"Come, wheaten bread, and tell me true,
- Who was it cut the corn?"
"Filip it was and Magda who
- Together cut the corn.
- He there began
- The lass to court, —
- The corn it was
- Cut all too short."
- He there began
"Come, wheaten bread, and tell me who
- The corn threshed in the barn?"
"Filip it was, and Magda too,
- Who threshed it in the barn.
- And while they threshed
- He stole a kiss, —
- The work, alas!
- Was done amiss."
- And while they threshed
"Come, wheaten bread, and tell me who
- The corn took to the mill?"
"Filip it was and Magda too,
- Who took it to the mill.
- With tender care
- He shared her load, —
- Much grain was spilt
- Upon the road."
- With tender care
"Come, wheaten loaf, and tell me true,
- Who was it baked the bread?"
"Filip it was and Magda who
- Together baked the bread.
- He pressed her then
- To be his wife,
- And swore to love her
- All his life."
- He pressed her then
"Come, wheaten loaf, and tell me true
- Who will now eat this bread?"
"Filip will eat, and Magda too,
- Herewith this loaf of bread.
- And if they have
- Forgot the salt.
- They cannot complain, —
- 'Twas their own fault!"
- And if they have
That this song was not particularly appropriate to the wedding in question was evident to any one who knew Filip Buska, whose mind was so extremely well balanced that even if he had been in love it was hardly likely that the tender passion should find expression in crooked furrows or spilt grain. But etiquette demanded that it should be sung all the same.[1]
CHAPTER V.
THE GOD OF SLEEP.
"My banks they are furnished with bees,
Whose murmur invites one to sleep."
Something more than three years had passed since Magda became the wife of Filip Buska, and he had had no occasion to regret his choice. She kept his house tidy, and cooked his food to his liking; the children were fond of her, and the cow she had brought with her as dowry came in usefully in the housekeeping. They were able to make a little fresh butter for the market every week, and the calves fetched a good price.
As no child of her own had been sent to take the first place in her heart, Magda would fain have transferred the whole strength of her affections to her husband's little ones; but though they had from the first clung lovingly to this young and pretty new mamma, who was always ready to play with them and sing them songs, and who never scolded them, even when they upset a bowl of milk or tore their clothes, they were now growing big and independent, and did not care to be fondled and petted as of yore.
Was Magda happy in her married life? No one had ever thought of asking her that question, nor had she asked it of herself. Of course she must be happy. How could it be otherwise? Was she not mistress of the prettiest cottage in the village? and the best-kept garden? And had she not the best man in the village for her husband as well? There were men in the village who spent all their earnings in the brandy-shop; and there
- ↑
In Poland and Russia the wedding ceremonies are of a very dramatic character, and there are numberless traditional songs which form part of the programme. Most of these ditties resemble each other in character; but as a rule, each village or district has its own set of wedding rhymes. Many of the wedding songs lay great stress on the disadvantage of marrying a widower, and depict the prospects in the most uninviting colors; as, for instance: —
If a widow'd man you wed.
Then you'll have a thorny bed.
He will praise his former wife
Till you re weary of your life;
Then the children too will cry,
"Why did our own mother die?"
And the servants they will say
"Times were better. Lack-a-day!"Or the following, entitled "Grass and Straw:" —
Oh, bonny lass,
Your flowers are fair;
Sweet is the grass.
Golden your hair.
With grasses sweet
And flowers fair,
A garland meet
Bind for your hair.
But if you bind
With straw your crown,
Will come the wind
And blow it down.
Alone the grass
Is sweet and fair,
Oh, bonny lass,
To bind your hair.
Then take a lad
To be your mate,
A wid'wer sad
Is not your fate.
Your eyes are blue.
Your hair is gold;
A lad can woo.
For youth is bold.
But straw is dry,
And straw is old;
And you will cry,
And he will scold.
The straw can bind
But cannot keep,
Will come the wind
When he's asleep.
You have a stone,
'Tis hard and cold.
Then give it to
The wid'wer old.
In early spring
The birds will pair;
You have a ring.
Gold like your hair.
Oh give it to
The bonny lad.
The stone unto
The wid' wer sad.
Oh, bonny lass.
Your flowers are fair;
Sweet is the grass.
Golden your hair.
