We
children asked why they put nothing in the box but hay and a
little wool in the middle, but she bade us hold our tongues, the
whole lot of us. Father was in a better humor, and explained that
he was going to bring a lamp from the storekeeper, and that it was
of glass, and might be broken to bits if he stumbled or if the
sledge bumped too much.
That evening we children lay awake a long time and thought of the
new lamp; but old scullery-Pekka, the man who used to split up all
the parea, began to snore as soon as ever the evening pare was put
out. And he didn't once ask what sort of a thing the lamp was,
although we talked about it ever so much.
The journey took father all day, and a very long time it seemed to
us all. We didn't even relish our food that day, although we had
milk soup for dinner. But scullery-Pekka gobbled and guzzled as
much as all of us put together, and spent the day in splitting
parea till he had filled the outhouse full. Mother, too, didn't
spin much flax that day either, for she kept on going to the
window and peeping out, over the ice, after father. She said to
Pekka, now and then, that perhaps we shouldn't want all those
parea any more, but Pekka couldn't have laid it very much to
heart, for he didn't so much as ask the reason why.
It was not till supper time that we heard the horses' bells in the
courtyard.
With the bread crumbs in our mouths, we children rushed out, but
father drove us in again and bade scullery-Pekka come and help
with the chest.
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