"If thou hearest from the mother, From the mother of thy husband, That the cask for meal is empty, Take the barley from the garners, Hasten to the rooms for grinding.

When thou grindest in the chambers, Do not sing in glee and joyance, Turn the grinding-stones in silence, To the mill give up thy singing, Let the side-holes furnish music; Do not sigh as if unhappy, Do not groan as if in trouble, Lest the father think thee weary, Lest thy husband's mother fancy That thy groans mean discontentment, That thy sighing means displeasure.

Quickly sift the flour thou grindest, Take it to the casks in buckets, Bake thy hero's bread with pleasure, Knead the dough with care and patience, That thy biscuits may be worthy, That the dough be light and airy.

"Shouldst thou see a bucket empty, Take the bucket on thy shoulder, On thine arm a silver-dipper, Hasten off to fill with water From the crystal river flowing; Gracefully thy bucket carry, Bear it firmly by the handles, Hasten houseward like the zephyrs, Hasten like the air of autumn; Do not tarry near the streamlet, At the waters do not linger, That the father may not fancy, Nor the ancient dame imagine, That thou hast beheld thine image, Hast admired thy form and features, Hast admired thy grace and beauty In the mirror of the fountain, In the crystal streamlet's eddies.

"Shouldst thou journey to the woodlands, There to gather aspen-f.a.gots, Do not go with noise and bustle, Gather all thy sticks in silence, Gather quietly the birch-wood, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, That thy calling came from anger, And thy noise from discontentment.

"If thou goest to the store-house To obtain the flour of barley, Do not tarry on thy journey, On the threshold do not linger, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, That the meal thou hast divided With the women of the village.

"If thou goest to the river, There to wash thy birchen platters, There to cleanse thy pans and buckets, Lest thy work be done in neatness, Rinse the sides, and rinse the handles, Rinse thy pitchers to perfection, Spoons, and forks, and knives, and goblets, Rinse with care thy cooking-vessels, Closely watch the food-utensils, That the dogs may not deface them, That the kittens may not mar them, That the eagles may not steal them, That the children may not break them; Many children in the village, Many little heads and fingers, That will need thy careful watching, Lest they steal the things of value.

"When thou goest to thy bathing, Have the brushes ready lying In the bath-room clean and smokeless; Do not, linger in the water, At thy bathing do not tarry, That the father may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, Thou art sleeping on the benches, Rolling in the laps of comfort.

"From thy bath, when thou returnest, To his bathing tempt the father, Speak to him the words that follow: 'Father of my hero-husband, Clean are all the bath-room benches, Everything in perfect order; Go and bathe for thine enjoyment, Pour the water all-sufficient, I will lend thee needed service.'

"When the time has come for spinning, When the hours arrive for weaving, Do not ask the help of others, Look not in the stream for knowledge, For advice ask not the servants, Nor the spindle from the sisters, Nor the weaving-comb from strangers.

Thou thyself must do the spinning, With thine own hand ply the shuttle, Loosely wind the skeins of wool-yarn, Tightly wind the b.a.l.l.s of flax-thread, Wind them deftly in the shuttle Fit the warp upon the rollers, Beat the woof and warp together, Swiftly ply the weaver's shuttle, Weave good cloth for all thy vestments, Weave of woolen, webs for dresses From the finest wool of lambkins, One thread only in thy weaving.

"Hear thou what I now advise thee: Brew thy beer from early barley, From the barley's new-grown kernels, Brew it with the magic virtues, Malt it with the sweets of honey, Do not stir it with the birch-rod, Stir it with thy skilful fingers; When thou goest to the garners, Do not let the seed bring evil, Keep the dogs outside the brew-house, Have no fear of wolves in hunger, Nor the wild-beasts of the mountains, When thou goest to thy brewing, Shouldst thou wander forth at midnight.

"Should some stranger come to see thee, Do not worry for his comfort; Ever does the worthy household Have provisions for the stranger, Bits of meat, and bread, and biscuit, Ample for the dinner-table; Seat the stranger in thy dwelling, Speak with him in friendly accents, Entertain the guest with kindness, While his dinner is preparing.

When the stranger leaves thy threshold, When his farewell has been spoken, Lead him only to the portals, Do not step without the doorway, That thy husband may not fancy, And the mother not imagine, Thou hast interest in strangers.

"Shouldst thou ever make a journey To the centre of the village, There to gain some needed object, While thou speakest in the hamlet, Let thy words be full of wisdom, That thou shamest not thy kindred, Nor disgrace thy husband's household.

