CHARLES: (_Impatiently_) I’m so beastly sick of your human nature line. And, anyway, I hate the hours around here. (_Several dozen more of_ MR. ICKY’S _children trip out of the house, trip over the grass, and trip over the pots and dods. They are muttering “We are going away,” and “We are leaving you.”_) MR. ICKY: (_His heart breaking_) They’re all deserting me. I’ve been too kind. Spare the rod and spoil the fun. Oh, for the glands of a Bismarck. (_There is a honking outside--probably_ DIVINE’S _chauffeur growing impatient for his master._) MR. ICKY: (_In misery_) They do not love the soil! They have been faithless to the Great Potato Tradition! (_He picks up a handful of soil passionately and rubs it on his bald head. Hair sprouts._) Oh, Wordsworth, Wordsworth, how true you spoke! “_No motion has she now, no force; She does not hear or feel; Roll’d round on earth’s diurnal course In some one’s Oldsmobile._” (_They all groan and shouting “Life” and “Jazz” move slowly toward the wings._) CHARLES: Back to the soil, yes! I’ve been trying to turn my back to the soil for ten years! ANOTHER CHILD: The farmers may be the backbone of the country, but who wants to be a backbone? ANOTHER CHILD: I care not who hoes the lettuce of my country if I can eat the salad! ALL: Life! Psychic Research! Jazz! MR. ICKY: (_Struggling with himself_) I must be quaint. That’s all there is. It’s not life that counts, it’s the quaintness you bring to it.... ALL: We’re going to slide down the Riviera. We’ve got tickets for Piccadilly Circus. Life! Jazz! MR. ICKY: Wait. Let me read to you from the Bible. Let me open it at random. One always finds something that bears on the situation. (_He finds a Bible lying in one of the dods and opening it at random begins to read._) “Ahab and Istemo and Anim, Goson and Olon and Gilo, eleven cities and their villages. Arab, and Ruma, and Esaau--” CHARLES: (_Cruelly_) Buy ten more rings and try again. MR. ICKY: (_Trying again_) “How beautiful art thou my love, how beautiful art thou! Thy eyes are dove’s eyes, besides what is hid within. Thy hair is as flocks of goats which come up from Mount Galaad--Hm! Rather a coarse passage....” (_His children laugh at him rudely, shouting “Jazz!” and “All life is primarily suggestive!”_) MR. ICKY: (_Despondently_) It won’t work to-day. (_Hopefully_) Maybe it’s damp. (_He feels it_) Yes, it’s damp.... There was water in the dod.... It won’t work. ALL: It’s damp! It won’t work! Jazz! ONE OF THE CHILDREN: Come, we must catch the six-thirty. (_Any other cue may be inserted here._) MR. ICKY: Good-by.... (_ They all go out._ MR. ICKY _is left alone. He sighs and walking over to the cottage steps, lies down, and closes his eyes._)