 Family Theater presents Colleen Townsend and Tom Tully. With Family Theater Incorporated brings you Raymond Burr, John Daner, and Virginia Gregg in the courtship of Miles Sandage, with Tom Tully as narrator. To introduce the drama, your hostess Colleen Townsend. Tomorrow, we here in the United States will celebrate Thanksgiving Day. The day we have traditionally set aside for over 300 years to give thanks for the blessings of the 12 months past. We all have much to be thankful for. We have friends and loved ones. And the great heritage of a nation where freedom and liberty are not mere words, but are living actualities. We on Family Theater are going to bring you the most famous of all stories concerning the men and the women who first brought that heritage of freedom to these shores. The men and the women who were the first to celebrate this day of Thanksgiving. Now Tom Tully will tell you the story of our Pilgrim Fathers, with Raymond Burr as the brave and rugged captain, John Daner as his young poet friend, and Virginia Gregg as the beautiful young maiden. We bring you Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's classic poem of Plymouth, The Courtship of Miles Sandage. Old colony days in Plymouth, the land of the Pilgrims, two and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwellings strode with martial air, Miles Sandage, the Puritan captain. Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, then long at the window he stood and wistfully he gazed at the landscape. And over his countenance flitted a shadow, like those cast by the afternoon sun on the forest and on the hills. Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, rose standish lies buried, the beautiful rows of love that bloomed for me, and who was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower. Now the field of wheat we have sown grows green above her, the better to hide the graves of our people from the Indian scouts, lest they count them and see how many of us have already perished. Near the captain was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion, writing at a table of pine by the window, his flying pin writing letters to sail with the Mayflower when she returned to England. Letters filled with the name and praises of a young Puritan girl. Again I say there is no one like Priscilla. Priscilla the comey, Priscilla the sweet, Priscilla whom I love, though as yet I have not spoken to her of my love, someday soon I must, and pray with me then that when I do, Priscilla Mullins will consent to become Priscilla Alden. And so they shared this room, these two great friends, Captain Miles Standish and John Alden, one sighing or a love of the past, the other dreaming of a tender love of the future. Then Miles Standish suddenly broke the silence. When you have finished your work John, I have something important to tell you. Then speak, Miles, for whenever you have anything to say I am always ready to listen. It is not good for a man to be alone, John. Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and drear. Yes, I am well aware of it, Miles, all the more so because I have been able to do nothing to help. I have been sick at heart, John, beyond the healing of friendship. Even such a friendship is that of yours. Perhaps that is why in my lonely hours I've often thought of the maiden Priscilla. Of Priscilla? She is alone in the world too. Her mother, father and brother died in the winter past, as Rose did. Yes, yes, I know, Miles. I have watched her, John, patient, courageous, strong. I've said to myself that if ever there were angels on earth, then I have seen and known too Rose and the angel whose name is Priscilla. So I tell you now, John, for between friends such as we, no thought should ever be hidden. That the angel Priscilla now holds in my heart the place which the other left lonely and abandoned. In your heart, Miles, you mean have you, have you told her of this? Oh, no, I've always thought myself valiant enough for the most part. But in this, I have been a coward. That's why I wish you to go to her. You wish me... Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words, but of actions offers his hand in his heart. The hand and heart of a soldier. Miles, Miles, I cannot say these things. Oh, no, no, not in words, I know. I am a maker of war, not a maker of phrases. But you, you are bred as a scholar. You can say it in elegant language, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden. But I, I am certain that I would mangle and mar such a message as that. If you would have it well done, you must do it yourself. John, I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender. But to march up to a woman with such a proposal, to face a thundering point blank no from a woman's mouth, that I confess I cannot do. So you must grant my request. Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our great friendship. No. No, Miles, what you ask me to do in the name of friendship, I cannot refuse to do. And so John Alden went on his errand, out of the streets of the village and into the paths of the tranquil woods, where all around him was calm. While within him was commotion and conflict, love, contending with friendship. Through the Plymouth Woods went John Alden, and finally came to a new built house in a meadow. And heard as he approached the sweet singing song of the spinning wheel, and saw through the open door the Puritan girl Priscilla, making the humble house and the modest apparel of homespun beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being. Come in, John Alden, come in. I knew it was you, and I heard your step, while I was thinking of you as I sat here spinning. You were thinking of me, Priscilla? Thinking of you and of the England that you and I have often spoken about. But we've now left forever. Oh, John, the people I live with here are kind, and dear to me is the privilege of liberty and freedom. Still, my heart is so sad I almost wish myself back in old England. I feel so lonely and wretched. And Priscilla, I wish that I might. Yes, John, you wish that you might. I... I do not condemn you, Priscilla, for feeling as you do. The stouter hearts that a woman's have quailed at the terrible winter just passed. And yours is so tender and trusting that it needs a stronger one to lean on. Where am I to find such a heart, John Alden? That is why I have come to you now, Priscilla, to offer you such a heart. For I... I come with a proffer of marriage. John... John, you... you have come to me with... a proffer of marriage. Made by a good man and true. Miles Standish, the captain of Plymouth. Miles Standish? Yes, Priscilla. If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me? Well, you... you see, Priscilla... Surely if I'm not worth the wooing, I am not worth winning. No, Captain Standish, he's... he's a busy man, Priscilla. He has no time for... for such things. If he has no time for such things, as you call it, before he's married, would he be likely to find time or make it after the wedding? Oh, but you do not understand. A woman's affection is not a thing to be asked for and to be had only for the asking. When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. But I am certain that once he... That is what waited a while, this captain of yours, had he only showed that he loved me. Who knows? Old and rough as he is, he might have won me. Now it can never happen. Priscilla, you cannot dismiss his suit so lightly. He is a man of honor, of noble and good nature. And his russet beard is already flaked with patches of snow, as hedges are in no value. He is kindly... He is hasty and headstrong, stern and implacable. He is stern, perhaps, as a soldier must be, but he is great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous. Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish. You plead the cause of your friend very well, John. In simple and elegant language. So warm and glowing that it is truly hard to see how any woman's heart could keep from melting in its fire. Then what do you say, Priscilla? What is your answer to this suit I bring on behalf of Captain Standish? Why don't you speak for yourself, John? Perplexed and bewildered, John awed and wandered alone by the seaside. Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing. And fierce within his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contending. Is it my fault then that Priscilla has chosen between us? Is it my fault that he failed, that I am the victor? He is your friend, John. But she loves me. Did she not ask me to speak for myself? She loves me as I love her. He is your friend, John. Is it right then that we should be denied this happiness, this love? Why must we sacrifice all this? Why? Why? He is your friend, John. He is your friend. All that has happened, I brought her your message, Miles. Pressed your suit with whatever eloquence I had at my command. An eloquence enough it was, I warrant me. What was her reaction, John? She was a bit angry at first, Miles. Angry? Yes, that you had not come in person to tell her of your love. Will you explain why, John? As fully as I was able. Good, good, go on. I told her of your noble attributes as I know of them. I'm certain you did. Certain. I gave her, gave you full warranty as your friend, as the man who knows you best in this colony. Good lad, John. Good lad. And concluded by saying that any woman in the colony, any woman in all England, in fact, would be proud and honored to be your wife. Well, in truth, colossal exaggeration, John. But I will forgive you, your poetic license, considering the circumstances. Priscilla then gave you her answer. She did, Miles. And it was, of course, she said... Why don't you speak for yourself, John? No. So you've betrayed me, John. Me, Miles' standish, your friend. You've betrayed me. No, Miles. No, I have... One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler. Now who shall prevent me from running mine through the heart of a traitor who played treason to friendship? No one, Miles. If so, you believe me to be. You have lived under my roof, whom I have cherished and loved as a brother, you to whose keeping I have entrusted my honor, my thoughts, the sacred and secret... Listen to me, Miles. Listen. I swear to you, as your true and loyal friend, that I had no idea. No slightest reason to believe that you were... Say