Walk a queen within my dwelling,
In the Wainola halls and chambers,
In the courts of Kalevala.” 
Thus the Maid of Beauty answered
From her throne amid the heavens: 
“Yesterday at hour of twilight,
Went I to the flowery meadows,
There to rock upon the common,
Where the Sun retires to slumber;
There I heard a song-bird singing,
Heard the thrush simple measures,
Singing sweetly thoughts of maidens,
And the minds of anxious mothers. 
“Then I asked the pretty songster,
Asked the thrush this simple question: 
’Sing to me, thou pretty song-bird,
Sing that I may understand thee,
Sing to me in truthful accents,
How to live in greatest pleasure,
And in happiness the sweetest,
As a maiden with her father,
Or as wife beside her husband.’ 
“Thus the song-bird gave me answer,
Sang the thrush this information: 
’Bright and warm are days of summer,
Warmer still is maiden-freedom;
Cold is iron in the winter,
Thus the lives of married women;
Maidens living with their mothers
Are like ripe and ruddy berries;
Married women, far too many,
Are like dogs enchained in kennel,
Rarely do they ask for favors,
Not to wives are favors given.’”
Wainamoinen, old and truthful,
Answers thus the Maid of Beauty: 
“Foolish is the thrush thus singing,
Nonsense is the song-bird’s twitter;
Like to babes are maidens treated,
Wives are queens and highly honored. 
Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge,
I am not despised as hero,
Not the meanest of magicians;
Come with me and I will make thee
Wife and queen in Kalevala.” 
Thus the Maid of Beauty answered—­
“Would consider thee a hero,
Mighty hero, I would call thee,
When a golden hair thou splittest,
Using knives that have no edges;
When thou snarest me a bird’s egg
With a snare that I can see not.” 
Wainamoinen, skilled and ancient,
Split a golden hair exactly,
Using knives that had no edges;
And he snared an egg as nicely
With a snare the maiden saw not. 
“Come, sweet maiden, to my snow-sledge,
I have done what thou desirest.” 
Thus the maiden wisely answered: 
“Never enter I thy snow-sledge,
Till thou peelest me the sandstone,
Till thou cuttest me a whip-stick
From the ice, and make no splinters,
Losing not the smallest fragment.” 
Wainamoinen, true magician,
Nothing daunted, not discouraged,
Deftly peeled the rounded sandstone,
Deftly cut from ice a whip-stick,
Cutting not the finest splinter,
Losing not the smallest fragment. 
Then again be called the maiden,
To a seat within his snow-sledge. 
But the Maid or Beauty answered,
Answered thus the great magician: 
I will go with that one only
That will make me ship or shallop,
From the splinters of my spindle,
From the fragments of my distaff,
In the waters launch the vessel,