Oh, Ahti, with the long, long beard,
Who dwellest in the deep blue sea,
A thousand cows are in thy herd,
I pray thee give one unto me.
'That's a stupid sort of song,' said Matte. 'What else should one beg of the sea-king but fish? But such songs are not for Sunday.'
His wife pretended not to hear him, and sang and sang the same tune all the time they were on the water. Matte heard nothing more as he sat and rowed the heavy boat, while thinking of his cracked pipe and the fine tobacco. Then they returned to the island, and soon after went to bed.
But neither Matte nor Maie could sleep a wink; the one thought of how he had profaned Sunday, and the other of Ahti's cow.
About midnight the fisherman sat up, and said to his wife:
'Dost thou hear anything?'
'No,' said she.
'I think the twirling of the weathercock on the roof bodes ill,' said he; 'we shall have a storm.'
'Oh, it is nothing but your fancy,' said his wife.
Matte lay down, but soon rose again.