that you may have friendship. There is no friendship between us. Nothing remains save war and implacable hatred. Nothing remains but... Miles, the warning cannon atop the church. I hear it. Some danger threatens Plymouth, then. And in this wilderness of savages, that can mean only one thing. There is nothing in that for me to fear. For I have learned this day that no savage with skin of red presents a greater danger to me than a civilized friend whose soul is black. Art and mind writhing under the blow he felt had been struck in, Captain Miles Standish strode wrathfully away to the cabin, where he knew the village council would be meeting. And as he entered, it was just in time to see an Indian, stern and defiant, naked to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect, hurl under the table before him the glittering skin of a rattlesnake. A rattlesnake skin filled like a quiver with deadly arrows. And what is the meaning of this insolence red skin? From what a womat, O pale face, come these arrowy tongues. From what a womat, great chief of the Somoset. Is a signal and challenge of warfare that has been given us, Miles. So be it then, Elder. If it is warfare they wish, warfare they shall have. Do you not think, Miles, that it would be best to bargain and compromise with them for peace? Do you not think that in the eyes of the Lord, it is more Christian behavior to convert their souls rather than destroy their bodies? Bargain and compromise with such as these, Elder, nay, leave this matter to me. War is my trade, a terrible one though it may be. And in a righteous cause, even the smell of gunpowder can be sweet. What is your answer, pale face? To the great chief, what a womat. The same rattlesnake skin you brought to us, Indian. Filled to the very jaws with powder and shot. That is the answer you can take to what a womat. Just in the gray of dawn as the mists uproised from the meadows, there was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth, a muffled clanging and rattle of arms, an imperative order given in a suppressive tone. Forward. And ten figures marched slowly out of the village into the mist. Ten men, the stalwart, Miles Standish as their leader, marched northward to quell the sudden revolt of the savages. Ten brave pilgrims marching to do war with the savage war-o-wamat and the tribes of Samoset. And as those marching figures ghostly in the fog and mist near the edge of the forest, another figure standing there called out to them, called out to their leader. Miles, good luck, Miles, and may God bless thee. But there was no reply, no answer to the call thus given. And the men marched away swallowed up by forest and mist, and only silence replied to him whose love and friendship marched side by side with him who bravely strode away into battle. So he was gone, John. Hm? Oh, Priscilla. He and the brave men with him. Yes. And without me, I begged to be allowed to accompany him. He would not listen, would not even reply. You told him of our words of yesterday. I told him. So he is hurt and offended, even as you are. I, Priscilla? Yes, John. But do not be angry. Am I to blame that when you were pleading so warmly the cause of another, my heart pleaded your own, that I spoke as I did by irresistible impulse. I was not angry with you, only with myself for seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping. No. No, you're upset with me for speaking so frankly and freely. But it is my nature to do so. And so I am not ashamed to tell you now that I have liked to be with you. To see you. To speak with you. Priscilla? No, no. Priscilla. Let me finish, John. That was why I was hurt by your words. Affronted to hear you urge me to marry your friend. For the truth is, your friendship means more to me than all the love Miles Dandish could give where he twice the hero you think him. For the sake of this friendship. Can you forgive me then? Oh, forgive you, Priscilla. How can there ever be a question of forgiveness between the two of us when we feel toward each other as we... As well as I know that because of him, we can be no more to each other. But as friends, I shall always be the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest that you shall ever know. Month after month passed away and all in the village was peace. A man intent on their labor, busy with hewing and building and with homestead. And oft when his labor was finished, John Alden with eager feet would follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of Priscilla. Deceiving himself that this was duty, concealing his love and the semblance of friendship. Truly, Priscilla, when I see you spinning and spinning, never idle the moment. Suddenly you are, you're transformed. You're no longer Priscilla, but the beautiful Queen of Helvetia, ever spinning her thread from a distaff so that her name passed into proverb and that shall be with you. Priscilla mollins a proverb, John. Now truly your imagination is running away with you. No, not so, for when the spinning wheel shall no longer hum in the house of the farmer. Mothers shall relate to their children how it was in their childhood. Praising the good old times, the days of