Tinder-Matti. ‘Twas a fine old rogue for any bag; a fat rascal. Ay, and then we had a drink. We put on our coats again, dry as powder, and laid ourselves peacefully to sleep in the warmth of the dancing fire. But ‘twas little the sleep we got, what with sorcerer’s arrows flying all the time like fiery serpents criss-cross through the air over our reeling heads. Often enough, Heiskanen bounced up, crying in a loud voice: “Out, sorcerer’s arrow, out, sorcerer’s arrow!” and with a roar many of them fell, some in the forest, some in the grey bog, but still more went skimming along their smooth track without heeding his shout. And once we heard, sweeping from north to south, a damned angry and swift puffing that was followed for long by little squeakings. “What kind of a goblin was that scurried past?” I asked Heiskanen, who answered after a while in a growl: “That was the Old ‘Un himself passing by.” An hour went by again and another, and fire kept flashing in the mild, muggy air. Then, from the edge of the bog to the east, there came a sudden noise like the roar of mossy firs, and a moment later from the bog’s western side, another noise answered, but softer, like the rustle of a young birchwood. “What roar was that over there, and what rustle this over here?” I asked again, and Heiskanen growled at last: “Th’ old Spirit of the First spoke to his daughters.” The night passed, anyhow, and in time morning dawned, and we set off again. And that very minute we saw, right at the end of the forest, a grey wolf, the damnedest big one for size, that flew off like a stack of peas in a whirlwind. All we saw of it at last was its left hind leg, and lifting my gun I shot it right through the paw, snapped it in two like a piece of crackling, though it saved its skin after all. Broke the poor beggar’s peg in two.

Tinder-Matti. It was too hefty a chunk to stuff in a sack, a really fat lump. So, then we took a drink. Then we put on our coats again, dry as powder now, and went nicely to bed in the heat of that blazing fire. But we didn’t get much sleep, for the witches’ arrows kept sailing criss-cross through the air over our fuddled heads like fiery snakes. Often enough, Heiskanen would leap up shouting, “Out, out, you witches’ arrows!” and many of them did fall whizzing into the woods or the gray swamp, but still more of them skimmed along on their smooth course, in spite of his cries. At one time a devilish mean and fierce snuffling sound could be heard streaking from north to south, followed for a long time afterwards by a faint gibbering. “What blowhard went scooting by?” I asked Heiskanen, who growled back after a minute, “That was old Harry himself.” An hour went by, and then another as the mild, foggy air flashed fire. Suddenly a sound like the roaring of mossy spruces was heard from the eastern shore of the swamp and another sound answered it from the western shore, as gentle as the whisper of small birches. “What was that roar and rustle?” I asked, and Heiskanen finally growled, “Old Father Spruce is talking to his daughter.” But at last the night ended. Dawn arrives and we went tramping off again. And look, just as we reached the edge of the woods, we saw a devil of a big gray wolf, but he took off like drying pea stalks in a whirlwind. The last thing in sight was his hind leg. I aimed my gun and shot his paw off, snapped it off like a piece of crisp bacon. I shot the poor old bugger’s paw in two, yet he saved himself.

MATTI AMADOU. He was a burly bully-rook, la, did n’t like to fit in that bag at all. Aye—and then we down’d us a round, rivo! By then our weeds was dry and we put ‘em on and curl’d up to sleep round that flickerin’ fire. But we ‘d got scant three minutes of shut-eye when some witches somewhence started loosin’ flights like fire-drakes up into the nighted sky, flyin’ cessless criss-crost o’er our spinnin’ heads they was. Heiskanen kep’ springin’ up and hollerin’, “out, witchflight, out, witchflight,” and plenty of ‘em sizzl’d out in the swamp, or the woods, but plenty others kep’ right on their merry way without a care for his shoutin’. Once we heard, chuffin’ north to south, a angry huffin’ and puffin’ like a thing possess’d, foller’d for a long time by a raft of smaller rushles. What ran crost there, I ask’d Heiskanen, some kinda ouph? He mus’d a moment and then growl’d, “That there was Ol’ Nick his own self.” A hour went by, and then another, and the mild misty air just kep’ on strikin’ fire. But then from the east, o’er by the edge of the swamp, we heard a sound like the slashin’ of mossy pine branches, and pretty soon from the western rivage a answerin’ voice, but delicate, like the soughin’ of a bitty birch spinney. What slashin’ there, and what soughin’ here? I ask’d again, and Heiskanen growl’d: “Tha’ be th’ Ol’ Man o’ th’ pine shaugh smatterin’ wi’ his girl.” But finally the night wann’d into morn and we set off again. And right at the forest’s edge spied we a gray wolf the tinct of hoarfrost and big ‘s a damn horse, but he skip’t like peascods pick’t up by a dust devil. All ‘s we saw was his left hind foot. I draw’d a bead and shot that paw clean off, clean as a milk-cap, but leastwise he sav’d his skin. Poor fella, I shot off his mitten.