CHAPTER XXX
THE GOLDEN MAIDEN
Far away in northern inlets Ilmarinen and his friend the Minstrel were catching salmon for the winter’s store. The days were growing shorter and the nights were getting cold. Ice was beginning to form in the sheltered creeks and coves and frost lay white on the shaded slopes of the hills.
Fishes were scarce and shy and the fishermen were disheartened. For five days—yes, for six toilsome days—they had sailed hither and thither, casting first on the landward side and then on the seaward, and still the boat’s hold was far from being filled.
“I wish I were at home,” sighed the master Smith.
“There is no place so sweet as one’s own fireside,” responded the Minstrel.
“I long to see the faces of those whom I love,” said the Smith. “I am impatient to hear their voices.” [[279]]
“Sweeter than the chirping of song-birds—yes, sweeter than the warbling of meadow larks—is the merry prattling of one’s own home folk,” returned the Minstrel.
They drew in the net. Not a salmon did it contain. Naught but seaweed did they get.
“Oh, I am sick of this business,” complained Ilmarinen. “I am sick of fishing, sick of sailing on these barren waters, sick of life itself.”