Priscilla the spinner. This idleness of yours is leading into paths of fancy too fantastic to mention. I had better put you to work. Well, to work, Priscilla, and hey, that is not for a poet like me. I am a spinner of fancies, not of yarns. If I am to be a pattern for housewives, then you must show yourself worthy of being the model of husbands. So at some future time, fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden. Here, hold this cane on your hands while I wind it for knitting. Oh, no, no, no, no, Priscilla. You would make a housewife out of me. This is no work for a man. John. Hi, Priscilla. The warning cannon atop the church. Then danger threatens this village of Plymouth. And miles standish and the men of arms are gone. The good people will be gathering in the town square. Come, we had best join them and learn what disaster now hangs like a black cloud or this land. A friendly Indian of us who brought the fearful nose, an Indian who witnessed the frightful tragedy. This word cannot be gained, sir. Miles standish is dead. The Somersets and Squantos and all their murderous tribes are even now descending upon us to burn our village to the ground. You hear? Miles standish is dead. The village of Plymouth doomed. What remains then of all our hopes and dreams? While life remains, Priscilla, hope can never die. And happiness and tragedy seem destined to walk through the lives of men always, side by side. Whatever the future may hold in store, my beloved, I shall not fear it. If now you will only become my bride. Oh, John. And so, while grim-faced men prepared flintlock and powder and shot, while tearless women fearfully clasped imponds to their wildly beating breasts, there in the tiny church at Plymouth were Priscilla Mullins and John Alden made one. And when they had offered up their prayers to the hearth and home that were founded that day in affection, they turned to leave the church and then stopped. It was then that the silent figure of a man who had been standing in the rear, watching the ceremony just concluded, moved up to them and spoke. May the blessing of God forever dwell upon my house, my dearest friends. Miles. You didn't standish. Miles, you're alive. Yes, John. Never more alive nor happy than I am at this moment. But the message the Indian brought, Captain. It is not often that a man is allowed the supreme joke of starting his own death rumour to achieve his ends. It served me well to ambush the Samusets and to end the threat of uprising against Plymouth. Now the danger is o'er and I've returned home. Yes. Yes, Miles. Returned home after your noble sacrifices, toil of battle, only to find your friendship here and betrayed. How can you ever forgive us? It is you, rather, who must forgive me, John. For all the sorrow and pain that my stubborn anger and unseeming selfishness must have caused the two of you. But the long nights spent in the forests on this last campaign have brought me to my senses and never so much as now was Miles Standish, the friend of John Alden, and his beautiful bride, Priscilla. We thank thee, Captain Standish. From the very bottom of our hearts, we thank thee. Nay, Priscilla. Let us all give thanks instead to him who guides our destinies here on these strange and savage shores. Thanks for all the blessings that he has endowed us with and thanks for that rarest blessing of all. A dear old friendship that with the passing of the tender years shall ever grow older and dearer. This Thanksgiving Day, accept our humbled thanks, we pray, for food and shelter and kind friends, for every blessing heaven sends, for faith to see in all things, Lord, thy gracious gifts and great reward, for hope to rise from earthly care and find fulfillment in our prayer, for mercy, courage, gladness, mirth, for all good things upon this earth. Dear Lord, we offer thanks and pray with joyful hearts, Thanksgiving Day. This is Colleen Townsend. This is Colleen Townsend reminding you as we do each week that a family that prays together stays together. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of. From Hollywood, Family Theatre has presented Virginia Gregg, John Daener and Raymond Burr in the courtship of Myle Standish with Tom Tully as narrator and Colleen Townsend as hostess. Others in our cast were Howard Culver and Clayton Post. This adaptation of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's classic was written by Sidney Marshall, with music composed and conducted by Harry Zimmerman and was directed for Family Theatre by Jaime Del Valle. These Family Theatre broadcasts are made possible by the thousands of you who felt the need for this type of program, by the mutual network which has responded to this need, and by the hundreds of stars of stage, screen and radio who have so unselfishly given of their time and talent to appear on our Family Theatre stage. This is Gene Baker inviting you to be with us next week when your Family Theatre will bring you Rip Van Winkle starring Frank Faye. Join us, won't you? Broadcasting Corporation and his broadcast to our troops overseas by the Armed Forces Radio Service. This is the world's largest network, the mutual broadcasting system.