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The Changed Valentines

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The Changed Valentines

And Other Plays for St. Valentine’s Day

By
ELIZABETH F. GUPTILL

Author of “A Troublesome Flock,” “Little Acts
for Little Actors,” etc.

BOSTON
WALTER H. BAKER & CO.
1918

The Changed Valentines
And Other Plays

CONTENTS

Copyright, 1917, by Walter H. Baker & Co.

The Changed Valentines

In Two Acts

The Changed Valentines

CHARACTERS

• Bobby, the small boy of the family.
• Evelyn }
• Helen } his older sisters.
• Louise, his younger sister.
• Mrs. Winston, his mother.
• Bert, his older brother.
• Mr. Bertram Elliott, his bachelor uncle.

ACT I

SCENE.—The setting is the same for both Acts—a living-room or library.

(As the curtain rises Bert is sitting at a desk, evidently just finishing a letter or note.)

Bert. There! I’ll just tuck it in here with the valentine, and let her get both together. (Does so, and directs envelope.) Miss Eloise V. Worthington! A pretty name, and a stately one, but somehow I like Winston better. I wonder if she will?

(Finishes addressing it, and sits looking at it.)

Enter Bobby, in a hurry.

Bobby. Bert! Frank’s out here in his brother’s buzzcart, and wants to see you. He says you can ride up-town if you’ll get a move on.

Bert. I will that.

(Steps out, comes back through, putting on his coat.)

Bobby (with a grin). Going bare-headed?

Bert (putting hand to head). Why, I thought I put it on! Run and get it, kid.

(Exit Bobby. Bert paws around on table, upsetting everything.)

Bobby. Here’s your lid.

Bert. Thanks. Where in the name of common sense are my gloves? I put them here for Mother to mend, last night.

Bobby. They’re sticking out of your pocket.

Bert. So they are. So long, kid.

(Hurries out, forgetting valentine. Bobby spies it and picks it up.)

Bobby. Gee! It’s a valentine for Eloise. Bet it ain’t as pretty as the one I bought. There won’t no silly girl get it, either. I wonder——

(He starts to take it out of envelope, hears some one coming, and runs out, dropping it. There should be a curtain, apparently separating two rooms, and behind this Bobby hides.)

Enter Uncle Bertram; goes to desk.

Uncle B. (addressing his envelope). Well, well! That’s the fortieth valentine I’ve sent Ellen. I sent the first, I remember, when I was a three-year-old, in kilts, and she a baby in little white dresses and blue shoes. Ha, hum! Such is life! Here we are, both middle-aged people, though blest if I feel so! If she’d only answered that twentieth one, I might not have been sending the fortieth. I wonder—— (He toys with letter.)

Mrs. Winston (looking in). Oh, here you are, Bertram. You’re wanted on the ’phone.

Uncle B. (rising). I’ll be right there.

(He hurries out, and Bobby hurries in, and picks up the dropped letter.)

Bobby (going to desk). Gee! I’ve thought of the best joke! This ain’t sealed, either. I’m a-going to change ’em. Thirty-nine valentines are enough for one lady to get from the same man, anybody’d know! (Makes the change, and seals both letters.) There! I guess a “change’ll be a difference,” as Aunt Emily says, and Eloise oughtn’t to care. This one’s from Bert, too. Didn’t know Uncle Bertram ever signed his name Bert. Jumping frogs! He’s coming!

(Hides again, Bert’s letter in his hand. His uncle takes the letter, and sees it is sealed.)

Uncle B. Funny! I thought I hadn’t sealed that. Getting absent-minded, I guess.

(Puts it in pocket, and goes out, whistling.)

Enter Evelyn and Helen. Both start toward desk. Helen reaches it first.

Evelyn. Oh, dear, Helen, won’t you let me have the desk a minute? I just want to address a letter.

Helen. So do I, and I’m in an awful rush.

Evelyn. What is it? A valentine?

Helen. Is yours?

Evelyn. Well, why don’t you address it, or else let me have the desk?

Helen (rising). You may have it, Evvie. I’ll wait. (Evelyn seats herself, toys with pen.) Well, why don’t you do it, if you’re in such a rush? (Evelyn laughs.)

