mow the hay. Ivan swung the scythe once, he swung it twice, but the scythe grew blunt and would not cut; he had to sharpen it. Ivan struggled and struggled and struggled.
" This won't do," he said;
"I must go home and bring a whetstone and a hunk of bread. If it takes me a week I'll not give up until I've mowed it every bit."
And the Devilkin grew pensive when he heard these words.
"The Fool has a temper," he said; "I can't catch him this way; I must think of something else."
Ivan returned, sharpened his scythe and began to mow. The Devilkin crept into the grass, caught hold of the scythe by the heel and pushed the point into the ground. It was hard for Ivan, but he mowed all the grass, except a little piece in the swamp. The Devilkin crept into the swamp, thinking,
"Even if I have to cut my hands I won't let him mow that!"
Ivan came to the swamp. The grass was not thick, but the scythe could not cut through it. Ivan grew angry and began to mow with all his might. The Devilkin
