Oswald. “Neighborhood grew many Fir-Trees.”
Both Children. “Some older, some younger.”
Oswald. (Turning from the book) Look—I’ll draw you a fir-tree. (He draws on Ruster’s music score—spreading it on the floor.)
Sigurd. (Slowly) “But the little Fir-Tree was not happy; he was always long—longing to be tall; he th—th——”
(Ruster, who during the last part of the reading has been paying no attention, suddenly covers his face with his hands. His shoulders shake a little. Sigurd looks up frightened. Olga crosses quickly to him.)
Olga. (Gently) Ruster—Ruster! Don’t feel badly!
Ruster. (Sobbing softly) Yes—I am of no use any more.
Olga. (Sympathetically) I know—I know. You cannot make a living by your music and you are destroying yourself with brandy. You have been turned away from every door where you have knocked. But, Ruster——
Ruster. Yes, I am worn out. I ought to be thrown away! Nobody needs me.
Olga. But don’t you see that to be with the children, as to-night, would be something for you? If you would teach children you would be welcomed everywhere. Look at them, Ruster! (She places the boys in front of him.) Look at them!