ather Mikko's lap. She was nearly ten
years old, and was not a pretty little girl; but she had very lovely
soft brown eyes and curly flaxen hair, and a quiet, demure manner of her
own, and her mother declared that when she grew up she would be able to
spin and weave and cook better than any other girl in the parish, and
that the young man that should get her Mimi for a wife would get a real
treasure.

[Illustration: SLEIGHING IN FINLAND.]

And lastly, there was Father Mikko himself, an old man over sixty, yet
strong and hearty, with a long gray beard and gray hair, and eyes
that fairly twinkled with good humour. You could hardly see his mouth
for his beard and moustache, and certainly his nose _was_ a little too
small and turned up at the end to be exactly handsome, and his
cheek-bones _did_ stand out a little too high; but yet everybody, young
and old, liked him, and his famous stories made him a welcome guest
wherever he came.

So Father Mikko lit his queer little pipe, and settled down comfortably
with Mimi in his lap, and a glass of beer at his side to refresh himself
with when he grew weary of talking. There was only the firelight in the
room, and as the flames roared up the chimney they cast a warm, cosy
light over the whole room, and made them all feel so comfortable that
they thanked God in their hearts in their simple way, because they had
so many blessings and comforts when such a storm was raging outside that
it shook the house and drifted the snow up higher than the doors and
windows.

Then Father Mikko began, and this is the first story that he told them.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

THE WORLD'S CREATION AND THE BIRTH OF WAINAMOINEN

Long, long ago, before this world was made, there lived a lovely maiden
called Ilmatar, the daughter of the Ether. She lived in the air--there
were only air and water then--but at length she grew tired of always
being in the air, and came down and floated on the surface of the water.
Suddenly, as she lay there, there came a mighty storm-wind, and poor
Ilmatar was tossed about helplessly on the waves, until at length the
wind died down and the waves became still, and Ilmatar, worn out by the
violence of the tempest, sank beneath the waters.

Then a magic spell overpowered her, and she swam on and on vainly
seeking to rise above the waters, but always unable to do so. Seven
hundred long weary years she swam thus, until one day she