I have seen many things; love, you see, may do very well to talk about; yes, but it is not worth much.

It may answer for priests and such folks, peasants must look at it in a different light.

First food, you see, then God's Word, and then a little writing and arithmetic, and then a little love, if it happens to come in the way; but, by the Eternals! there is no use in beginning with love and ending with food.

What can you say, now, Marit ?" "I do not know." "You do not know what you ought to answer ?" "Yes, indeed, I know that." "Well, then ?" "May I say it ?" "Yes; of course you may say it." "I care a great deal for that love of mine." He stood aghast for a moment, recalling a hundred similar conversations with similar results, then he shook his head, turned his back, and walked away.
He picked a quarrel with the housemen, abused the girls, beat the large dog, and almost frightened the life out of a little hen that had strayed into the field; but to Marit he said nothing.
That evening Marit was so happy when she went up-stairs to bed, that she opened the window, lay in the window-frame, looked out and sang.
She had found a pretty little love-song, and it was that she sang.
"Lovest thou but me, I will e'er love thee, All my days on earth, so fondly; Short were summer's days, Now the flower decays,-- Comes again with spring, so kindly.
"What you said last year Still rings in my ear, As I all alone am sitting, And your thoughts do try In my heart to fly,-- Picture life in sunshine flitting.
"Litli--litli--loy, Well I hear the boy, Sighs behind the birches heaving.
I am in dismay, Thou must show the way, For the night her shroud is weaving.
"Flomma, lomma, hys, Sang I of a kiss, No, thou surely art mistaken.
Didst thou hear it, say?
Cast the thought away; Look on me as one forsaken.
"Oh, good-night! good-night! Dreams of eyes so bright, Hold me now in soft embraces, But that wily word, Which thou thought'st unheard, Leaves in me of love no traces.
"I my window close, But in sweet repose Songs from thee I hear returning; Calling me they smile, And my thoughts beguile,-- Must I e'er for thee be yearning ?".