But come. The storm is fierce without,
And glistening snow is downward flitting.
(Rises.)
To bed, oh little daughter mine.
The pines and winds their songs are singing,
And all the stars—and Lady Moon—
Their watchful care to you are bringing.
(Mother starts to go out, Child steps in front of her and looks up into her face.)
Child—
But, Mother dear, on my birthday