THE D. U.

With whiskers and side-burns flying merrily in the breeze that tear-jerking, soul-saving mellerdramer of the roaring forties, "The Drunkard" mounts the D. U. stage in handsome form. With a full cast of skilled performers the play blossoms forth in all its noble, rib-tickling splendor, a truly hilarious bit of eighteenth century Americana. Backed by a variety of well designed stage settings the drama runs its solid simple course. The handsome Yale collegian (Robert Reed) meets the fair maiden and before the first act is out they have settled down in the pretty (but mortgaged) cottage and have had their first child, an amazing infant who has done no mean growing in her first four summers (played with delicate tenderness and piping falsetto by Robert Hormell). The plots of Squire Cribbs (snarled by James Wood from behind the blackest of moustaches) come to early fruition as the supple husband is delivered into the power of Demon Rum. Lower and lower sinks our here until the very meanest of New York's gutters will no longer accept his drink-rotted carcass. Honest Will Dowton sticks by him and appears at opportune moments to save him from the prison cell toward which the wretch of a Squire is directing his staggering steps. Will has a half-witted sister (played by a well-known campus character under the Puritan alias of Penny Menace) who, with her wild-eyed lyrical ramblings, steals a good bit of the show. As our hero seems headed for certain destruction, in stalks the noble raiser of lost souls, Arden Rencelaw (William Griffin) and restores him and his gladdened wife and child to the old homestead. The fair maiden is portrayed with charming winsomeness by William Jeffrys, one of the comeliest blondes to grace the campus in years. Athlete Johnny Dorman is a picture of maternal wisdom and beauty as the early-dying mother of our fair damsel.

The entre-acte diversions are well up to the standards of the production. The Barfly Quartet of Collins, Vincent, Williams and Hormell sings one or two of the old favorites including an amusing song of tender filial devotion entitled "Don't Swat Mother, 'Cause That's Mean."--a song which we should like to have rendered over the radio every five minutes on Mother's Day; as an antidote. Brannigan, the master prestidigitator, performs his sleight of hand wonders with suave sureness.