"Village-maidens oft will ask thee, Mothers of the hamlet question: 'Does thy husband's mother greet thee As in childhood thou wert greeted, In thy happy home in Pohya?'

Do not answer in negation, Say that she has always given Thee the best of her provisions, Given thee the kindest greetings, Though it be but once a season.

"Listen well to what I tell thee: As thou goest from thy father To thy husband's distant dwelling, Thou must not forget thy mother, Her that gave thee life and beauty, Her that nurtured thee in childhood, Many sleepless nights she nursed thee; Often were her wants neglected, Numberless the times she rocked thee; Tender, true, and ever faithful, Is the mother to her daughter.

She that can forget her mother, Can neglect the one that nursed her, Should not visit Mana's castle, In the kingdom of Tuoni; In Ma.n.a.la she would suffer, Suffer frightful retribution, Should her mother be forgotten; Should her dear one be neglected, Mana's daughters will torment her, And Tuoni's sons revile her, They will ask her much as follows: 'How couldst thou forget thy mother, How neglect the one that nursed thee?

Great the pain thy mother suffered, Great the trouble that thou gavest When thy loving mother brought thee Into life for good or evil, When she gave thee earth-existence, When she nursed thee but an infant, When she fed thee in thy childhood, When she taught thee what thou knowest, Mana's punishments upon thee, Since thy mother is forgotten!'"

On the floor a witch was sitting, Near the fire a beggar-woman, One that knew the ways of people, These the words the woman uttered: "Thus the crow calls in the winter: 'Would that I could be a singer, And my voice be full of sweetness, But, alas! my songs are worthless, Cannot charm the weakest creature; I must live without the singing Leave the songs to the musicians, Those that live in golden houses, In the homes of the beloved; Homeless therefore I must wander, Like a beggar in the corn-fields, And with none to do me honor.'

"Hear now, sister, what I tell thee, Enter thou thy husband's dwelling, Follow not his mind, nor fancies, As my husband's mind I followed; As a flower was I when budding, Sprouting like a rose in spring-time, Growing like a slender maiden, Like the honey-gem of glory, Like the playmates of my childhood, Like the goslings of my father, Like the blue-ducks of my mother, Like my brother's water-younglings, Like the bullfinch of my sister; Grew I like the heather-flower, Like the berry of the meadow, Played upon the sandy sea-sh.o.r.e, Rocked upon the fragrant upland, Sang all day adown the valley, Thrilled with song the hill and mountain, Filled with mirth the glen and forest, Lived and frolicked in the woodlands.

"Into traps are foxes driven By the cruel pangs of hunger, Into traps, the cunning ermine; Thus are maidens wooed and wedded, In their hunger for a husband.

Thus created is the virgin, Thus intended is the daughter, Subject to her hero-husband, Subject also to his mother.

"Then to other fields I hastened, Like a berry from the border, Like a cranberry for roasting, Like a strawberry for dinner; All the elm-trees seemed to wound me, All the aspens tried to cut me, All the willows tried to seize me, All the forest tried to slay me.

Thus I journeyed to my husband, Thus I travelled to his dwelling, Was conducted to his mother.

Then there were, as was reported, Six compartments built of pine-wood, Twelve the number of the chambers, And the mansion filled with garrets, Studding all the forest border, Every by-way filled with flowers Streamlets bordered fields of barley, Filled with wheat and corn, the islands, Grain in plenty in the garners, Rye unthrashed in great abundance, Countless sums of gold and silver, Other treasures without number.

When my journey I had ended, When my hand at last was given, Six supports were in his cabin, Seven poles as rails for fencing.

Filled with anger were the bushes, All the glens disfavor showing, All the walks were lined with trouble, Evil-tempered were the forests, Hundred words of evil import, Hundred others of unkindness.

Did not let this bring me sorrow, Long I sought to merit praises, Long I hoped to find some favor, Strove most earnestly for kindness; When they led me to the cottage, There I tried some chips to gather, Knocked my head against the portals Of my husband's lowly dwelling.

"At the door were eyes of strangers, Sable eyes at the part.i.tion, Green with envy in his cabin, Evil heroes in the back-ground, From each mouth the fire was streaming, From each tongue the sparks out-flying, Flying from my second father, From his eyeb.a.l.l.s of unkindness.

