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The whole poem is replete with the most fascinating folk-lore about the mysteries of nature, the origin of things, the enigmas of human tears, and, true to the character of a national epic, it represents not only the poetry, but the entire wisdom and accumulated experience of a nation. Among others, there is a profoundly philosophical trait in the poem, indicative of a deep insight into the workings of the human mind, and into the forces of nature. Whenever one of the heroes of the Kalevala wishes to overcome the aggressive power of an evil force, as a wound, a disease, a ferocious beast, or a venomous serpent, he achieves his purpose by chanting the origin of the inimical force. The thought underlying this idea evidently is that all evil could be obviated had we but the knowledge of whence and how it came.

The three main personages, Wainamoinen, the ancient singer, Ilmarinen, the eternal forgeman, and Lemminkainen, the reckless wizard, as mentioned above, are conceived as being of divine origin. In fact, the acting characters of the Kalevala are mostly superhuman, magic beings. Even the female actors are powerful sorceresses, and the hostess of Pohyola, especially, braves the might of all the enchanters of Wainola combined. The power of magic is a striking feature of the poem. Here, as in the legends of no other people, do the heroes and demi-gods accomplish nearly everything by magic. The songs of Wainamoinen disarm his opponents; they quiet the angry sea; they give warmth to the new sun and the new moon which his brother, Ilmarinen, forges from the magic metals; they give life to the spouse of Ilmarinen, which the "eternal metal-artist" forges from gold, silver, and copper. In fact we are among a people that endows everything with life, and with human and divine attributes. Birds, and beasts, and fishes, and serpents, as well as the Sun, the Moon, the Great Bear, and the stars, are either kind or unkind. Drops of blood find speech; men and maidens transform themselves into other shapes and resume again their native forms at will; ships, and trees, and waters, have magic powers; in short, all nature speaks in human tongues.

The Kalevala dates back to an enormous antiquity. One reason for believing this, lies in the silence of the Kalevala about Russians, Germans, or Swedes, their neighbors. This evidently shows that the poem must have been composed at a time when these nations had but very little or no intercourse with the Finns. The coincidence between the incantations adduced above, proves that these witch-songs date from a time when the Hungarians and the Finns were still united as one people; in other words, to a time at least 3000 years ago. The whole poem betrays no important signs of foreign influence, and in its entire tenor is a thoroughly pagan epic. There are excellent reasons for believing that the story of Mariatta, recited in the 50th Rune, is an ante-Christian legend.

An additional proof of the originality and independent rise of the Kalevala is to be found in its metre. All genuine poetry must have its peculiar verse, just as snow-flakes cannot exist without their peculiar crystalizations. It is thus that the Iliad is inseparably united, and, as it were, immersed in the stately hexametre, and the French epics, in the graceful Alexandrine verse. The metre of the Kalevala is the "eight-syllabled trochaic, with the part-line echo," and is the characteristic verse of the Finns. The natural speech of this people is poetry. The young men and maidens, the old men and matrons, in their interchange of ideas, unwittingly fall into verse. The genius of their language aids to this end, inasmuch as their words are strongly trochaic.

This wonderfully versatile metre admits of keeping the right medium between the dignified, almost prancing hexameter, and the shorter metres of the lyrics. Its feet are nimble and fleet, but yet full of vigor and expressiveness. In addition, the Kalevala uses alliteration, and thus varies the rhythm of time with the rhythm of sound. This metre is especially fit for the numerous expressions of endearment in which the Finnish epic abounds. It is more especially the love of the mother for her children, and the love of the children for their mother, that find frequent and ever-tender expression in the sonorous lines of the Kalevala. The Swedish translation by Castr?n, the German, by Schiefner, and the Hungarian, by Barna, as well as the following English translation, are in the original metre of the Kalevala.

