PROLOGUE
The playroom of the HUBBARD FAMILY—nine of them. Counting MR. and MRS. HUBBARD, we realize that there are eleven HUBBARDS in all, and you would think that one at least of the two people we see in the room would be a HUBBARD of sorts. But no. The tall manly figure is JAMES, the HUBBARDS' butler, for the HUBBARDS are able to afford a butler now. How different from the time when Old Mother Hubbard—called "old" because she was at least twenty-two, and "mother" because she had a passion for children—could not even find a bone for her faithful terrier; but, of course, that was before HENRY went into work. Well, the tall figure is JAMES, the butler, and the little one is ROSEMARY, a friend of the HUBBARD FAMILY. ROSEMARY is going in for literature this afternoon, as it's raining, and JAMES is making her quite comfortable first with pens and ink and blotting-paper—always so important when one wants to write. He has even thought of a stick of violet sealing-wax; after that there can be no excuse.
ROSEMARY. Thank you, James. (She sits down.) If any one calls I am not at home.
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY. You may add that I am engaged in writing my auto—autobiography.
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY. It's what every one writes, isn't it, James?
JAMES. I believe so, Miss.
ROSEMARY. Thank you. (He goes to the door.) Oh, James?
JAMES. Yes, Miss?
ROSEMARY. What is an autobiography?
JAMES. Well, I couldn't rightly say, Miss—not to explain it properly.
ROSEMARY (dismayed). Oh, James! . . . I thought you knew everything.
JAMES. In the ordinary way, yes, Miss, but every now and then——
ROSEMARY. It's very upsetting.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. . . . How would it be to write a play instead? Very easy work, they tell me.
ROSEMARY (nodding). Yes, that's much better. I'll write a play. Thank you, James.
JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.
(ROSEMARY bites her pen, and thinks deeply. At last the inspiration comes.)
ROSEMARY (as she writes). Make-Believe. M-a-k-e hyphen B-e-l—— (she stops and frowns) Now which way is it? (She tries it on the blotting-paper) That looks wrong. (She tries it again) So does that. Oh, dear! (She rings the bell . . . JAMES returns.)
JAMES. Yes, Miss?
ROSEMARY. James, I have decided to call my play Make-Believe.
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY (carelessly). When you spell "believe," it is "i-e," isn't it?
JAMES. Yes, Miss.
ROSEMARY. I thought at first it was "e-i."
JAMES. Now you mention it, I think it is, Miss.
ROSEMARY (reproachfully). Oh, James! Aren't you certain?
JAMES. M-a-k-e, make, B-e-l—— (He stops and scratches his whiskers.)
ROSEMARY. Yes. I got as far as that.
JAMES. B-e-l——
ROSEMARY. You see, James, it spoils the play if you have an accident to the very first word of it.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. B-e-l——I've noticed sometimes that if one writes a word careless-like on the blotting-paper, and then looks at it with the head on one side, there's a sort of instinct comes over one, as makes one say (with a shake of the head) "Rotten." One can then write it the other way more hopeful.
ROSEMARY. I've tried that.
JAMES. Then might I suggest, Miss, that you give it another name altogether? As it might be, "Susan's Saturday Night," all easy words to spell, or "Red Revenge," or——
ROSEMARY. I must call it Make-Believe, because it's all of the play I've thought of so far.
JAMES. Quite so, Miss. Then how would it be to spell it wrong on purpose? It comes funnier that way sometimes.
ROSEMARY. Does it?
JAMES. Yes, Miss. Makes 'em laugh.
ROSEMARY. Oh! . . . Well, which is the wrong way?
JAMES. Ah, there you've got me again, Miss.
ROSEMARY (inspired). I know what I'll do. I'll spell it "i-e"; and if it's right, then I'm right, and if it's wrong, then I'm funny.
JAMES. Yes, Miss. That's the safest.
ROSEMARY. Thank you, James.
JAMES. Not at all, Miss. [He goes out.
ROSEMARY (writing). Make-Believe. A Christmas Entertainment—— (She stops and thinks, and then shakes her head.) No, play—a Christmas Pl…
