Pekka, who had already been dozing away on the
bench by the stove, was so awkward as to knock the chest against
the threshold as he was helping father to carry it into the room,
and he would most certainly have got a sound drubbing for it from
father if only he had been younger, but he was an old fellow now,
and father had never in his life struck a man older than himself.
Nevertheless, Pekka would have heard a thing or two from father if
the lamp HAD gone to pieces, but fortunately no damage had been
done.
"Get up on the stove, you lout!" roared father at Pekka, and up on
the stove Pekka crept.
But father had already taken the lamp out of the chest, and now
let it hang down from one hand.
"Look! there it is now! How do you think it looks? You pour the
oil into this glass, and that stump of ribbon inside is the wick--
hold that pare a little further off, will you!"
"Shall we light it?" said mother, as she drew back.
"Are you mad? How can it be lighted when there's no oil in it?"
"Well, but can't you pour some in, then?"
"Pour in oil? A likely tale! Yes, that's just the way when people
don't understand these things; but the storekeeper warned me again
and again never to pour the oil in by firelight, as it might catch
fire and burn the whole house down."
"Then when will you pour the oil into it!"
"In the daytime--daytime, d'ye hear? Can't you wait till day? It
isn't such a great marvel as all that.
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