_Twilight has come down and the stage is flooded with such light as never was on land or sea. There is no sound except a sheep-herder’s wife in the distance playing an aria from Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony, on a mouth-organ. The great white and gray moths swoop down and light on the old man until he is completely covered by them. But he does not stir._ _The curtain goes up and down several times to denote the lapse of several minutes. A good comedy effect can be obtained by having_ MR. ICKY _cling to the curtain and go up and down with it. Fireflies or fairies on wires can also be introduced at this point._ _Then_ PETER _appears, a look of almost imbecile sweetness on his face. In his hand he clutches something and from time to time glances at it in a transport of ecstasy. After a struggle with himself he lays it on the old man’s body and then quietly withdraws._ _The moths chatter among themselves and then scurry away in sudden fright. And as night deepens there still sparkles there, small, white and round, breathing a subtle perfume to the West Issacshire breeze,_ PETER’S _gift of love--a moth-ball._ (_The play can end at this point or can go on indefinitely._) JEMINA, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL This don’t pretend to be “Literature.” This is just a tale for red-blooded folks who want a _story_ and not just a lot of “psychological” stuff or “analysis.” Boy, you’ll love it! Read it here, see it in the movies, play it on the phonograph, run it through the sewing-machine. A WILD THING It was night in the mountains of Kentucky. Wild hills rose on all sides. Swift mountain streams flowed rapidly up and down the mountains. Jemina Tantrum was down at the stream, brewing whiskey at the family still. She was a typical mountain girl. Her feet were bare. Her hands, large and powerful, hung down below her knees. Her face showed the ravages of work. Although but sixteen, she had for over a dozen years been supporting her aged pappy and mappy by brewing mountain whiskey. From time to time she would pause in her task, and, filling a dipper full of the pure, invigorating liquid, would drain it off--then pursue her work with renewed vigor. She would place the rye in the vat, thresh it out with her feet and, in twenty minutes, the completed product would be turned out. A sudden cry made her pause in the act of draining a dipper and look up. “Hello,” said a voice. It came from a man clad in hunting boots reaching to his neck, who had emerged. “Can you tell me the way to the Tantrums’ cabin?” “Are you uns from the settlements down thar?” She pointed her hand down to the bottom of the hill, where Louisville lay. She had never been there; but once, before she was born, her great-grandfather, old Gore Tantrum, had gone into the settlements in the company of two marshals, and had never come back. So the Tantrums, from generation to generation, had learned to dread civilization.