FISHERMAN. Turn back! The floe has broken loose down that way!
MILL-FOLK. And eastward, too! Let's turn northward!
FISHERMAN. There's the river!
MILL-FOLK. Southward, then!
FISHERMAN. There are the rapids!
MILL-FOLK. [Leaning dejectedly on their staffs] God have mercy on us!
MATS. The Mewlings put us on the wrong track.
BRITA. As they have always done!
FATHER. And they'll be first at church!
GRANDFATHER. Never mind! But I can't help regretting the day when I burned the papers.