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And must bake a loaf enormous,

And for this the dough be kneading,

Bake the loaf of finest flour,

And the baker is but feeble.”

Thereupon said Pohja’s Master:

“Women they are always hurried,

And the maidens always busy,

When before the stove they roast them,

When they in their beds are lying;

Son, go you, and look around you.”

Thereupon the son made answer:

“I’ve no time to look about me;

I must grind the blunted hatchet,

Chop a log of wood to pieces,

Chop to bits the largest wood-pile,

And to faggots small reduce it.

Large the pile, and small the faggots,

And the workman of the weakest.”

Still the castle-dog was barking,

And the yard-dog still was barking,

And the furious whelp was baying,

And the island watch-dog howling,

Sitting by the furthest cornfield,

And his tail was briskly wagging.

Then again said Pohja’s Master,

“Not for nought the dog is barking,

Never has he barked for nothing,

Never growls he at the fir-trees.”

So he went to reconnoitre,

And he walked across the courtyard,

To the cornfield’s furthest borders,

To the path beyond the ploughed land.

Gazed he where the dog’s snout pointed,

Where he saw his muzzle pointing,

To the hill where storms are raging,

To the hills where grow the alders,

Then he saw the truth most clearly,

Why the grey-brown dog was barking,

And the pride of earth was baying,

And the woolly-tailed one howling,