DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.
MOTHER. Why are you that, child?
DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.
MOTHER. Well, so do we all.
DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world?
MOTHER. It's all there is in our world.
DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?
MOTHER. We have the house—and very little else.
DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were really poor—
MOTHER. You needn't wish, child.