Evelyn. For the same reason you don’t, I guess. Here! (Hands her a fountain pen.) You can do yours on the table. Then we won’t bother each other.

Helen. I’ll let you see who mine is addressed to, if you will, too.

Evelyn. No, thanks. (Both hesitate, laugh, and Helen takes hers to table. Both write hastily. A crash is heard, followed by a loud scream, and both girls rush out. Bobby comes out of his hiding-place, and changes valentines swiftly, sealing both, then darts back as he hears girls coming. They enter.) Katy will scare us to death some day. Did you ever see any one who could get so many tumbles?

Helen. Or smash so many dishes? No, I never did. (Takes up valentine.) Why, I don’t remember sealing this.

Evelyn. Nor I mine. I suppose the—the Irish earthquake in an American kitchen put it out of our heads. Want me to mail your letter? I’m going out.

Helen. No, thanks. I’m going out, too, and this envelope is private property.

Evelyn. H’m! I could make a pretty good guess as to the name on the outside. It’s “Pet,” of course.

Helen. Really, it’s mean to call Phil that. He hates it so!

Evelyn. Then his mamma shouldn’t have named him Philip Etheridge, when she knew his last name must always be Tuttle. Then he is such a pet. I always want to see a big lawn bonnet on those golden curls of his, and see his dear little self in ruffled white dresses, with short socks and blue slippers. Of course the little darling wants a valentine! But I should think he’d make you tired!

Helen. He’s lots nicer than that homely Jack Hamilton. All he thinks of is baseball.

Evelyn. Well, he isn’t soft and sentimental, and—mushy like Pet. I don’t care to lead a nice little poodle-dog around by a blue ribbon.

Helen. You’d prefer a bulldog?

Evelyn. I certainly should. Coming out to mail your precious epistle?

Helen. I am.

Evelyn. Come on, then. (Both pass out.)

Bobby (coming forth again). Now maybe I’ll have a chance. No, here comes Lou!

(Dives out of sight again.)

Louise (entering). I saw you, Bobby Winston! What you hiding for?

Bobby (stepping out). I ain’t hiding.

Louise. Well, you were. Thought you could jump out and scare some one, I s’pose.

Bobby (as she seats herself at desk). Who you writing to?

Louise. Nobody. I’m sending valentines.

Bobby. Valentines? More than one? Helen and Evvie only sent one apiece, and I’m going to send one.

Louise. Oh, Bobby, who to?

Bobby. That ain’t good grammar.

Louise. And that is, I s’pose. H’m!

(She takes two envelopes and tucks in valentines, and seals them.)

Bobby. Who you sending ’em to, Lou?

Louise. I shan’t tell. Go ’way, Bobby, so’s I can get ’em done.

Bobby. Tell me who they’re going to?

Louise. No siree!

Bobby. I’ll give you my glass agate if you will, Louie.

Louise. What you want to know for? To tell somebody, and get me laughed at?

Bobby. No, I won’t tell, honest Injun!

Louise. Well, the pretty one goes to Reginald, and the homely one goes to Freddie, ’cause I’m mad on him!

Bobby. What you mad at Freddie for?

Louise. ’Cause he said Valentine’s Day was silly, and he shouldn’t send one.

Bobby. Ho, ho! And you wanted him to send you one!

Louise. No such thing! He can keep his old valentines, if he wants to. I’m going to send a lovely one to Reginald. He’s got sense enough to ’preciate it, maybe. And I got a horrid comic one of a miser, all ragged and thin, gnawing a bare bone, like a dog, with his money all piled up around him.

Bobby. Mamma doesn’t like us to send comic ones.

Louise. Don’t you tell, Bobby Winston!

Bobby. What’ll you give me not to? My aggie back again?

Louise. I haven’t got it yet to give back again. Yes, keep it if you want to, but don’t tell. If you do, I’ll never tell you anything again, so there, now!

Bobby. Well, I won’t, but Mamma wouldn’t like it. You know she wouldn’t.

Louise. Maybe she wouldn’t like all you’ve been up to, either, Sir Robert.

