out. Poor
little child there was no mother or brother
to see her to her home. She hurried up the
street. and, turning into the poorest quarter
of the town, entered the common stair of @
tumble.dow old house. 1 followed, feeling
my way as best 1 could. She went up and
up, till in the very top flat she entered little
room. handful of fire glimmering in the
CRATE revealed sickly boy, some two year'
her junior, who orawled toward her from
where he was lying before the fire.
"Oissy, I'm glad you're home, he said. 81
thought you'd never come"
She put her arms around him, laid the poo
little head on her thin shoulder, and took hin
over to the fire again, trying to comfort hin
as she went.
SIS the pain very bad tonight Willie 7"
Eyes" A. sadder yes" l never heard.
"Willie, l wish l could bear the pain fo
you"
"Its cruel of father to send me out in the
wet he knows how bad l am"
"Hush Willie, hushl he might hea