_It is about four o'clock in the morning. The windows in the inn are
still lit. Through the gateway comes in the twilight of a pallid dawn
which, in the course of the action, develops into a ruddy glow, and
this, in its turn, gradually melts into bright daylight. Under the
gateway, on the ground, sits BEIPST and sharpens his scythe. As the
curtain rises, little more is visible than his dark outline which is
defined against the morning sky, but one hears the monotonous,
uninterrupted and regular beat of the scythe hammer on the anvil. For
some minutes this is the only sound audible. Then follows the solemn
silence of the morning, broken by the cries of roysterers who are
leaving the inn. The inn-door is slammed with a crash. The lights in
the windows go out. A distant barking of dogs is heard and a loud,
confused crowing of cocks. On the path from the inn to the house a
dark figure becomes visible which reels in zigzag lines toward the
farmyard. It is FARMER KRAUSE, who, as always, has been the last to
leave the inn._

FARMER KRAUSE

[_Has reeled against the fence, clings to it for support with both hands,
and roars with a somewhat nasal, drunken voice back at the inn._] The
garden'sh mine ... the inn'sh mi-ine ... ash of a' inn-keeper! Hi-hee!
[_After mumbling and growling unintelligibly he frees himself from the
fence and staggers into the yard, where, luckily, he gets hold of the
handles of a plough._] The farm'sh mi'ine. [_He drivels, half singing._]
Drink ... o ... lil' brother, drink ... o ... lil' brother ... brandy'sh
good t' give courash. Hi-hee--[_roaring aloud_]--ain' I a han'some man
... Ain' I got a han'some wife?... Ain' I got a couple o' han'some gals?