The Infant\'s Delight: Poetry
THE INFANT'S DELIGHT [Illustration: THE MISTLETOE-SELLERS.] [Illustration: THE DEAD ROBIN.] [Illustration] BLIND MAN'S BUFF. When the win-ter winds are blow-ing, And we ga-ther glad and gay, Where the fire its light is throw-ing, For a mer-ry game at play, There is none that to my know-ing,-- And I've play-ed at games enough,--
ALLMERS. [With suppressed indignation.] Why do they say that, do
you think?
EYOLF. I suppose they are jealous of me. For you know, Papa, they
are so poor, they have to go about barefoot.
ALLMERS. [Softly, with choking voice.] Oh, Rita--how it wrings my
heart!
RITA. [Soothingly, rising.] There, there, there!
ALLMERS. [Threateningly.] But these rascals shall soon find out who
is the master down at the beach!
ASTA. [Listening.] There is some one knocking.
EYOLF. Oh, I'm sure it's Borgheim!
RITA. Come in.
[The RAT-WIFE comes softly and noiselessly in by the door on the
right. She is a thin little shrunken figure, old and grey-haired,
with keen, piercing eyes, dressed in an old-fashioned flowered
gown, with a black hood and cloak. She has in her hand a large red
umbrella, and carries a black bag by a loop over her arm.]
THE INFANT'S DELIGHT [Illustration: THE MISTLETOE-SELLERS.] [Illustration: THE DEAD ROBIN.] [Illustration] BLIND MAN'S BUFF. When the win-ter winds are blow-ing, And we ga-ther glad and gay, Where the fire its light is throw-ing, For a mer-ry game at play, There is none that to my know-ing,-- And I've play-ed at games enough,--