MR. and MRS. REMSEN. 
 HARRY, } Twins, aged
 SADIE, } six.
 PATRICK, a hired man.

Scene:  The Burtons’ parlor on Christmas Eve.

Mr. B.  Tommy! stop making such a noise.

Tommy. Oh, I can’t have any fun at all!

Mr. B.  Why, yes you can.  Look at all your toys scattered about.  Play something quietly.

Tommy.  Nobody to play with.

Mr. B.  Play with your little sister.

Tommy.  She’s sitting in mamma’s lap; besides, she’s a girl.  Oh, papa [running to his father] I wish the Remsens would come!  I want to play with Harry.

Mr. B. [hastily].  Never mind, never mind!  The Remsens will not come.

May.  Why wont the Remsens come?

Tommy.  Oh, dear me, there isn’t anything nice to do!

Mr. B.  Tommy, stop your whining.  Don’t say another word.  May, don’t speak of the Remsens again.  They are not coming, and that’s an end of it.

[Enter LUCY.]

Lucy.  What! tears on Christmas Eve, little May!  And Tommy pouting!  Oh, that’ll never do!  Come, cheer up!  You’ll have plenty of fun soon with Harry and Sadie.—­It must be nearly time to send for the Remsens, father.

Mr. B. [vexed].  Don’t speak of them again.  They’re not coming, and I don’t want them.  Why will every one keep talking about them?

[Enter PATRICK.]

Mrs. B. [aside to Lucy].  Mr. Remsen and your father have quarreled about a piece of land; so the Remsens are not to come this year.

Mr. B.  Well, Patrick, what is it?

Patrick.  Shure, the horse is ready, sir.

Mr. B.  Horse ready?  What for?

Patrick.  To be goin’ for the Rimsins, shure!

Mr. B. [angrily].  We are not going for the Remsens!  What do you mean by acting without orders?  Take the horse out at once!

Patrick.  Widout orthers, is it?  An’ it’s mesilf, thin, that hitched up the crather every Christmas Ave I’ve lived wid yous for to go for them same.

Mr. B.  Don’t answer, sir; do as I bid you.

Patrick [aside].  It’s plain the masther’s rin his nose forninst something harrud. [Exit.]

Mrs. B. [going to Mr. B. and putting her arm about him, he sitting].  Dear John, send for the Remsens, please.  See how everything conspires to ask it of you, from the prattle of the children to old Patrick himself.  It is Christmas Eve, dear!  How can we teach the dear chicks to be kind to each other unless we set the example?  Send for our old friends, John.  They’ve been with us every Christmas Eve these many years.  You’ll settle your affair with Mr. Remsen all the better, afterward.

Mr. B.  Why, Mary, would you have me crawl at the feet of a man who tries to overreach me?