Them are the boys that marched to Kingdom-Come
ahead of us, but we keep fallin' in line.

Them voices-Lord, I guess you've brought along
Your Sunday choir of young angel folks

to help the boys out.

(Following the music with swaying arms)

Glory! Never mind

me singin': you kin drown me out. But I'm goin' t' jine in, or bust!

(Joining with the children's voices, he moves unconsciously along the edge of the woodpile. With stiff steps – his one hand leaning on the hoe, his other reached as to unseen hands, that draw him he totters toward the sunlight and the green lawn, at back. As he does so, his thin, cracked voice takes up the battle-hymn where the children's are singing it.)

-a-mould'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave,
John Brown's body lies a-mould'rin' in the grave,
But his soul goes-

(Suddenly he stops, aware that he is walking, and cries aloud, astounded)

Whar did Ye git my legs?

Lord, Lord, my legs!

(Shaking with delight, he drops his hoe, seizes up the little flag from the woodpile, and waves it joyously.) I'm comin', boys!

Link's loose agin: Chipmunk has sprung his trap. (With tottering gait, he climbs the little mound in the woodpile.)

Now, boys, three cheers for Cemetery Ridge!

Jine in, jine in!

(Swinging the flag)

Hooray! - Hooray! - Hooray!

(Outside, the music grows louder, and the voices of old men and children sing martially to the brass music. With his final cheer, LINK stumbles down from the mound, brandishes in one hand his hat, in the other the little flag, and stumps off toward the approaching procession into the sunlight, joining his old cracked voice, jubilant, with the singers:)

LONESOME-LIKE1

HAROLD BRIGHOUSE
BRIGHOUS

CHARACTERS

SARAH ORMEROD, An old woman
EMMA BRIERLEY, A young woman
THE REV. FRANK ALLEYNE, A curate
SAM HORROCKS, A young man

THE SCENE represents the interior of a cottage in a Lancashire village. Through the window at the back the gray row of cottages opposite is just visible. The outside door is next to the window. Door left. As regards furniture the room is very bare. The suggestion is not of an empty room, but a stripped room. For example, there are several square patches where the distemper of the walls is of a darker shade than the rest, indicating the places once occupied by pictures. There is an uncovered deal table and two chairs by it near the fire-place right. Attached to the left wall is a dresser and a plate-rack above it containing a few pots. The dresser has also one or two utensils upon it. A blackened kettle rests on the top of the cooking-range, but the room contains only the barest necessities. The floor is uncarpeted. There are no window curtains, but a yard of cheap muslin is fastened across the window, not coming, however, high enough 1Included by special permission of the author and of the publishers, Messrs. Gowans and Gray, of Glasgow.

13

1911

to prevent a passer-by from looking in, should he wish to
do so. On the floor, near the fire, is a battered black tin
trunk, the lid of which is raised. On a peg behind the door
left is a black silk skirt and bodice and an old-fashioned
beaded bonnet. The time is afternoon. As the curtain
rises the room is empty. Immediately, however, the door
left opens and SARAH ORMEROD, an old woman, enters,
carrying clumsily in her arms a couple of pink flannelette
nightdresses, folded neatly. Her black stuff dress is well
worn, and her wedding-ring is her only ornament. She
wears elastic-sided boots, and her rather short skirt shows
a pair of gray worsted stockings. A small plaid shawl
covers her shoulders. SARAH crosses and puts the night-
dresses on the table, surveying the trunk ruefully. There
is a knock at the outside door and she looks
up.

SARAH. Who's theer?

EMMA (without). It's me, Mrs. Ormerod, Emma Brierley.

SARAH. Eh, coom in, Emma, lass.

(Enter EMMA BRIERLEY. She is a young weaver, and, having just left her work, she wears a dark skirt, a blouse of some indeterminate blue-gray shade made of cotton, and a large shawl over her head and shoulders in place of a jacket and hat. A colored cotton apron covers her skirt below the waist, and the short skirt displays stout stockings similar to SARAH's. She wears clogs, and the clothes - except the shawl- are covered with ends of cotton and cotton-wool fluff. Even her hair has not escaped. A pair of scissors hangs by a cord from her waist.)

SARAH. Tha's kindly welcoom. It's good o' thee to think o' coomin' to see an ould woman like me.

EMMA (by door). Nought o' th' sort, Mrs. Ormerod.

Th' mill's just loosed and A thowt A'd step in as A were passin' and see 'ow tha was feeling like.

SARAH (crossing to box). Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee. It's only my 'ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an' a weaver's no manner o' good to nobody without th' use o' 'er 'ands. A'm all reeght in masel'. That's worst of it.

EMMA. Well, while A'm 'ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A can do for thee?

SARAH. A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma.

EMMA (taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a peg in the door). Well, A knaws better. What wert doin' when A coom in? Packin' yon box?

SARAH. Aye. Tha sees theer's a two three things as A canna bear thowt o' parting from. A don't reeghtly knaw if they'll let me tak' 'em into workus wi' me, but A canna have 'em sold wi' rest of stuff.

EMMA (crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees). Let me help yo'.

SARAH. Tha's a good lass, Emma. A'd tak' it kindly of thee.

EMMA. They'd do wi' packin' a bit closer. A dunno as they'd carry safe that road.

SARAH. A know. It's my 'ands, tha sees, as mak's it difficult for me.

(Sits on chair.)

EMMA. Aye. A'll soon settle 'em a bit tighter. (Lifts all out, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges

its contents.)

SARAH. But what's 'appened to thy looms, lass? They'll not weave by 'emselves while thee's 'ere, tha knows.

EMMA (looking round). Eh, looms is all reeght. Factory's stopped. It's Saturday afternoon.

SARAH. So't is. A'd clean forgot. A do forget time o' th' week sittin' 'ere day arter day wi' nought to do.