To prove that this peculiar and fascinating style of verse is of very ancient origin, the following lines have been accurately copied from the first edition in Finnish of the Kalevala, collated by Dr. L?nnrot, and published in 1835 at Helsingfors, the quotation beginning with the 150th line of the 2nd Rune:

Louhi Pohjolan emanta Sanan wirkko, noin nimesi: "Niin mita minulle annat, Kun saatan omille maille, Oman pellon pientarelle, Oman pihan rikkasille?" Sano wanha Wainamoinen: "Mitapa kysyt minulta, Kun saatat omille maille, Oman ka?n kukkumille, Oman kukon kuuluwille, Oman saunan lampimille?" Sano Pohjolan emanta: "Ohoh wiisas Wainamoinen! Taiatko takoa sammon, Kirjokannen kirja?lla, Yhen joukkosen sulasta, Yhen willan kylkyesta, Yhen otrasen jywasta, Yhen warttinan muruista."

As to the architecture of the Kalevala, it stands midway between the epical ballads of the Servians and the purely epical structure of the Iliad. Though a continuous whole, it contains several almost independent parts, as the contest of Youkahainen, the Kullervo episode, and the legend of Mariatta.

Acknowledgment is hereby made to the following sources of information used in the preparation of this work: to E. Lenquist's De Superstitione veterum Fennorum theoretica et practica; to Chr. Ganander's Mythologia Fennica; to Becker's De Vainamoine; to Max M?ller's Oxford Essays; to Prof. John A. Porter's Selections from the Kalevala; to the writings of the two Grimms; to Latham's Native Races of the Russian Empire; to the translations of the Kalevala by Alex. Castr?n, Anton Schieffier, L. LeDuc and Ferdinand Barna; and especially to the excellent treatises on the Kalevala, and on the Mythology of the Finns, by Mace Da Charda and Alex. Castr?n; to Prof. Hel?na Klingner, of Cincinnati, a linguist of high rank, and who has compared very conscientiously the manuscript of the following pages with the German translation of the Kalevala by Anton Schiefner; to Dr. Emil Reich, a native Hungarian, a close student of the Ugrian tongues, who, in a most thorough manner, has compared this translation with the Hungarian by Ferdinand Barna, and who, familiar with the habits, customs, and religious notions of the Finns, has furnished much valuable material used in the preparation of this preface; and, finally, to Prof. Thomas C. Porter, D.D., LL.D., of Lafayette College, who has become an authority on the Kalevala through his own researches for many years, aided by a long and intimate acquaintance with Prof. A. F. Soldan, a Finn by birth, an enthusiastic lover of his country, a scholar of great attainments, acquainted with many languages, and once at the head of the Imperial Mint at Helsingfors, the capital of Finland. Prof. Porter has very kindly placed in the hands of the author of these pages, all the literature on this subject at his command, including his own writings; he has watched the growth of this translation with unusual interest; and, with the eye of a gifted poet and scholar, he has made two careful and critical examinations of the entire manuscript, making annotations, emendations, and corrections, by which this work has been greatly improved.

With this prolonged introduction, this, the first English translation of the Kalevala, with its many imperfections, is hesitatingly given to the public.

JOHN MARTIN CRAWFORD.

October 1, 1887.

THE KALEVALA.

PROEM

Incantations were not wanting Over Sampo and o'er Louhi, Sampo growing old in singing, Louhi ceasing her enchantment. In the songs died wise Wipunen, At the games died Lemminkainen. There are many other legends, Incantations that were taught me, That I found along the wayside, Gathered in the fragrant copses, Blown me from the forest branches, Culled among the plumes of pine-trees, Scented from the vines and flowers, Whispered to me as I followed Flocks in land of honeyed meadows, Over hillocks green and golden, After sable-haired Murikki, And the many-colored Kimmo. Many runes the cold has told me, Many lays the rain has brought me, Other songs the winds have sung me; Many birds from many forests, Oft have sung me lays in concord Waves of sea, and ocean billows, Music from the many waters, Music from the whole creation, Oft have been my guide and master. Sentences the trees created, Rolled together into bundles, Moved them to my ancient dwelling, On the sledges to my cottage, Tied them to my garret rafters, Hung them on my dwelling-portals, Laid them in a chest of boxes, Boxes lined with shining copper. Long they lay within my dwelling Through the chilling winds of winter, In my dwelling-place for ages.

