“Just outside a village on the edge of this parish.”
“What’s your name?”
“Svältbacka Matti—they call me, and I’ve suffered hunger all my life on my “hunger field.”
“How’s that?”
“Well it’s true anyway. My hut is at the far end of a lonely village, between swamps on one side and marsh land on the other. I live there because it is not good enough for anyone else. My father built the place, but now every year the cold starves us out.”
“Can’t you get away from such a place? You could earn a better living somewhere else.”
“It is not so easy to get away as you think. If we tried to get away no one would buy the place, so how could we buy another? We’ve got to stay there. And it’s better there than tramping—and begging. If I could only get away from these payments!”
“Is it last year’s tar you are taking to the city?”
“No. How could I keep that so long? Everything goes from hand to mouth. That was used up long ago. Hardly was it in the barrels before away it went to the city.”
While we talked on we reached a farm, which at the same time was a rest-house, and the old man said he would stop and feed his horse. This was my intention, too, I had traveled so far that my horse needed food and rest. The sleigh of the old man began to grate on the harsh, bare ground in front of the farm, and the two of us then helped the old mare as best we could.
When we had unharnessed the horses and given