Bobby. What you know about what I’ve been up to?

Louise. Oh, you have! You have been up to some mischief! Now if you tell, I will.

Bobby. You can’t, for you don’t know it to tell, smarty. Say, Lou, let’s see the funny one.

Louise. It isn’t funny. It’s just horrid, and I meant it to be. Besides, they’re sealed now. Keep still while I direct them. (She writes. Bobby gets behind her, and shows wild enjoyment. Louise rises.) There! Now I’ll go mail ’em. Have you sent any, Bobby?

Bobby. Not me. I’ve got too many sisters to want to send valentines to girls. (Louise goes out. Bobby seats himself at desk.) See if I can get mine sent some time to-day. (Writes.) I suppose I’d better mail the one Bert forgot. Gee! But wasn’t it good! Louise mixed up her own, and she’s sent the pretty one to Fred, and the other to Reginald. Good one on her! It seems to be catching. I’ll go out and mail mine before anything happens to it. It’s a poor day for valentines. Sort of mixy, somehow. Six of ’em, all going wrong! Gee! Mine’s the lucky seventh. Wish I was a bumblebee, and could follow some of ’em. Wouldn’t it be fun! Well, Papa says a boy ought to be a good mixer. Guess I’m all right. (Goes to door, and calls.) Mamma!

Mrs. W. (outside). What is it, Bobby?

Bobby (as she enters). Here’s a letter Bert left on the desk, all addressed and sealed. Shall I mail it?

Mrs. W. Certainly. Let me see it, Bobby. (Takes it, and reads.) It’s for Eloise. A valentine, probably. Mail it by all means, dear.

(Bobby runs out. Mrs. W. tidies up the room a bit, and then also passes out.)

ACT II

SCENE.—Same room as before. Evening of same day.

(Mrs. Winston is seated, with sewing. Bobby runs in.)

Mrs. W. What do you think I got in the mail to-day, Bobby?

Bobby. The paper, probably.

Mrs. W. Yes, but something more.

Bobby. A letter.

Mrs. W. Something better and more precious still.

Bobby. What was it?

Mrs. W. A valentine—such a pretty one! Why, I haven’t had a valentine for years!

Bobby. Did you like it?

Mrs. W. I certainly did, very much. If I only knew who sent it, I should—kiss him, I think.

Bobby. You mightn’t want to.

Mrs. W. I’m sure I should want to, for, you see, I knew the writing on the outside.

Bobby. You did?

Mrs. W. Yes indeed. Thank you so much, dear. It was very nice to receive a valentine once more.

Bobby. Don’t ladies get valentines?

Mrs. W. Not usually after they are my age, dear.

Bobby. But Miss Colwell does, and I heard you say once that you had the same birthday.

Mrs. W. So we have, dear, but what makes you think she gets valentines?

Bobby. I know she does. Uncle Bertram sent her one this morning, and he said it was the fortieth.

Mrs. W. Uncle Bertram? Did he tell you that, Bobby?

Bobby. N-no, not exactly; but he said it, Mamma. He did, really.

Mrs. W. To whom, then, if not to you? How did you come to hear it?

Bobby. He said it to himself, when he was directing it this morning.

Mrs. W. Did he know you were there?

Bobby. N-no. I wasn’t there, exactly.

Mrs. W. Then where were you?

Bobby. I was—in there. (Points.)

Mrs. W. Bobby! You weren’t listening?

Bobby. Well, I couldn’t help hearing, could I?

Mrs. W. Here comes Louise. Don’t mention what you have told me, Bobby. Not to any one. Remember.

Bobby (as Louise enters). Yes’m, I won’t. Hi, Louie! How many valentines did you get?

Louise. Eight. Want to see ’em?

Bobby. Sure I do. Come on over and show ’em to Mamma.

(Louise passes to side of her mother’s chair; Bobby stands at other side, and they look at the valentines.)

Louise (showing them). Bert sent this one, and Uncle Bertram sent this one, and Grandpa sent this one, and Harold sent this one, and Leon sent this one, and Edwin sent this one, and Reginald sent this one.

