II.

For us they spread their dainty fare, For us they scent the midnight air; For us their glow-worm lamps they light, For us their music cheers the night.

_Little Girl sings_.

I.

Ye fays and fairies, hasten here, Robed in glittering gossamere; With tapers bright, and music sweet, And frolic dance, and twinkling feet.

II.

And, little Mable, let us view Your acorn goblets fill'd with dew; Nor warn us hence till we have seen The nut-sh.e.l.l chariot of your queen:

III.

In which on nights of yore she sat, Driven by her gray-coated gnat; With spider spokes and cobweb traces, And horses fit for fairy races.

IV.

And bid us join your revel ring, And see you dance, and hear you sing: Your fairy dainties let us taste, And speed us home with fairy haste.

_Little Boy_. If there were really fairies, and if they would give me my wish, I know what I should ask.

_Little Girl._ And so do I--I would ask them to send father home before I could count ten.

_Little Boy_. And I would ask to hear his general say to him, in the face of the whole army, "This is a brave man!" And father should hold up his head as I do now, and march thus by the side of his general.

[_As the little Boy marches, he stumbles.]

_Little Girl_. Oh! take care!--come, let us march home:--but stay, I have not found my f.a.ggot.

_Little Boy_. Never mind your f.a.ggot; it was not here you left it.

_Little Girl_. Yes, it was somewhere here, I'm sure, and I must find it, to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her before she goes to bed.

_Little Boy_. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late.

_Little Girl_. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under those trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my f.a.ggot.--When we get home, I shall say, "Mother, do you know there is great news?--there's a great many, many candles in the windows of the great house, and dancing and music in the great house, because the master's come home, and the housekeeper had not time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our f.a.ggots; at last the butler--"

_Little Boy_. Heyday!--What have we here?--a purse, a purse, a heavy purse.

_Little Girl_. Whose can it be? let us carry it home to mother.

_Little Boy_. No, no; it can't be mother's: mother has no purse full of money. It must belong to somebody at the great house.

_Little Girl_. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, for she has more purses and money than any body else in the world.

_Little Boy_. Come, let us run back with it to her,--mother would tell us to do so, I'm sure, if she was here.

_Little Girl_. But I'm afraid the housekeeper won't see us to-night.

_Little Boy_. Oh, yes; but I'll beg, and pray, and push, till I get into her room.

_Little Girl_. Yes; but don't push me, or I shall knock my head against the trees. Give me your hand, brother.--Oh, my f.a.ggot! I shall never find you.

[_Exeunt_.]

SCENE--Catherine's _Cottage_.

CATHERINE, _spinning, sings_.

I.

Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel, And leave my heart no time to feel; Companion of my widow'd hour, My only friend, my only dow'r.

II.

Thy lengthening thread I love to see, Thy whirring sound is dear to me: Oh, swiftly turn by night and day, And toil for him that's far away.

_Catherine_. Hark! here come the children. No, 'twas only the wind.

What can keep these children so late?--but it is a fine moonlight night--they'll have brave appet.i.tes for their supper when they come back--but I wonder they don't come home.--Heigho! since their father has been gone, I am grown a coward--(_a knock at the door heard_)--Come in!--Why does every knock at the door startle me in this way?

_Enter_ CHARLES, _with a knapsack on his back_

_Charles_. Mistress! mayhap you did not expect to see a stranger at this time o' night, as I guess by the looks of ye--but I'm only a poor fellow, that has been a-foot a great many hours.

_Cath_. Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as we have you're welcome to.

[_She sets milk, &c., on a table. Charles throws himself into a chair, and flings his knapsack behind him_.]

_Charles_. 'Tis a choice thing to rest one's self:--I say, mistress, you must know, I, and some more of us peasants, have come a many, many leagues since break of day.

_Cath_. Indeed, you may well be tired--and where do you come from?--Did you meet, on your road, any soldiers coming back from Finland?

_Charles (eats and speaks_). Not the soldiers themselves, I can't say as I did; but we are them that are bringing home the knapsacks of the poor fellows that have lost their lives in the wars in Finland.

_Cath._ (during this speech of Charles, leans on the back of a chair.

_Aside_) Now I shall know my fate.

_Charles (eating and speaking)_. My comrades are gone on to the village beyond with their knapsacks, to get them owned by the families of them to whom they belonged, as it stands to reason and right. Pray, mistress, as you know the folks here-abouts, could you tell me whose knapsack this is, here, behind me? (_looking up at Catherine_.)--Oons, but how pale she looks! (_aside_). Here, sit ye down, do. (_Aside_) Why, I would not have said a word if I had thought on it--to be sure she has a lover now, that has been killed in the wars. (_Aloud_) Take a sup of the cold milk, mistress.

_Catherine (goes fearfully towards the knapsack_). 'Tis his! 'tis my husband's!

[_She sinks down on a chair, and hides her face with her hands_.]

_Charles_. Poor soul! poor soul!--(_he pauses_.) But now it is not clear to me that you may not be mistaken, mistress:--these knapsacks be all so much alike, I'm sure I could not, for the soul of me, tell one from t'other--it is by what's in the inside only one can tell for certain.

(_Charles opens the knapsack, pulls out a waistcoat, carries it towards Catherine, and holds it before her face_.)--Look ye here, now; don't give way to sorrow while there's hope left--Mayhap, mistress--look at this now, can't ye, mistress?