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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.
We said nothing, however, but laughed and whispered among ourselves, "If only father sees that, what will he say, I wonder?" And when father did catch sight of him, he planted himself arms akimbo in front of Pekka, and asked him, quite spitefully, what sort of fine work he had there, since he must needs have a separate light all to himself? "I am only patching up my shoes," said Pekka to father.
"You'll understand it right enough when I've bought one." "How much does it cost?" "Seven and a half marks, and the oil separate at one mark the can." "Seven and a half marks and the oil as well! Why, for that you might buy parea for many a long day that is, of course, if you were inclined to waste money on such things at all, but when Pekka splits them not a penny is lost."
"This evening we must be content, once more, with a pare," said father, as he ate; "but to-morrow the lamp shall burn in this very house." "Look, father! Pekka has been splitting parea all day, and filled the outhouse with them." "That's all right. We've fuel now, at any rate, to last us all the winter, for we sha'n't want them for anything else."
"Oh!" said Pekka, and, without a single word more, he went off to his chopping-block behind the stable, and all day long, just as on other days, he chopped a branch of his own height into little fagots; but all the rest of us were scarce able to get on with anything. Mother made believe to spin, but her supply of flax had not diminished by one-half when she shoved aside the spindle and went out.
Father didn't care a bit, but we children felt, now and then, during the long winter evenings, a strange sort of yearning after old times, so we very often found our way down to the bath- house to listen to the crickets, and there was Pekka sitting out the long evenings by the light of his pare. From "The Flying Mail." Translated by Carl Larsen. Fritz Bagger had just been admitted to the bar.
I quite forgot," said Pekka; "but there it may bide if it isn't wanted any more," and with that Pekka drove his pare knife into a rift in the wall. "There let it rest at leisure," said father. But Pekka said never a word more.
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.
The pare light flamed outside in the blast, and played a little while, glaring red, over outhouses, stalls, and stables. We children saw the light through the window and thought it looked very pretty. But when Pekka bent down to get behind the bath-house door, it was all dark again in the yard, and instead of the pare we saw only the lamp mirroring itself in the dark window-panes.
I don't want to meddle with it!" said Pekka, a little put out, and he drew back to the bench alongside the wall by the door. Mother must have thought that it was a sin to treat poor Pekka so, for she began to explain to him that it was not a church chandelier at all, but what people called a lamp, and that it was lit with oil, and that was why people didn't want parea any more.
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