(She says this slowly, showing them, and Mrs. W. and Bobby make comments on how pretty they are, etc.)

Bobby. Gee! That’s a beaut of Reginald’s. Bet you’re glad you sent him one.

Louise. No, I’m not. He bought one for every girl in our class—every single girl! He likes to show off how much pocket money he has.

Mrs. W. It’s a very pretty valentine, Louise.

Louise (showing last one). I like this better. Freddie made it all himself, and it’s the only one he sent.

Bobby. ’Tis pretty, but it isn’t nearly so swell as Reggie’s. Besides, I thought Freddie wasn’t going to send any.

Louise. He said he wasn’t going to buy any, and he didn’t.

Bobby. Gee! And you sent him——

Louise. I didn’t either, Bobby Winston. I got those envelopes mixed, and sent him the nice one.

Bobby. And you sent the other to Reg? Kinder tough, when he’d treated the whole grade to valentines.

Mrs. W. I hope my little daughter didn’t send a comic valentine to any one.

Louise. I did, Mamma, but I shan’t again. I should have been so ashamed if Freddie had got it, when he made me such a pretty one.

Mrs. W. But how about Reginald?

Louise. Oh, Reggie didn’t care a bit. He never got a comic one before, and he thought it was funny. He never guessed one of us girls sent it, and you see, it was a miser, and Reggie isn’t a bit, you know, so it didn’t touch him at all, but——

Enter Evelyn and Helen, evidently rather “huffy.”

Helen. Well, you got some, didn’t you, kiddo?

Bobby. I should say she did! Eight of ’em! How many’d you get, Helen?

Helen. Oh, five or six. What a foolish day it is! Worse than April first!

Louise. I think it’s lovely. Don’t you, Evvie?

Evelyn (shortly). No.

Bobby. Looks as if you two had a grouch. What’s up?

Evelyn. Nothing.

Helen (scornfully). Nothing!

Evelyn. Oh, dry up, do! Let your face rest a while.

Mrs. W. Evelyn! What sort of talk is that?

Evelyn. Well, I’m sick of her nagging! And everything’s gone wrong to-day.

Helen. I don’t see as anything went wrong with you.

Evelyn. I suppose you wouldn’t call it so, but why any one should want that simp of a Pet hanging round her, I don’t know.

Helen. Then why did you have him?

Evelyn. How could I help it? He doesn’t know enough to see when he’s turned down. I did everything but slap his pretty face for him, but nothing would penetrate that rhinoceros hide of self-esteem. Bah! He makes me sick!

Helen. You looked like it. I saw how earnestly you were talking to him.

Evelyn. I certainly was.

Bobby. Gee! Evvie’s stole Helen’s beau, and Helen’s mad!

Helen. No such thing.

Mrs. W. That will do, Bobby. I have never seen any signs of Evelyn’s fancying Philip. He isn’t her style.

Evelyn. No, he isn’t. I detest sissy boys, and always did. Helen can have him and welcome.

Helen. Then why did you send him a valentine? No wonder you wouldn’t show me the address!

Evelyn. It wasn’t to him.

Helen (hotly). You’re——

Mrs. W. (interrupting sharply). Helen! I hope neither of my girls is going to forget that she is a lady.

Helen. Well, she did send him one.

Evelyn. I did not!

Helen. I heard him thank you for it in two lines of poetry.

Evelyn. And if you’d played eavesdropper a little longer, you’d have heard me absolutely deny it. I told him I only sent one, and that not to him, and advised him to talk to the one to whom he sent the volume of poetry and the white roses.

Helen. And he said you were the prettiest. I hate you both, so there!

(Throws herself into a chair, and begins to cry.)

Evelyn. Truly, Helen——

Helen. Don’t talk to me. I saw the address on the envelope, and so did Freda and Myrtle, and we all recognized your writing. No other girl in school makes a P like yours.

Evelyn. It was a very good imitation, I’ll admit. The work, no doubt, of some one who thought it a very good joke to play on me. Just wait till I see Mr. Jack Hamilton, that’s all. It was a neat little stroke of business to be out of town to-day. I could shake him with a will.

