Page:Folk-lore - A Quarterly Review. Volume 2, 1891.djvu/41

Smith Ilmarinen said :
"Thou art not, wretched iron, produced,
Thy kindred are not formed, thy relatives will not grow up
Without violent fire, without being taken to a smithy.
Without being put into a forge, without being blown upon by bellows.
But heed it not, pray do not pay the least regard.
Fire will not burn his acquaintance — will not burn a relative.
When thou enterest rooms of fire — the receptacle of coals,
Thou wilt grow beautiful — wilt become extremely fair,
(Wilt be made) into trusty swords for men — into terminals for women's belts."
Ever since that day iron has been kneaded out of swamps,
Been trampled out of watery spots, been obtained from clay.
The smith himself stood in the swamp, up to his knees in black mire.
While digging iron from the swamp, while extracting ore (F. earth) from the mire.
He seized the iron sprouts — the balls of steel.
From the huge footprints of the wolf, from the dints of the bear's paws.
The smith Ilmarmen
Set up his bellows there, established his forge there.
On the huge tracks of the wolf, on the scratches of the bear's heel.
He plunged the iron into the fire.
Blew the bellows all night without resting — all day without stopping,
Blew the bellows a whole day, blew them a second, blew them forthwith a third day too.
The iron expands like pap — bubbles like slag,
Expanded like wheaten dough — like rye-meal dough.
In the smith's huge fire, when in the hands of glowing heat
Then smith Ilmarinen looked at the bottom of the forge.
What the forge perchance may yield — what his bellows can squeeze out.
First he obtained brittle iron, then he got slag,
Then let white (iron) trickle from the bellows below.
Then wretched iron shouted out : "Oho ! smith Ilmarinen,