Did not let this bring me trouble, Tried to live in peace and pleasure, In the homestead of my husband In humility I suffered, Skipped about with feet of rabbit, Flew along with steps of ermine, Late I laid my head to slumber, Early rose as if a servant, Could not win a touch of kindness, Could not merit love nor honor, Though I had dislodged the mountains, Though the rocks had I torn open.

"Then I turned the heavy millstone, Ground the flour with care and trouble, Ground the barley-grains in patience, That the mother might be nourished, That her fury-throat might swallow What might please her taste and fancy,.

From her gold-enamelled platters, From the corner of her table.

"As for me, the hapless daughter, All my flour was from the siftings On the table near the oven, Ate I from the birchen ladle; Oftentimes I brought the mosses Gathered in the lowland meadows, Baked them into loaves for eating; Brought the water from the river, Thirsty, sipped it from the dipper, Ate of fish the worst in Northland, Only smelts, and worthless swimmers, Rocking in my boat of birch-bark Never ate I fish or biscuit From my second mother's fingers.

"Blades I gathered in the summers, Twisted barley-stalks in winter, Like the laborers of heroes, Like the servants sold in bondage.

In the thresh-house of my husband, Evermore to me was given Flail the heaviest and longest, And to me the longest lever, On the sh.o.r.e the strongest beater, And the largest rake in haying; No one thought my burden heavy, No one thought that I could suffer, Though the best of heroes faltered, And the strongest women weakened.

"Thus did I, a youthful housewife, At the right time, all my duties, Drenched myself in perspiration, Hoped for better times to follow; But I only rose to labor, Knowing neither rest nor pleasure.

I was blamed by all the household, With ungrateful tongues derided, Now about my awkward manners, Now about my reputation, Censuring my name and station.

Words unkind were heaped upon me, Fell like hail on me unhappy, Like the frightful flash of lightning, Like the heavy hail of spring-time.

I did not despair entirely, Would have lived to labor longer Underneath the tongue of malice, But the old-one spoiled Lay temper, Roused my deepest ire and hatred Then my husband grew a wild-bear, Grew a savage wolf of Hisi.

"Only then I turned to weeping, And reflected in my chamber, Thought of all my former pleasures Of the happy days of childhood, Of my father's joyful firesides, Of my mother's peaceful cottage, Then began I thus to murmur: 'Well thou knowest, ancient mother, How to make thy sweet bud blossom, How to train thy tender shootlet; Did not know where to ingraft it, Placed, alas! the little scion In the very worst of places, On an unproductive hillock, In the hardest limb of cherry, Where it could not grow and flourish, There to waste its life, in weeping, Hapless in her lasting sorrow.

Worthier had been my conduct In the regions that are better, In the court-yards that are wider, In compartments that are larger, Living with a loving husband, Living with a stronger hero.

Shoe of birch-bark was my suitor, Shoe of Laplanders, my husband; Had the body of a raven, Voice and visage like the jackdaw, Mouth and claws were from the black-wolf, The remainder from the wild-bear.

Had I known that mine affianced Was a fount of pain and evil, To the hill-side I had wandered, Been a pine-tree on the highway, Been a linden on the border, Like the black-earth made my visage, Grown a beard of ugly bristles, Head of loam and eyes of lightning, For my ears the knots of birches, For my limbs the trunks of aspens.'

"This the manner of my singing In the hearing of my husband, Thus I sang my cares and murmurs Thus my hero near the portals Heard the wail of my displeasure, Then he hastened to my chamber; Straightway knew I by his footsteps, Well concluded be was angry, 'Knew it by his steps implanted; All the winds were still in slumber, Yet his sable locks stood endwise, Fluttered round his bead in fury, While his horrid mouth stood open; To and fro his eyes were rolling, In one hand a branch of willow, In the other, club of alder; Struck at me with might of malice, Aimed the cudgel at my forehead.

"When the evening had descended, When my husband thought of slumber Took he in his hand a whip-stalk, With a whip-lash made of deer-skin, Was not made for any other, Only made for me unhappy.

"When at last I begged for mercy, When I sought a place for resting, By his side I courted slumber, Merciless, my husband seized me, Struck me with his arm of envy, Beat me with the whip of torture, Deer-skin-lash and stalk of birch-wood.

From his couch I leaped impulsive, In the coldest night of winter, But the husband fleetly followed, Caught me at the outer portals, Grasped me by my streaming tresses, Tore my ringlets from my forehead, Cast in curls upon the night-winds To the freezing winds of winter.

What the aid that I could ask for, Who could free me from my torment?