Shall I bring these songs together From the cold and frost collect them? Shall I bring this nest of boxes, Keepers of these golden legends, To the table in my cabin, Underneath the painted rafters, In this house renowned and ancient? Shall I now these boxes open, Boxes filled with wondrous stories? Shall I now the end unfasten Of this ball of ancient wisdom, These ancestral lays unravel? Let me sing an old-time legend, That shall echo forth the praises Of the beer that I have tasted, Of the sparkling beer of barley. Bring to me a foaming goblet Of the barley of my fathers, Lest my singing grow too weary, Singing from the water only. Bring me too a cup of strong-beer, It will add to our enchantment, To the pleasure of the evening, Northland's long and dreary evening, For the beauty of the day-dawn, For the pleasure of the morning, The beginning of the new-day.

Often I have heard them chanting, Often I have heard them singing, That the nights come to us singly, That the Moon beams on us singly, That the Sun shines on us singly; Singly also, Wainamoinen, The renowned and wise enchanter, Born from everlasting Ether Of his mother, Ether's daughter.

In primeval times, a maiden, Beauteous Daughter of the Ether, Passed for ages her existence In the great expanse of heaven, O'er the prairies yet enfolded. Wearisome the maiden growing, Her existence sad and hopeless, Thus alone to live for ages In the infinite expanses Of the air above the sea-foam, In the far outstretching spaces, In a solitude of ether, She descended to the ocean, Waves her coach, and waves her pillow. Thereupon the rising storm-wind Flying from the East in fierceness, Whips the ocean into surges, Strikes the stars with sprays of ocean Till the waves are white with fervor. To and fro they toss the maiden, Storm-encircled, hapless maiden; With her sport the rolling billows, With her play the storm-wind forces, On the blue back of the waters; On the white-wreathed waves of ocean, Play the forces of the salt-sea, With the lone and helpless maiden; Till at last in full conception, Union now of force and beauty, Sink the storm-winds into slumber; Overburdened now the maiden Cannot rise above the surface; Seven hundred years she wandered, Ages nine of man's existence, Swam the ocean hither, thither, Could not rise above the waters, Conscious only of her travail; Seven hundred years she labored Ere her first-born was delivered. Thus she swam as water-mother, Toward the east, and also southward, Toward the west, and also northward; Swam the sea in all directions, Frightened at the strife of storm-winds, Swam in travail, swam unceasing, Ere her first-born was delivered.

Then began she gently weeping, Spake these measures, heavy-hearted: "Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Woe is me, in this my travail! Into what have I now fallen? Woe is me, that I unhappy, Left my home in subtle ether, Came to dwell amid the sea-foam, To be tossed by rolling billows, To be rocked by winds and waters, On the far outstretching waters, In the salt-sea's vast expanses, Knowing only pain and trouble! Better far for me, O Ukko! Were I maiden in the Ether, Than within these ocean-spaces, To become a water-mother! All this life is cold and dreary, Painful here is every motion, As I linger in the waters, As I wander through the ocean. Ukko, thou O God, up yonder, Thou the ruler of the heavens, Come thou hither, thou art needed, Come thou hither, I implore thee, To deliver me from trouble, To deliver me in travail. Come I pray thee, hither hasten, Hasten more that thou art needed, Haste and help this helpless maiden!"

When she ceased her supplications, Scarce a moment onward passes, Ere a beauteous duck descending, Hastens toward the water-mother, Comes a-flying hither, thither, Seeks herself a place for nesting. Flies she eastward, flies she westward, Circles northward, circles southward, Cannot find a grassy hillock, Not the smallest bit of verdure; Cannot find a spot protected, Cannot find a place befitting, Where to make her nest in safety. Flying slowly, looking round her, She descries no place for resting, Thinking loud and long debating, And her words are such as follow: "Build I in the winds my dwelling, On the floods my place of nesting? Surely would the winds destroy it, Far away the waves would wash it."

