_Miss P._ What does this mean? Here, Juno, Juno! Quick!

_Enter_ JUNO, L.

_Juno._ Here I is, Missy Pease.

_Sadie._ Run for the doctor, quick, Juno!

_Juno._ (_Running_, R.) Bress my soul! I'll fetch him.

_Jenny._ No, no! Get me some water--quick!

_Juno._ (_Running_ L.) To be sure, honey; to be sure.

_Bessie._ No, no, Juno! some ipecac, or a stomach pump.

_Juno._ Pump, pump! Want de pump? I'll fetch it, I'll fetch it. Bress my soul, I'll fetch something. _Exit_, L.

_Mrs. G._ Well, if this ain't drefful!--washing-day, too--and the undertaker's jest as busy as he can be--there never was so much _immortality_ in this place, never. Poor critters! poor critters!

_Miss P._ Girls, what does this mean?

_Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, such agony!

_Bessie._ O, dear, what will become of me?

_Jenny._ O, this dreadful parching in the throat!

_Mrs. G._ O, I know it, I know it. I told my husband that something dreadful was a goin' to happen when he sold that colt yesterday.

_Miss P._ Sadie, what is the meaning of this. Your pulse is regular, your head cool, and your tongue clear.

_Sadie._ O, Miss Pease, it's those dreadful pickles.

_Mrs. G._ Yes, indeed, it is a drefful pickle--and so sudden, jest for all the world like poor Mr. Brown's sudden took, and these always seem to end fatally at some time or other--Dear me, dear me, and my wash--

_Miss P._ Pickles! Have you disobeyed me?

_Sadie._ I couldn't help it, Miss Pease; they looked so tempting. But I only took one.

_Bessie._ And I only tasted that.

_Jenny._ I only had one good bite.

_Sadie._ And we are poisoned!

_Bessie._ O, dear! poisoned!

_Jenny._ Yes, poisoned!

_Miss P._ How, poisoned?

_Sadie._ Mrs. Gabble says the vinegar was poisoned by Mr. Smith.

_Mrs. G._ Smith--vinegar--p'isoned! The land sakes! And I a good church member--and my washing--and poor Mr. Brown, tew. Well, I never!

I'd have you to know that I bought no vinegar of Mr. Smith, I made my own.

_Sadie._ And your pickles were not poisoned?

_Mrs. G._ No, indeed. Never did such a thing in my life.

_Sadie._ O, dear! I'm so glad! (_Jumping up._)

_Bessie._ I won't have the ipecac. (_Rises._)

_Jenny._ My throat is decidedly better. (_Rises._)

_Enter_ JUNO _with a pail of water and a dipper._

_Juno._ Bress my soul, de pump was fastened down so tight couldn't git it up. Here's a pail of water; if dat won't do I'll git a tub.

_Miss P._ No matter, Juno. I think 'twill not be needed. Young ladies, I am very sorry--

_Sadie._ Please, Miss Pease, do not speak of it. I alone am to blame for transgressing your command, for such we should consider it, as you are for the present our guardian. Forgive me, and in future I will endeavour to control my appet.i.te, and comply with your wishes.

_Mrs. G._ Well, I declare, I don't see the harm in eating pickles. My girls eat their weight in 'em, and they're just as sweet-tempered as--

_Miss P._ Their mother. Mrs. Gabble, it is not a question of harm, but of obedience, here. You see, the young ladies accept me as their guardian, and I only forbid that which I think their parents would not approve.

_Mrs. G._ And there's my washing in the suds! Where's my Sis.

_Enter_ SISSY GABBLE, L., _with a large slice of bread, covered with mola.s.ses._

_Sissy._ Here I ith, mother. Mith Peath thed I might have thumthin, and I like bread, and 'latheth.

_Juno._ Bress my soul! dat are chile jest runnin' over with sweetness, sure for sartin.

_Mrs. G._ Yes; and the 'la.s.ses running all over the clothes! Come, Sissy, let's go home. I'm sorry, Miss Pease, you don't like pickles; and I'm sorry, young ladies, they disagree with you. And I'm sorry, Miss Pease, I left my washing.

_Miss P._ Now don't be sorry at all, Mrs. Gabble. I'm always glad to see you. Your gift was well-intended, and the young ladies have suffered no harm, perhaps received a wholesome lesson.

_Sadie._ I think we have. I shall be very careful what I touch.

_Jenny._ O, dear! such a fright! I shall never get over it.

_Bessie._ O, Sadie, you thought it was so nice!

_Jenny._ Yes, such a Precious Pickle!

_Mrs. G._ Of course it was. My pickles are the best made in town--precious nice, I tell you. Mrs. Doolittle always sends in for 'em when she has company; and the minister says they're awful soothing arter sermon.