Made I shoes of magic metals, Made the straps of steel and copper, Waited long without the dwelling, Long I listened at the portals, Hoping he would end his ravings, Hoping he would sink to slumber, But he did not seek for resting, Did not wish to still his fury.

Finally the cold benumbed me; As an outcast from his cabin, I was forced to walk and wander, When I, freezing, well reflected, This the substance of my thinking: 'I will not endure this torture, Will not bear this thing forever, Will not bear this cruel treatment, Such contempt I will not suffer In the wicked tribe of Hisi, In this nest of evil Piru.'

"Then I said, 'Farewell forever!'

To my husband's home and kindred, To my much-loved home and husband; Started forth upon a journey To my father's distant hamlet, Over swamps and over snow-fields, Wandered over towering mountains, Over hills and through the valleys, To my brother's welcome meadows, To my sister's home and birthplace.

"There were rustling withered pine-trees.

Finely-feathered firs were fading, Countless ravens there were cawing, All the jackdaws harshly singing, This the chorus of the ravens: 'Thou hast here a home no longer, This is not the happy homestead Of thy merry days of childhood.'

"Heeding not this woodland chorus, Straight I journeyed to the dwelling Of my childhood's friend and brother, Where the portals spake in concord, And the hills and valleys answered, This their saddened song and echo: 'Wherefore dost thou journey hither, Comest thou for joy or sorrow, To thy father's old dominions?

Here unhappiness awaits thee, Long departed is thy father, Dead and gone to visit Ukko, Dead and gone thy faithful mother, And thy brother is a stranger, While his wife is chill and heartless!'

"Heeding not these many warnings, Straightway to my brother's cottage Were my weary feet directed, Laid my hand upon the door-latch Of my brother's dismal cottage, But the latch was cold and lifeless.

When I wandered to the chamber, When I waited at the doorway, There I saw the heartless hostess, But she did not give me greeting, Did not give her hand in welcome; Proud, alas! was I unhappy, Did not make the first advances, Did not offer her my friendship, And my hand I did not proffer; Laid my hand upon the oven, All its former warmth departed!

On the coal I laid my fingers, All the latent heat had left it.

On the rest-bench lay my brother, Lay outstretched before the fire-place, Heaps of soot upon his shoulders, Heaps of ashes on his forehead.

Thus the brother asked the stranger, Questioned thus his guest politely: 'Tell me what thy name and station, Whence thou comest o'er the waters!'

This the answer that I gave him: Hast thou then forgot thy sister, Does my brother not remember, Not recall his mother's daughter We are children of one mother, Of one bird were we the fledgelings, In one nest were hatched and nurtured.'

"Then the brother fell to weeping, From his eyes great tear-drops flowing, To his wife the brother whispered, Whispered thus unto the housewife.

'Bring thou beer to give my sister, Quench her thirst and cheer her spirits.'

"Full of envy, brought the sister Only water filled with evil, Water for the infant's eyelids, Soap and water from the bath-room.

"To his wife the brother whispered, Whispered thus unto the housewife: 'Bring thou salmon for my sister, For my sister so long absent, Thus to still her pangs of hunger.'

"Thereupon the wife obeying, Brought, in envy, only cabbage That the children had been eating, And the house-dogs had been licking, Leavings of the black-dog's breakfast.

"Then I left my brother's dwelling, Hastened to the ancient homestead, To my mother's home deserted; Onward, onward did I wander, Hastened onward by the cold-sea, Dragged my body on in anguish, To the cottage-doors of strangers, To the unfamiliar portals, For the care of the neglected, For the needy of the village, For the children poor and orphaned.

"There are many wicked people, Many slanderers of women, Many women evil-minded, That malign their s.e.x through envy.

Many they with lips of evil, That belie the best of maidens, Prove the innocent are guilty Of the worst of misdemeanors, Speak aloud in tones unceasing, Speak, alas! with wicked motives, Spread the follies of their neighbors Through the tongues of self-pollution.

Very few, indeed, the people That will feed the poor and hungry, That will bid the stranger welcome; Very few to treat her kindly, Innocent, and lone, and needy, Few to offer her a shelter From the chilling storms of winter, When her skirts with ice are stiffened, Coats of ice her only raiment!

"Never in my days of childhood, Never in my maiden life-time, Never would believe the story Though a hundred tongues had told Though a thousand voices sang it, That such evil things could happen, That such misery could follow, Such misfortune could befall one Who has tried to do her duty, Who has tried to live uprightly, Tried to make her people happy."

