George.
[_Interrupts him, tapping his hand_.] There, softly, softly, dear
uncle; don't begin scolding so early in the morning.
Brauer.
Don't you think it's pretty near time to call me father, my boy?
George.
Not until after the wedding, dear uncle.--Good-morning, auntie.
[_Kissing her hand_.] Well, little one? [_Kissing her_.]
Gertrude.
[_Leans on him lovingly_.] My George. [_Laughs suddenly_.] Oh, just
look! he is simply covered with hay!
George.
Then you may make yourself useful by brushing me off.
Brauer.
The hayloft seems to be your favorite sleeping-place lately.
George.
Sleep? Heavens! who could sleep in this weather? I roam about. Lord
knows where, over meadows and fields. Such St. John days!!! It's enough
to drive one mad. The days never seem to end. Late last night I was
sitting in front of my window. Said I to myself: "No sleep for me
to-night, until that cursed nightingale runs out of melody"--when
suddenly a meadow-lark announces the break of day--and there, it's
morning. To the left, the twilight: to the right, the dawn, peacefully
together. From glow to glow a new day arises. Children, I tell you, it
was beautiful. Give me a cup of coffee.
Brauer.
But, tell me! Are you going to remain here now?
George.
Why, certainly, until after the wedding.
Brauer.