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Once there was a peasant Ivan and his wife Arina. He sent her rye to the field to reap.

Here Arina came to the strip, squeezed such a place, so that one could lie down; lay down, slept well and went home, as if she had really worked, worked.

"What, wife," the husband asks, "did you squeeze a lot today?"

- Glory to you my God, one place squeezed.

"Well it's good! - thinks a man. "One lane is over."

The next day, Arina again went to the field, squeezed a place and slept until the evening; and on the third day it is the same, and on the fourth the same; so all week and provocative.

It's time, the man thinks, to go after the sheaves in the field.

Comes - and rye is all undead; in some places, in some places it is squeezed out by small towns, and even then, such that only a person can lie down. He began to look for his wife and sees: she lies on one spot and snores so!

The man is now home, seized the scissors, returned to the stubble, shaved his woman barely; did all this and returned to the village.

Here Arina slept, slept, yes, finally, and woke up; she grabbed her head and said to herself:

- Chto pryadchilos! I seem to be Arina, and my head is not mine! I'll go home: if the dog bark, so I mean - not Arina.

She came to the village right to her hut and asked under the window:

- What, is your Arina at home?

Husband smiled and said to her:

- Houses!

Then a dog crawled out from under the gate, did not recognize the hostess, and rushed at her like on someone else's; so for the floors and enough. Arina running and running, as if only living from her house to leave!

And she went to roam the field. The man took pity on her, forgave her, and from that time Arina began to reap ingenuously.