Thus the young bride was instructed, Beauteous Maiden of the Rainbow, Thus by Osmotar, the teacher.

RUNE XXIV.

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

Osmotar, the bride-instructor, Gives the wedding-guests this counsel, Speaks these measures to the bridegroom: "Ilmarinen, artist-brother, Best of all my hero-brothers, Of my mother's sons the dearest, Gentlest, truest, bravest, grandest, Listen well to what I tell thee Of the Maiden of the Rainbow, Of thy beauteous life-companion Bridegroom, praise thy fate hereafter, Praise forever thy good fortune; If thou praisest, praise sincerely, Good the maiden thou hast wedded, Good the bride that Ukko gives thee, Graciously has G.o.d bestowed her.

Sound her praises to thy father, Praise her virtues to thy mother, Let thy heart rejoice in secret, That thou hast the Bride of Beauty, Lovely Maiden of the Rainbow!

"Brilliant near thee stands the maiden, At thy shoulder thy companion, Happy under thy protection, Beautiful as golden moonlight, Beautiful upon thy bosom, Strong to do thy kindly bidding, Labor with thee as thou wishest, Rake the hay upon thy meadows, Keep thy home in full perfection, Spin for thee the finest linen, Weave for thee the richest fabrics, Make for thee the softest raiment, Make thy weaver's loom as merry As the cuckoo of the forest; Make the shuttle glide in beauty Like the ermine of the woodlands; Make the spindle twirl as deftly As the squirrel spins the acorn; Village-maidens will not slumber While thy young bride's loom is humming, While she plies the graceful shuttle.

"Bridegroom of the Bride of Beauty, n.o.blest of the Northland heroes, Forge thyself a scythe for mowing, Furnish it with oaken handle, Carve it in thine ancient smithy, Hammer it upon thine anvil, Have it ready for the summer, For the merry days of sunshine; Take thy bride then to the lowlands, Mow the gra.s.s upon thy meadows, Rake the hay when it is ready, Make the reeds and gra.s.ses rustle, Toss the fragrant heads of clover, Make thy hay in Kalevala When the silver sun is shining.

"When the time has come for weaving, To the loom attract the weaver, Give to her the spools and shuttles, Let the willing loom be worthy, Beautiful the frame and settle; Give to her what may be needed, That the weaver's song may echo, That the lathe may swing and rattle, Ma y be heard within the village, That the aged may remark it, And the village-maidens question: 'Who is she that now is weaving, What new power now plies the shuttle?'

"Make this answer to the question: 'It is my beloved weaving, My young bride that plies the shuttle.'

"Shall the weaver's weft be loosened, Shall the young bride's loom be tightened?

Do not let the weft be loosened, Nor the weaver's loom be tightened; Such the weaving of the daughters Of the Moon beyond the cloudlets; Such the spinning of the maidens Of the Sun in high Jumala, Of the daughters of the Great Bear, Of the daughters of the Evening.

Bridegroom, thou beloved hero, Brave descendant of thy fathers, When thou goest on a journey, When thou drivest on the highway, Driving with the Rainbow-daughter, Fairest bride of Sariola, Do not lead her as a t.i.tmouse, As a cuckoo of the forest, Into unfrequented places, Into copses of the borders, Into brier-fields and brambles, Into unproductive marshes; Let her wander not, nor stumble On opposing rocks and rubbish.

Never in her father's dwelling, Never in her mother's court-yard, Has she fallen into ditches, Stumbled hard against the fences, Run through brier-fields, nor brambles, Fallen over rocks, nor rubbish.

"Magic bridegroom of Wainola, Wise descendant of the heroes, Never let thy young wife suffer, Never let her be neglected, Never let her sit in darkness, Never leave her unattended.

Never in her father's mansion, In the chambers of her mother, Has she sat alone in darkness, Has she suffered for attention; Sat she by the crystal window, Sat and rocked, in peace and plenty, Evenings for her father's pleasure, Mornings for her mother's sunshine.

Never mayest thou, O bridegroom, Lead the Maiden of the Rainbow To the mortar filled with sea-gra.s.s, There to grind the bark for cooking, There to bake her bread from stubble, There to knead her dough from tan-bark Never in her father's dwelling, Never in her mother's mansion, Was she taken to the mortar, There to bake her bread from sea-gra.s.s.

Thou shouldst lead the Bride of Beauty To the garner's rich abundance, There to draw the till of barley, Grind the flour and knead for baking, There to brew the beer for drinking, Wheaten flour for honey-biscuits.