Then the daughter of the Ether, Now the hapless water-mother, Raised her shoulders out of water, Raised her knees above the ocean, That the duck might build her dwelling, Build her nesting-place in safety. Thereupon the duck in beauty, Flying slowly, looking round her, Spies the shoulders of the maiden, Sees the knees of Ether's daughter, Now the hapless water-mother, Thinks them to be grassy hillocks, On the blue back of the ocean. Thence she flies and hovers slowly, Lightly on the knee she settles, Finds a nesting-place befitting, Where to lay her eggs in safety. Here she builds her humble dwelling, Lays her eggs within, at pleasure, Six, the golden eggs she lays there, Then a seventh, an egg of iron; Sits upon her eggs to hatch them, Quickly warms them on the knee-cap Of the hapless water-mother; Hatches one day, then a second, Then a third day sits and hatches. Warmer grows the water round her, Warmer is her bed in ocean, While her knee with fire is kindled, And her shoulders too are burning, Fire in every vein is coursing. Quick the maiden moves her shoulders, Shakes her members in succession, Shakes the nest from its foundation, And the eggs fall into ocean, Dash in pieces on the bottom Of the deep and boundless waters. In the sand they do not perish, Not the pieces in the ocean; But transformed, in wondrous beauty All the fragments come together Forming pieces two in number, One the upper, one the lower, Equal to the one, the other. From one half the egg, the lower, Grows the nether vault of Terra: From the upper half remaining, Grows the upper vault of Heaven; From the white part come the moonbeams, From the yellow part the sunshine, From the motley part the starlight, From the dark part grows the cloudage; And the days speed onward swiftly, Quickly do the years fly over, From the shining of the new sun From the lighting of the full moon.

Still the daughter of the Ether, Swims the sea as water-mother, With the floods outstretched before her, And behind her sky and ocean. Finally about the ninth year, In the summer of the tenth year, Lifts her head above the surface, Lifts her forehead from the waters, And begins at last her workings, Now commences her creations, On the azure water-ridges, On the mighty waste before her. Where her hand she turned in water, There arose a fertile hillock; Wheresoe'er her foot she rested, There she made a hole for fishes; Where she dived beneath the waters, Fell the many deeps of ocean; Where upon her side she turned her, There the level banks have risen; Where her head was pointed landward, There appeared wide bays and inlets; When from shore she swam a distance, And upon her back she rested, There the rocks she made and fashioned, And the hidden reefs created, Where the ships are wrecked so often, Where so many lives have perished.

Thus created were the islands, Rocks were fastened in the ocean, Pillars of the sky were planted, Fields and forests were created, Checkered stones of many colors, Gleaming in the silver sunlight, All the rocks stood well established; But the singer, Wainamoinen, Had not yet beheld the sunshine, Had not seen the golden moonlight, Still remaining undelivered.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Lingering within his dungeon Thirty summers altogether, And of winters, also thirty, Peaceful on the waste of waters, On the broad-sea's yielding bosom, Well reflected, long considered, How unborn to live and flourish In the spaces wrapped in darkness, In uncomfortable limits, Where he had not seen the moonlight, Had not seen the silver sunshine. Thereupon these words he uttered, Let himself be heard in this wise: "Take, O Moon, I pray thee, take me, Take me, thou, O Sun above me, Take me, thou, O Bear of heaven, From this dark and dreary prison, From these unbefitting portals, From this narrow place of resting, From this dark and gloomy dwelling, Hence to wander from the ocean, Hence to walk upon the islands, On the dry land walk and wander, Like an ancient hero wander, Walk in open air and breathe it, Thus to see the moon at evening, Thus to see the silver sunlight, Thus to see the Bear in heaven, That the stars I may consider."

