Little Boy. Yes, so I will work hard, then I shall have enough for myself and father too, when he comes. Come along—come (to his sister)—and, as we come home through the forest, I’ll show you where we can get plenty of sticks for to-morrow, and we’ll help one another.
Little Girl sings.
That’s the best way,
At work and at play,
To help one another—I heard mother say—
To help one another—I heard mother say—
{The children go off, singing these words.}
Cath. (alone.) Dear, good children, how happy their father will be to see them, when he comes back!—(She begins to eat the remains of the dinner, which the children have left.) The little rogue was so hungry, he has not left me much; but he would have left me all, if he had thought that I wanted it: he shall have a good large bowl of milk for supper. It was but last night he skimmed the cream off his milk for me, because he thought I liked it. Heigho!—God knows how long they may have milk to skim—as long as I can work they shall never want; but I’m not so strong as I used to be; but then I shall get strong, and all will be well, when my husband comes back (a drum beats at a distance). Hark! a drum!—some news from abroad, perhaps—nearer and nearer (she sinks upon a chair)—why cannot I run to see—to ask (the drum beats louder and louder)—fool that I am! they will be gone! they will be all gone! (she starts up.)
{Exit hastily.}
SCENE changes to a high road, leading to a village.—A party of ragged, tired soldiers, marching slowly. Serjeant ranges them.
Serj. Keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, we have not a great way further to go:—keep on, my brave fellows, keep on, through yonder village. (The drum beats.)
{Soldiers exeunt.}
Serj. (alone.) Poor fellows, my heart bleeds to see them! the sad remains, these, of as fine a regiment as ever handled a musket. Ah! I’ve seen them march quite another guess sort of way, when they marched, and I amongst them, to face the enemy—heads up—step firm—thus it was—quick time—march!—(he marches proudly)—My poor fellows, how they lag now (looking after them)—ay, ay, there they go, slower and slower; they don’t like going through the village; nor I neither; for, at every village we pass through, out come the women and children, running after us, and crying, “Where’s my father?—What’s become of my husband?”—Stout fellow as I am, and a Serjeant too, that ought to know better, and set the others an example, I can’t stand these questions.