The boy jumped on the back of the bay mare and rode
home at full gallop.
“Have you got her with you?” asked the
squire.
“She is down at the door,” said the lad.
“Take her up to the room my mother had,”
said the squire.
“But, master, how can I?” said the lad.
“Do as I tell you,” said the squire.
“And if you can’t manage her alone, get
the men to help you,” for he thought the lassie
might be stubborn.
When the lad saw his master’s face he knew it
would be no use to argue. So he went and got
all the farm hands together to help him. Some
pulled at the head and the forelegs of the mare and
others pushed from behind, and at last they got her
upstairs and into the room. There lay all the
wedding finery ready.
“Well, that’s done, master!” said
the lad, while he wiped his wet brow, “but it
was the worst job I have ever had here on the farm.”
“Never mind, never mind, you shall not have
done it for nothing,” said his master, and he
pulled a bright silver coin out of his pocket and
gave it to the lad. “Now send the women
up to dress her.”
“But, I say—master!—”
“None of your talk!” cried the squire.
“Tell them to hold her while they dress her,
and mind not to forget either wreath or crown.”
The lad ran into the kitchen:
“Listen, here, lasses,” he called out,
“you are to go upstairs and dress up the bay
mare as a bride—I suppose master wants to
play a joke on his guests.”
The women laughed and laughed, but ran upstairs and
dressed the bay mare in everything that was there.
And then the lad went and told his master that now
she was all ready, with wreath and crown and all.
“Very well, bring her down. I will receive
her at the door myself,” said the squire.
There was a clatter and a thumping on the stairs,
for that bride, you know, had no silken slippers on.
When the door was opened and the squire’s bride
entered the room, you can imagine there was laughing
and tittering and grinning enough.
And as for the squire, they say he never went courting
again.
Once on a time there was a man, and he had a wife.
They had a son and a daughter who were twins, and
these were so alike that no one could tell one from
the other except by their clothing. The boy they
called Peik. He was of little use while his father
and mother lived, for he cared to do naught else than
to befool folk, and he was so full of tricks and pranks
that no one was left in peace. When the parents
died, matters grew still worse and worse. He
would not turn his hand to anything. All he would
do was to squander what they left behind them.
His sister toiled and moiled all she could, but it
helped little; so at last she told him how silly it
was to do naught for the house.
“What shall we have to live on when you have
wasted everything?” she said.