Since the Moon refused to free him, And the Sun would not deliver, Nor the Great Bear give assistance, His existence growing weary, And his life but an annoyance, Bursts he then the outer portals Of his dark and dismal fortress; With his strong, but unnamed finger, Opens he the lock resisting; With the toes upon his left foot, With the fingers of his right hand, Creeps he through the yielding portals To the threshold of his dwelling; On his knees across the threshold, Throws himself head foremost, forward Plunges into deeps of ocean, Plunges hither, plunges thither, Turning with his hands the water; Swims he northward, swims he southward, Swims he eastward, swims he westward, Studying his new surroundings.

Thus our hero reached the water, Rested five years in the ocean, Six long years, and even seven years, Till the autumn of the eighth year, When at last he leaves the waters, Stops upon a promontory, On a coast bereft of verdure; On his knees he leaves the ocean, On the land he plants his right foot, On the solid ground his left foot, Quickly turns his hands about him, Stands erect to see the sunshine, Stands to see the golden moonlight, That he may behold the Great Bear, That he may the stars consider. Thus our hero, Wainamoinen, Thus the wonderful enchanter Was delivered from his mother, Ilmatar, the Ether's daughter.

Then arose old Wainamoinen, With his feet upon the island, On the island washed by ocean, Broad expanse devoid of verdure; There remained he many summers, There he lived as many winters, On the island vast and vacant, Well considered, long reflected, Who for him should sow the island, Who for him the seeds should scatter; Thought at last of Pellerwoinen, First-born of the plains and prairies, When a slender boy, called Sampsa, Who should sow the vacant island, Who the forest seeds should scatter. Pellerwoinen, thus consenting, Sows with diligence the island, Seeds upon the lands he scatters, Seeds in every swamp and lowland, Forest seeds upon the loose earth, On the firm soil sows the acorns, Fir-trees sows he on the mountains, Pine-trees also on the hill-tops, Many shrubs in every valley, Birches sows he in the marshes, In the loose soil sows the alders, In the lowlands sows the lindens, In the moist earth sows the willow, Mountain-ash in virgin places, On the banks of streams the hawthorn, Junipers in hilly regions; This the work of Pellerwoinen, Slender Sampsa, in his childhood. Soon the fertile seeds were sprouting, Soon the forest trees were growing, Soon appeared the tops of fir-trees, And the pines were far outspreading; Birches rose from all the marshes, In the loose soil grew the alders, In the mellow soil the lindens; Junipers were also growing, Junipers with clustered berries, Berries on the hawthorn branches.

Now the hero, Wainamoinen, Stands aloft to look about him, How the Sampsa-seeds are growing, How the crop of Pellerwoinen; Sees the young trees thickly spreading, Sees the forest rise in beauty; But the oak-tree has not sprouted, Tree of heaven is not growing, Still within the acorn sleeping, Its own happiness enjoying. Then he waited three nights longer, And as many days he waited, Waited till a week had vanished, Then again the work examined; But the oak-tree was not growing, Had not left her acorn-dwelling.

Wainamoinen, ancient hero, Spies four maidens in the distance, Water-brides, he spies a fifth-one, On the soft and sandy sea-shore, In the dewy grass and flowers, On a point extending seaward, Near the forests of the island. Some were mowing, some were raking, Raking what was mown together, In a windrow on the meadow.

