LELAND, THE KID:
Just wait a bit, my pards, I thought I heard A sneaking grizzly cracking the dry twigs.
Such an intrusion might deprive the State Of all the good that we intend it. Ha!
_(Enter Sootymug. He saunters carelessly in and gracefully leans his back against a redwood.)_
SOOTYMUG:
My boys, I thought I heard Some careless revelry, As if your minds were stirred By some new devilry.
I too am in that line. Indeed, the mission On which I come--
HAPPY HUNTY:
Here's more damned competition!
_(Curtain.)_
A BAD NIGHT
DRAMATIS PERSONae.
VILLIAM _a Sen_ NEEDLESON _a Sidniduc_ SMILER _a Scheister_ KI-YI _a Trader_ GRIMGHAST _a Spader_ SARALTHIA _a Love-lorn Nymph_ NELLIBRAC _a Sweetun_
A BODY; A GHOST; AN UNMENTIONABLE THING; SKULLS; HOODOOS; ETC.
_Scene_--a Cemetery in San Francisco.
_Saralthia, Nellibrac, Grimghast._
SARALTHIA:
The red half-moon is dipping to the west, And the cold fog invades the sleeping land.
Lo! how the grinning skulls in the level light Litter the place! Methinks that every skull Is a most lifelike portrait of my Sen, Drawn by the hand of Death; each fleshless pate, Cursed with a ghastly grin to eyes unrubbed With love's magnetic ointment, seems to mine To smile an amiable smile like his Whose amiable smile I--I alone Am able to distinguish from his leer!
See how the gathering coyotes flit Through the lit spaces, or with burning eyes Star the black shadows with a steadfast gaze!
About my feet the poddy toads at play, Bulbously comfortable, try to hop, And tumble clumsily with all their warts; While pranking lizards, sliding up and down My limbs, as they were public roads, impart A singularly interesting chill.
The circumstance and passion of the time, The cast and manner of the place--the spirit Of this confederate environment, Command the rights we come to celebrate Obedient to the Inspired Hag-- The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter, Who rules all destinies from Minna street, A dollar a destiny. Here at this grave, Which for my purposes thou, Jack of Spades-- _(To Grimghast_) Corrupter than the thing that reeks below-- Hast opened secretly, we'll work the charm.
Now what's the hour?
_(Distant clock strikes thirteen_.) Enough--hale forth the stiff!
_(Grimghast by means of a boat-hook stands the coffin on end in the excavation; the lid crumbles, exposing the remains of a man.)_
Ha! Master Mouldybones, how fare you, sir?
THE BODY:
Poorly, I thank your ladyship; I miss Some certain fingers and an ear or two.
There's something, too, gone wrong with my inside, And my periphery's not what it was.
How can we serve each other, you and I?
NELLIBRAC:
O what a personable man!
_(Blushes bashfully, drops her eyes and twists the corner of her apron_.)
SARALTHIA:
Yes, dear, A very proper and alluring male, And quite superior to Lubin Rroyd, Who has, however, this distinct advantage-- He is alive.
GRIMGHAST:
Missus, these yer remains Was the boss singer back in '72, And used to allers git invites to go Down to Swellmont and sing at every feed.
In t'other Villiam's time, that was, afore The gent that you've hooked onto bought the place.
THE BODY _(singing):_
Down among the sainted dead Many years I lay; Beetles occupied my head, Moles explored my clay.
There we feasted day and night-- I and bug and beast; They provided appetite And I supplied the feast.
The raven is a dicky-bird,
SARALTHIA _(singing):_
The jackal is a daisy,
NELLIBRAC _(singing):_
The wall-mouse is a worthy third,
A SPOOK _(singing):_
But mortals all are crazy.
CHORUS OF SKULLS:
O mortals all are crazy, Their intellects are hazy; In the growing moon they shake their shoon And trip it in the mazy.
But when the moon is waning, Their senses they're regaining: They fall to prayer and from their hair Remove the straws remaining.
SARALTHIA:
That's right, Rogues Gallery, pray keep it up: Your song recalls my Villiam's "Auld Lang Syne,"
What time he came and (like an amorous bird That struts before the female of its kind, Warbling to cave her down the bank) piped high His cracked falsetto out of reach. Enough-- Now let's to business. Nellibrac, sweet child, St. Cloacina's future devotee, The time is ripe and rotten--gut the grip!