Mrs. W. But why should a valentine make such a disturbance? It’s just boy and girl fun at your age.

Bobby. Helen don’t think so. She’s awful spoony on Mr. Philip Etheridge Tuttle.

Mrs. W. That will do, Bobby. Don’t be vulgar.

Louise. Well, he always walks to the corner with her, and to-night he didn’t. He came with Evvie.

Bobby. Came after her, you mean, trotting behind like a little poodle-dog whose missis goes too fast for him, and she and Helen have been fighting ever since.

Helen. Well, she knew he liked me, and she’s always pretended not to like him, and he’s always thought she was pretty, and so, when she sent him the valentine——

Evelyn. When she sent him nothing! If he tags me to-morrow I’ll tie a blue ribbon on his neck, and hitch it to a little chain, and lead him round like a nice little toy dog. You see if I don’t!

Helen. Just to show every girl in the school that you’ve captured him! Well, I’ll see that they know how you did it.

Evelyn. I’m about tired of being told I—twist the truth.

Helen. I’d say it stronger, if Mother’d let me. You may think it, instead. I saw you address that envelope this morning, and you refused to let me see the name—you know you did!

Evelyn. Well, so did you. What was the matter with the one you sent him, I wonder?

Helen. I wish I’d never sent it. All I’ve got from him to-day at school is a nod and a stare. He’s mad about something, and you’re to blame.

Mrs. W. How about the roses and the book?

Helen. Well—he sent them before he got Evvie’s valentine.

Evelyn. I never sent him any!

Mrs. W. That will do, girls, both of you. Helen, if things have gone to this point I am glad I have found it out in time. I knew he was a rather sentimental boy, but I thought him harmless as an associate, and he was poor Fanny’s boy, so I have encouraged his coming here—having no mother. But this——

Evelyn. Oh, Helen isn’t quite as foolish as she seems, Mamma. She’s just jealous because he thinks me pretty. As if I cared what he thought!

Helen (sneeringly). Yes, as if you did!

Mrs. W. Here’s Bert coming. If you don’t want to hear of this foolish quarrel for the next six weeks, you’d better stop it. Bobby and Louise, not a word about it. Remember now.

Enter Bert.

Bert. Good-evening, every one. What’s the matter, Helen? (Throws himself into seat.)

Helen. Nothing. What’s the matter with you? You look glum as an oyster.

Mrs. W. Didn’t things go well at the office to-day, Bert?

Bert. Oh, yes, about the same as usual.

Louise (going up to him, and smoothing his hair). Was somebody mean to you, Bertie?

Bert (taking her on his knee). Just a bit, maybe, little sister. See here! (He takes a dime from his pocket.) If I gave you this what would you do with it?

Louise. I’d buy a little dolly at the ten-cent store.

Bobby. A dolly! Gee whiz! I’ll bet you’ve got twenty now.

Louise. But we girls, seven of us, are going to have a sewing society, and we’re going to buy some little dolls, and make a whole outfit for them, and——

Bobby. Pretty outfit it’ll be, I guess. You can’t sew.

Louise. I can, too, a little, and besides, Eloise is going to show us how.

Bobby. Oh, it’s her get up, is it? Then Bert’ll give you the ten-cent piece, sure.

(Bert does so, and she hugs and kisses him.)

Louise. You’re just the dearest big brother! But what makes you look so sober? Does your head ache?

Bert. A little, I guess. Perhaps, if you smooth it, it will make it better. (She proceeds to do so.)

Bobby. Got any more of those little shiny fellers that you want to give away, Bert?

Bert (teasingly). Why, let me see—— Why, what’s come over Uncle Bertram? Never heard him come in like a college boy before. (Enter Uncle Bertram. He goes straight to Bert, and shakes his hand heartily.) Glad to see you, Uncle, truly; but why pick me out for this particular grip?

Uncle B. Because you’ve done me the greatest possible favor. I shall owe my happiness the rest of my life to you, Bert.

Bert. To me? Say, Uncle, is it a joke, or have you gone nutty, or what? I haven’t seen you since morning.