From the ocean rose a giant, Mighty Tursas, tall and hardy, Pressed compactly all the grasses, That the maidens had been raking, When a fire within them kindles, And the flames shot up to heaven, Till the windrows burned to ashes, Only ashes now remaining Of the grasses raked together. In the ashes of the windrows, Tender leaves the giant places, In the leaves he plants an acorn, From the acorn, quickly sprouting, Grows the oak-tree, tall and stately, From the ground enriched by ashes, Newly raked by water-maidens; Spread the oak-tree's many branches, Rounds itself a broad corona, Raises it above the storm-clouds; Far it stretches out its branches, Stops the white-clouds in their courses, With its branches hides the sunlight, With its many leaves, the moonbeams, And the starlight dies in heaven.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Thought awhile, and well considered, How to kill the mighty oak-tree, First created for his pleasure, How to fell the tree majestic, How to lop its hundred branches. Sad the lives of man and hero, Sad the homes of ocean-dwellers, If the sun shines not upon them, If the moonlight does not cheer them! Is there not some mighty hero, Was there never born a giant, That can fell the mighty oak-tree, That can lop its hundred branches? Wainamoinen, deeply thinking, Spake these words soliloquizing: "Kap?, daughter of the Ether, Ancient mother of my being, Luonnotar, my nurse and helper, Loan to me the water-forces, Great the powers of the waters; Loan to me the strength of oceans, To upset this mighty oak-tree, To uproot this tree of evil, That again may shine the sunlight, That the moon once more may glimmer."

Straightway rose a form from ocean, Rose a hero from the waters, Nor belonged he to the largest, Nor belonged he to the smallest, Long was he as man's forefinger, Taller than the hand of woman; On his head a cap of copper, Boots upon his feet were copper, Gloves upon his hands were copper, And its stripes were copper-colored, Belt around him made of copper, Hatchet in his belt was copper; And the handle of his hatchet Was as long as hand of woman, Of a finger's breadth the blade was. Then the trusty Wainamoinen Thought awhile and well considered, And his measures are as follow: "Art thou, sir, divine or human? Which of these thou only knowest; Tell me what thy name and station. Very like a man thou lookest, Hast the bearing of a hero, Though the length of man's first finger, Scarce as tall as hoof of reindeer."

Then again spake Wainamoinen To the form from out the ocean: "Verily I think thee human, Of the race of pigmy-heroes, Might as well be dead or dying, Fit for nothing but to perish."

Answered thus the pigmy-hero, Spake the small one from the ocean To the valiant Wainamoinen: "Truly am I god and hero, From the tribes that rule the ocean; Come I here to fell the oak-tree, Lop its branches with my hatchet."

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Answers thus the sea-born hero: "Never hast thou force sufficient, Not to thee has strength been given, To uproot this mighty oak-tree, To upset this thing of evil, Nor to lop its hundred branches."

Scarcely had he finished speaking, Scarcely had he moved his eyelids, Ere the pigmy full unfolding, Quick becomes a mighty giant. With one step he leaves the ocean, Plants himself, a mighty hero, On the forest-fields surrounding; With his head the clouds he pierces, To his knees his beard extending, And his locks fall to his ankles; Far apart appear his eyeballs, Far apart his feet are stationed, Farther still his mighty shoulders. Now begins his axe to sharpen, Quickly to an edge he whets it, Using six hard blocks of sandstone, And of softer whetstones, seven. Straightway to the oak-tree turning, Thither stalks the mighty giant, In his raiment long and roomy, Flapping in the winds of heaven; With his second step he totters On the land of darker color; With his third stop firmly planted, Reaches he the oak-tree's branches, Strikes the trunk with sharpened hatchet, With one mighty swing he strikes it, With a second blow he cuts it; As his blade descends the third time, From his axe the sparks fly upward, From the oak-tree fire outshooting; Ere the axe descends a fourth time, Yields the oak with hundred branches, Shaking earth and heaven in falling. Eastward far the trunk extending, Far to westward flew the tree-tops, To the South the leaves were scattered, To the North its hundred branches. Whosoe'er a branch has taken, Has obtained eternal welfare; Who secures himself a tree-top, He has gained the master magic; Who the foliage has gathered, Has delight that never ceases. Of the chips some had been scattered, Scattered also many splinters, On the blue back of the ocean, Of the ocean smooth and mirrored, Rocked there by the winds and waters, Like a boat upon the billows; Storm-winds blew them to the Northland, Some the ocean currents carried.

