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"Your yoke's nowhere," said the young man; "it is not to be seen." "You are a regular Vavila." The old man picked up an ember, blew on it only his eyes and nose were lighted up then, when they had found the yoke, he went with the light to Lipa and looked at her, and his look expressed compassion and tenderness. "You are a mother," he said; "every mother grieves for her child."
The boy now lifts the free end of the yoke's beam as high as he can and calls the off ox to come under. It also obeys, treading deliberately with its heavy feet, and waiting patiently for the boy's small fingers to fasten the weighty bow with a clumsy bow-key.
He lays one end of the yoke's beam on the ground, lifts the other end with his right hand, and, waving one of the ox-bows in his left, cries to the nigh ox, "Come under!" The "nigh" slowly obeys, bending its head low to accommodate the boy's stature, and permitting itself to be fastened by the ox-bow to the yoke.
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