At night that owl made a dreadful racket. To the children’s ears it sounded as if someone were rolling big, heavy logs over their heads. The former nursemaid used to laugh at them when they were frightened by the noise, and say there was nothing to be scared about--it was only the owl. But Back-Kaisa, who hailed from the forest, was afraid of all animals, furred and feathered. They were to her like evil spirits. So, whenever she was awakened in the night by the owl she would take out her prayer book and begin to read. Indeed she could not soothe the children; on the contrary, she terrified them so that the poor little owl grew into a huge monster with tiger-claws and eagle-wings. No words can picture how they lay shuddering to the very roots of their being at the thought of having a horrible ogre like that right above them. What if it should tear a hole through the ceiling with its great claws, and come swooping down...! It can never be said of Back-Kaisa that she neglected the children, or beat them. But was that anything much? True, the former nursemaid had not been so particular about keeping them neat and clean; but she was oh, so good to them! The children had three little wooden chairs which they regarded as their greatest treasure. These had been presented to them by the clever old carpenter of Askersby. Whether they were meant as compensation for his failure with the beds, they did not know, but they rather thought so. At any rate, the chairs were not failures. They were both light and strong, and could be used as tables and sleds. The children could ride them all around the room, stand upon them and jump to the floor, or lay them down and play they were a cow shed, a stable, or a rabbit hutch. Oh, there was nothing they could not be used for! Why the children prized those chairs so highly could be seen at a glance by turning them upside down. On the bottom of each chair was the portrait of its owner. On one was Johan, a boy in blue with a long riding whip in his hand; on another posed Anna, a dainty little maid in a red frock and yellow leghorn hat--sniffing at a nosegay; while on the third was Selma, a tiny tot in a blue dress and striped apron, but with nothing in her hand and nothing on her head. Now these portraits had been painted there to show to whom the chairs belonged, and the children regarded them as their property in quite a different sense from wearing apparel and other things they received from their parents. Their clothes travelled from one to another, and their nice toys were either locked away or set up on the corner bracket in the parlour; but the chairs, which bore their likenesses--who would have thought of depriving them of these?