Northland's fair and slender maiden, Washing on the shore a head-dress, Beating on the rocks her garments, Rinsing there her silken raiment, In the waters of Pohyola, There beheld the chips and splinters, Carried by the winds and waters. In a bag the chips she gathered, Took them to the ancient court-yard, There to make enchanted arrows, Arrows for the great magician, There to shape them into weapons, Weapons for the skilful archer, Since the mighty oak has fallen, Now has lost its hundred branches, That the North may see the sunshine, See the gentle gleam of moonlight, That the clouds may keep their courses, May extend the vault of heaven Over every lake and river, O'er the banks of every island.

Groves arose in varied beauty, Beautifully grew the forests, And again, the vines and flowers. Birds again sang in the tree-tops, Noisily the merry thrushes, And the cuckoos in the birch-trees; On the mountains grew the berries, Golden flowers in the meadows, And the herbs of many colors, Many kinds of vegetation; But the barley is not growing.

Hark! the titmouse wildly crying, From the aspen, words as follow: "Osma's barley will not flourish, Not the barley of Wainola, If the soil be not made ready, If the forest be not levelled, And the branches burned to ashes."

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Made himself an axe for chopping, Then began to clear the forest, Then began the trees to level, Felled the trees of all descriptions, Only left the birch-tree standing For the birds a place of resting, Where might sing the sweet-voiced cuckoo, Sacred bird in sacred branches. Down from heaven came the eagle, Through the air he came a-flying, That he might this thing consider; And he spake the words that follow: "Wherefore, ancient Wainamoinen, Hast thou left the slender birch-tree, Left the birch-tree only standing?" Wainamoinen thus made answer: "Therefore is the birch left standing, That the birds may nest within it, That the eagle there may rest him, There may sing the sacred cuckoo." Spake the eagle, thus replying: "Good indeed, thy hero-judgment, That the birch-tree thou hast left us, Left the sacred birch-tree standing, As a resting-place for eagles, And for birds of every feather, Even I may rest upon it." Quickly then this bird of heaven, Kindled fire among the branches; Soon the flames are fanned by north-winds, And the east-winds lend their forces, Burn the trees of all descriptions, Burn them all to dust and ashes, Only is the birch left standing.

Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Brings his magic grains of barley, Brings he forth his seven seed-grains, Brings them from his trusty pouches, Fashioned from the skin of squirrel, Some were made from skin of marten. Thence to sow his seeds he hastens, Hastes the barley-grains to scatter, Speaks unto himself these measures: "I the seeds of life am sowing, Sowing through my open fingers, From the hand of my Creator, In this soil enriched with ashes, In this soil to sprout and flourish. Ancient mother, thou that livest Far below the earth and ocean, Mother of the fields and forests, Bring the rich soil to producing, Bring the seed-grains to the sprouting, That the barley well may flourish. Never will the earth unaided, Yield the ripe nutritious barley; Never will her force be wanting, If the givers give assistance, If the givers grace the sowing, Grace the daughters of creation. Rise, O earth, from out thy slumber, From the slumber-land of ages, Let the barley-grains be sprouting, Let the blades themselves be starting, Let the verdant stalks be rising, Let the ears themselves be growing, And a hundredfold producing, From my plowing and my sowing, From my skilled and honest labor. Ukko, thou O God, up yonder, Thou O Father of the heavens, Thou that livest high in Ether, Curbest all the clouds of heaven, Holdest in the air thy counsel, Holdest in the clouds good counsel, From the East dispatch a cloudlet, From the North-east send a rain-cloud, From the West another send us, From the North-west, still another, Quickly from the South a warm-cloud, That the rain may fall from heaven, That the clouds may drop their honey, That the ears may fill and ripen, That the barley-fields may rustle."

