Peter the Graybeard did not at all resemble Gudbrand. He was self-willed, imperious, passionate, and had no more patience than a dog when you snatch away his bone or a cat when you're trying to strangle her. He would have been insufferable, had not Heaven, in its mercy, given him a wife who was a match for him. She was headstrong, quarrelsome, discontented and morose--always ready to keep quiet when her husband preserved silence, and just as ready to scream at the top of her voice the moment he opened his mouth. It was great good fortune for Peter to have such a spouse. Without her, would he ever have known that patience is not the merit of fools? One day, in the mowing Season, when he came home, after a fifteen hours' spell of hard work, in worse humor than usual, and was swearing, cursing and execrating all women and their laziness, because his soup was not yet ready for him, his wife exclaimed,-- 'Good Lord! Peter, you talk away at a fine rate. Would you like to change places? To-morrow, I will mow, instead of you, and you stay at home here and play housekeeper. Then, we'll see which of us will have the hardest task and come out of it the best.' 'Agreed!' thundered Peter; 'you'll have a chance to find out, once for all, what a poor husband has to suffer. The trial will teach you a lesson of respect--something you greatly need.' So, the next morning, at day-break, the wife set out afield with the rake over her shoulder and the sickle by her side, all joyous at the sight of the bright sunshine, and singing like a lark. Now, who felt not a little surprised, and a little foolish too, to find himself shut up at home? Our friend Peter the Graybeard. Still, he wasn't going to own himself beaten, but fell to work churning butter, as though he had never done anything else all the days of his life. It's no hard matter to get over-heated when one takes up a new trade, and Peter soon, feeling very dry, went down into the cellar to draw a mug of beer from the cask. He had just knocked out the bung and was applying the spigot, when he heard an ominous crunching and grunting overhead. It was the sow, devastating the kitchen. 'Oh Lord! my butter's lost!' yelled Peter the Graybeard, as he rushed pell-mell up the steps, with the spigot in his hand. What a spectacle was there! the churn upset, the cream spilt all over the floor, and the huge sow fairly wallowing in the rich and savory tide. Now even a wiser man would have lost all patience; as for Peter, he rushed upon the brute, who, with piercing screams, strove to escape; but it was a hapless day to the thief, for her master caught her in the doorway and dealt her so well applied and vigorous a blow on the side of her skull with the spigot that the sow fell dead on the spot.