don't make it tragic. . . . Don't make it important. . . . You are an old woman and it doesn't matter to you. Nothing matters—not even rats. Try it again."
Now she rubbed her hands together. "I think it is . . ."
"Just a minute, pardon me . . . Paul! . . . Hey Paul! . . . Will somebody please get him up here . . . We are waiting. Hey Paul!"
At last Paul appeared and looked out over the footlights.
"Where is your snow?"
"It's all ready, sir."
"But where is it?"
"It's ready for the performance."
"But we want it now—now; don't you understand?"
- If we use it now there won't be so much left for the performance."
"Spread a sheet and use it over again."
"But the actors walk over it with their dirty feet—and kick it all over the house."
"It doesn't matter. We must have snow now. The cue is—'I think it is growing colder.' Use what you have now and cut up more paper for the performance."
"All the paper is already used up."
"Buy more."
"Very well, sir."
During this conversation an old actor crept into the theatre. His coat was green, patched, and tattered. He walked leaning on his staff, and putting his bundle under an empty seat he proceeded towards the director. His hair was white like new snow, but matted in cords. He walked slowly and hesitated at each step.
"Once more," continued the director.
This time the actress walked over toward the window before she said, "I think it is growing colder."
Then one could see through the soaped glass of the window a fierce fall of snow.
"Paul!—Pardon me a moment . . . Paul! Where is he now? . . . Hey Paul!"
At last Paul appeared.
"Who cut up the snow?"
"The snow?"
