Their features were wooden;

The Finns at the market were not to be mistaken for Russians. Their features were wooden; their expression was far less intelligent than that of the Russians. The women were addicted to wonderful patterns in aprons and silver ornaments, and wore, under a white head kerchief, a stiff glazed white circlet which seemed to wear away their blond hair. These women arrived regularly every morning, before five o'clock, at the shops of the baker and the grocer opposite our windows. The shops opened at that hour, after having kept open until eleven o'clock at night, or later. After refreshing themselves with a roll and a bunch of young onions, of which the green tops appeared to be the most relished, the women made their town toilet by lowering the very much reefed skirt of their single garment, drawing on footless stockings, and donning shoes. At ten o'clock, or even earlier, they came back to fill the sacks of coarse white linen, borne over their shoulders, with necessaries for their households, purchased with the proceeds of their sales, and to reverse their toilet operations, preparatory to the long tramp homeward. I sometimes caught them buying articles which seemed extravagant luxuries, all things considered, such as raisins. One of their specialties was the sale of lilies of the valley, which grow wild in the Russian forests. Their peculiar little trot-trot, and the indescribable semi-tones and quarter-tones in which they cried, "Land-dy-y-y-shee!" were unmistakably Finnish at any distance.

Isabel F. Hapgood: Russian Rambles

Bread in the Middle ages

Bread.--The Gauls, who principally inhabited deep and thick forests, fed on herbs and fruits, and particularly on acorns. It is even possible that the veneration in which they held the oak had no other origin. This primitive food continued in use, at least in times of famine, up to the eighth century, and we find in the regulations of St. Chrodegand that if, in consequence of a bad year, the acorn or beech-nut became scarce, it was the bishop's duty to provide something to make up for it. Eight centuries later, when René du Bellay, Bishop of Mans, came to report to Francis I. the fearful poverty of his diocese, he informed the king that the inhabitants in many places were reduced to subsisting on acorn bread.

In the earliest times bread was cooked under the embers. The use of ovens was introduced into Europe by the Romans, who had found them in Egypt. But, notwithstanding this importation, the old system of cooking was long after employed, for in the tenth century Raimbold, abbot of the monastery of St. Thierry, near Rheims, ordered in his will that on the day of his death bread cooked under the embers--panes subcinericios--should be given to his monks. By feudal law the lord was bound to bake the bread of his vassals, for which they were taxed, but the latter often preferred to cook their flour at home in the embers of their own hearths, rather than to carry it to the public oven.

P. L. Jacob: Manners, Customs, and Dress During the Middle Ages and During the Renaissance Period

Muodin ennustamisen hankaluudesta

The Strand Magazine, Volume V, Issue 30, June 1893:

Found himself transformed into a horrible vermin

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked.

"What's happened to me?" he thought. It wasn't a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table - Samsa was a travelling salesman - and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.

Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. "How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense", he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn't get into that position. However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was. He must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look at the floundering legs, and only stopped when he began to feel a mild, dull pain there that he had never felt before.

Franz Kafka: Metamorphosis

An Old-fashioned Girl

Up came the little girl, with her hand out, and a half-shy, half-merry look in her blue eyes, as she said, inquiringly, "This is Tom, is n't it?"

"Yes. How did you know?" and Tom got over the ordeal of hand-shaking without thinking of it, he was so surprised.

"Oh, Fan told me you 'd got curly hair, and a funny nose, and kept whistling, and wore a gray cap pulled over your eyes; so I knew you directly." And Polly nodded at him in the most friendly manner, having politely refrained from calling the hair "red," the nose "a pug," and the cap "old," all of which facts Fanny had carefully impressed upon her memory.

"Where are your trunks?" asked Tom, as he was reminded of his duty by her handing him the bag, which he had not offered to take.

"Father told me not to wait for any one, else I 'd lose my chance of a hack; so I gave my check to a man, and there he is with my trunk;" and Polly walked off after her one modest piece of baggage, followed by Tom, who felt a trifle depressed by his own remissness in polite attentions. "She is n't a bit of a young lady, thank goodness! Fan did n't tell me she was pretty. Don't look like city girls, nor act like 'em, neither," he thought, trudging in the rear, and eyeing with favor the brown curls bobbing along in front.

Louisa May Alcott: An Old-Fashioned Girl

Kände ni drottning Karin Månsdotter?

— Kände ni drottning Karin Månsdotter?

— En fattig krigsman, som vandrat mycket omkring, måste väl känna den enda drottning som bott här i landet. Jag kom aldrig den gång till Liuksiala, utan att den välsignade frun lät först undfägna mig på det bästa i folkstugan och sedan kalla mig upp till sig att berätta för henne om forna dagar. Det fanns icke en fattig på många mils avstånd, som icke var dag välsignade henne i sin morgon- och aftonbön, och lika blid 103 var hon mot alla, hög eller låg, vän eller ovän, ja mot själva herr Olof Stenbock, som varit så grym mot kung Erik i tiden. Jag minns nog den dag, när Stenbocken stack sig undan för hertig Karl och blev skjuten som en eländig flykting i skogarna, huru fru Karin då lät uppsöka hans döda kropp och begrava honom i vigd jord, vedergällande ont med gott... Mig var hon synnerligen huld för att jag var en bland kung Eriks bågskyttar i mina unga dagar; det fick jag ofta för henne förtälja. Och för fyra år sedan råkade jag just komma till Liuksiala, när hon låg på sitt yttersta. Jag fick komma till hennes säng och säga farväl åt henne, jag med alla andra av gårdens folk, och hon orkade intet mer tala, men hon gav fru Sigrid ett tecken att läsa för henne Johannes’ första epistel, som är om ljuset och kärleken, och vid fru Sigrid läste mitt i andra kapitlet, förmärkte vi alla, huru den kära gamla fruns ögonlock sakta föllo ihop, och i den samma stunden vart hon saligen döder. Så var det med fru Karin, och dotter hennes, som nu beder i koret, brås uppå mor sin; sonen kände jag inte; han reste världen omkring undan kung Johan. Men dottersonen, unge herr Åke, lärer brås uppå morfadern, varandes en ostadig och hårdsint herre, duktig i slagsmål, såsom ock Tottesläkten hör till de styvare här i landet.

Zacharias Topelius: Ungdomsdrömmar

Winesburg, Ohio

Upon the half decayed veranda of a small frame house that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of Winesburg, Ohio, a fat little old man walked nervously up and down. Across a long field that had been seeded for clover but that had produced only a dense crop of yellow mustard weeds, he could see the public highway along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers returning from the fields. The berry pickers, youths and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to drag after him one of the maidens, who screamed and protested shrilly. The feet of the boy in the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across the face of the departing sun. Over the long field came a thin girlish voice. "Oh, you Wing Biddlebaum, comb your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded the voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though arranging a mass of tangled locks.

Sherwood Andersson: Winesburg, Ohio; a group of tales of Ohio small town life