The workshop stood over an entry which opened off the street. People
came and went along this entry: Madame Rasmussen and old Captain
Elleby; the old maid-servant of a Comptroller, an aged pensioner
who wore a white cap, drew her money from the Court, and expended
it here, and a feeble, gouty old sailor who had bidden the sea
farewell. Out in the street, on the sharp-edged cobble-stones, the
sparrows were clamoring loudly, lying there with puffed-out feathers,
feasting among the horse-droppings, tugging at them and scattering
them about to the accompaniment of a storm of chirping and
scolding.

Everything overlooking the yard stood open. In the workshop all four
windows were opened wide, and the green light sifted into the room
and fell on the faces of those present. But that was no help. Not a
breath of wind was blowing; moreover, Pelle's heat came from within.
He was sweating with sheer anxiety.

For the rest, he pulled industriously at his cobbler's wax, unless,
indeed, something outside captured his harassed mind, so that it
wandered out into the sunshine.

Everything out there was splashed with vivid sunlight; seen from the
stuffy workshop the light was like a golden river, streaming down
between the two rows of houses, and always in the same direction,
down to the sea. Then a speck of white down came floating on the air,
followed by whitish-gray thistle-seeds, and a whole swarm of gnats,
and a big broad bumble-bee swung to and fro. All these eddied,
gleaming, in the open doorway, and they went on circling as though
there was something there which attracted them all--doubtless an
accident, or perhaps a festival.