Thereupon benignant Ukko, Ukko, father of the heavens, Held his counsel in the cloud-space, Held good counsel in the Ether; From the East, he sent a cloudlet, From the North-east, sent a rain-cloud, From the West another sent he, From the North-west, still another, Quickly from the South a warm-cloud; Joined in seams the clouds together, Sewed together all their edges, Grasped the cloud, and hurled it earthward. Quick the rain-cloud drops her honey, Quick the rain-drops fall from heaven, That the ears may quickly ripen, That the barley crop may rustle. Straightway grow the seeds of barley, From the germ the blade unfolding, Richly colored ears arising, From the rich soil of the fallow, From the work of Wainamoinen.

Here a few days pass unnoted And as many nights fly over. When the seventh day had journeyed, On the morning of the eighth day, Wainamoinen, wise and ancient, Went to view his crop of barley, How his plowing, how his sowing, How his labors were resulting; Found his crop of barley growing, Found the blades were triple-knotted, And the ears he found six-sided.

Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Turned his face, and looked about him, Lo! there comes a spring-time cuckoo, Spying out the slender birch-tree, Rests upon it, sweetly singing: "Wherefore is the silver birch-tree Left unharmed of all the forest?" Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "Therefore I have left the birch-tree, Left the birch-tree only growing, Home for thee for joyful singing. Call thou here, O sweet-voiced cuckoo, Sing thou here from throat of velvet, Sing thou here with voice of silver, Sing the cuckoo's golden flute-notes; Call at morning, call at evening, Call within the hour of noontide, For the better growth of forests, For the ripening of the barley, For the richness of, the Northland, For the joy of Kalevala."

Far away in dismal Northland, Lived the singer, Youkahainen, Lapland's young and reckless minstrel. Once upon a time when feasting, Dining with his friends and fellows, Came upon his ears the story, That there lived a sweeter singer, On the meadows of Wainola, On the plains of Kalevala, Better skilled in chanting legends, Better skilled than Youkahainen, Better than the one that taught him.

Straightway then the bard grew angry, Envy rose within his bosom, Envy of this Wainamoinen, Famed to be a sweeter singer; Hastes he angry to his mother, To his mother, full of wisdom, Vows that he will southward hasten, Hie him southward and betake him To the dwellings of Wainola, To the cabins of the Northland, There as bard to vie in battle, With the famous Wainamoinen.

"Nay," replies the anxious father, "Do not go to Kalevala."

Then the wizard, Youkahainen, Heeding not advice paternal, Heeding not his mother's counsel, Leads his courser from his stable, Fire outstreaming from his nostrils, From his hoofs, the sparks outshooting, Hitches to his sledge, the fleet-foot, To his golden sledge, the courser, Mounts impetuous his snow-sledge, Leaps upon the hindmost cross-bench, Strikes his courser with his birch-whip, With his birch-whip, pearl-enamelled. Instantly the prancing racer Springs away upon his journey; On he, restless, plunges northward, All day long he onward gallops, All the next day, onward, onward, So the third from morn till evening, Till the third day twilight brings him To the meadows of Wainola, To the plains of Kalevala.

As it happened, Wainamoinen, Wainamoinen, the magician, Rode that sunset on the highway, Silently for pleasure driving Down Wainola's peaceful meadows, O'er the plains of Kalevala.

Youkahainen, young and fiery, Urging still his foaming courser, Dashes down upon the singer, Does not turn aside in meeting, Meeting thus in full collision; Shafts are driven tight together, Hames and collars wedged and tangled, Tangled are the reins and traces. Thus perforce they make a stand-still, Thus remain and well consider; Water drips from hame and collar, Vapors rise from both their horses. Speaks the minstrel, Wainamoinen: "Who art thou, and whence? Thou comest Driving like a stupid stripling, Careless, dashing down upon me. Thou hast ruined shafts and traces; And the collar of my racer Thou hast shattered into ruin, And my golden sleigh is broken, Box and runners dashed to pieces."

Youkahainen then make answer, Spake at last the words that follow: "I am youthful Youkahainen, But make answer first, who thou art, Whence thou comest, where thou goest, From what lowly tribe descended?"

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