Uncle B. No, I know it, but you’ve done a great thing for me, just the same. I’m—I’m going to be married.

All (together). Why, Bertram! Oh, Uncle Bertram! Who to? Why, Uncle!

Bert. Glad to hear it, I’m sure, but I don’t see what I had to do with it. I didn’t propose to the lady for you, I’m sure.

Uncle B. That’s just what you did, boy, though you didn’t know it. And she wore the white rose, all right.

Bert. Oh, she did? Well, I don’t know how you came to know of it, but if Eloise wants to marry a man twice her age because he has a little money, she’s welcome, for all me. I—I congratulate you, Uncle Bertram.

Uncle B. Good grit, boy, though it isn’t true, one bit of it.

Bobby. What isn’t? Aren’t you going to be married?

Uncle B. I certainly am, and so is Eloise, I fancy; but not together. I’m to marry Miss Ellen Colwell, my boy.

Mrs. W. Ellen? After all these years?

Bert. Not Eloise? But the rose?

Evelyn. And how did Bert propose for you, when he didn’t know anything about it?

Helen. Do keep still, everybody, and let Uncle Bertram tell it. It sounds awfully mixed up to me.

Bert. Yes, explain, do, Uncle. You’ve got me guessing for fair.

Uncle B. Well, you see, to really explain, I’d have to go back twenty years.

Helen. Oh, do, Uncle. It sounds so romantic.

Uncle B. Romantic! Idiotic! That’s what it was! Well, you see, when I was a youngster only three years old, Dr. Colwell came to town to practice, and bought the home where Miss Ellen lives now. We lived on the same street then, and Mother took me with her when she went to call, and I fell in love with her on the spot.

Bobby. With your mother, or the doctor?

Uncle B. With the doctor’s baby, little Ellen. She was a bit of a thing, with a white dress and a blue sash, and blue shoes, and she had big blue eyes that just matched, and little soft, yellow curls, and she called me “Boy.” It was the first word she had ever tried to say, her mother told me.

Louise. Miss Ellen’s hair is brown.

Uncle B. So it is, Louie, but it used to be yellow. Well, from that day on we were playmates, and I sent her a valentine that year. In fact, I have every year. I sent my fortieth this morning.

Bert. But I don’t see——

Uncle B. Hold on, Namesake. Wait a bit, and you will. Twenty years ago I sent one in which, in the best verses I knew how to make, I asked her a question—the question; and I asked her, if the answer was yes, to wear a white rose in her hair, and to sit in the bay window as I went home that night.

Bert. Why——

Uncle B. Yes, I know, my boy. We’re much alike, and history repeats itself. If it hadn’t—well, to go on, she didn’t do it, although I had had some white roses delivered there that afternoon. It seems now that she didn’t get the valentine at all. It went astray somehow. She thought I had forgotten, and didn’t care, and I thought the answer was “no,” and it made a difference in our friendship. Though we have been friends, the old intimacy was gone—and—well, we’ve lost twenty years.

Mrs. W. Oh, brother!

Uncle B. We’re going to make them up, Eva, don’t you forget it. Well, to-day I sent my fortieth valentine, and the same thing happened. It went astray. At least she hasn’t got it yet. (Bobby gives a start, and claps his hand to his pocket, but no one seems to notice. Uncle B. goes on.) She did get one, though, in rhyme, which, strange to say, asked her the selfsame thing. Don’t blush, my boy! And as she always gets a box of white roses on this particular day, when I came home to-night there she sat, in the bay window, with a white rose in her hair! I couldn’t believe my eyes, but I went in, and it’s all right. We’re to be married in six weeks, and I’ve you to thank, my boy, and when you and Eloise are married, you’ll get a check for one thousand dollars for a wedding present.

Bert. But I don’t see how she came to get my letter, and I should have thought she would have known it wasn’t hers.

Uncle B. Why, you called her Ellie—my old pet name for her, as well as yours for Eloise, it seems, and you signed it Bert, which every one always called me till I had a namesake nephew.

Bert. But I directed mine all right, and—no, I didn’t mail it, I do believe. I went off in a rush with Frank, and left it on the desk.