FullReads

(Adapted from Juliana Horatio Ewing)

A long time ago, in the days of the fairies and other little folk, there lived a housewife who was very stingy indeed. She thought only of her own cupboard and meals, and never of the needs of her neighbors. When she did give alms it was a dry loaf or a scraped bone for which she had no use, and she looked for great reward because she gave even these.

She lived in the country, not far from the hills where the little Hillmen stayed. The Hillmen were fairy folk, kin to the elves and in appearance somewhat like the brownies. They made their homes in the trunks of old trees or in the hollows of the hills, gathering nuts, and grains, and such fruits as the farmers dropped at the time of harvesting. They were generous, kind little folk and couldn’t abide meanness.

One day a Hillman came down and knocked at the door of the housewife. When her maid-servant opened it a crack, he took off his little green cap politely and told her his errand.

“We’re giving a christening party on the hill to-night, good mother,” the Hillman said, “and we need an extra saucepan, for all of ours are in use. Will you lend us one?”

“Shall I loan one of our saucepans to the Hillman, mistress?” the maid-servant asked.

“Oh, yes, I suppose it is wiser to be neighborly with them,” the housewife replied.

So the maid-servant went over to the side of the kitchen where the pots hung on the wall to get a saucepan down. There was a fine supply to choose from, large and small, polished copper and brass, iron, and shining tin. But just as the maid-servant put out her hand to take one of their best saucepans, the housewife whispered to her.

“Not that one!” she said. “Give him the old one that leaks, and hangs there at the end. The Hillmen are tidy little folk and very nimble with a job of tinkering. They’ll have to mend it before they use it and so it will come home whole. We can oblige the Fairy Folk and save sixpence at the same time.”

The maid-servant was sorry to do her mistress’s bidding, for it was the oldest and blackest saucepan of all, hung there to wait for the next time when the tinker stopped at the house. She gave it to the little Hillman, though, who thanked her and went off with the leaky saucepan hung over his back.

One morning, not long after that, they found the saucepan, returned, on the doorstep. It was neatly mended, ready for use.

When it was supper time, the maid-servant filled the pan with milk and set it over the fire to heat it for the children’s supper. She had scarcely done this, though, when there was a great sizzling and sputtering, and the milk was burned so badly that not even the pigs would eat it.

“Look what you have done!” the housewife said, scolding the maid-servant. “You have ruined a quart of rich milk with your carelessness, a whole quart of milk with the cream, all gone at once!”

“And that’s twopence!” said a shrill, whining voice that seemed to come from the chimney.

They went to the door and looked up on the roof, and they looked up the chimney, but they could see no one. At last they decided that it must have been the wind they had heard; and the housewife, herself, filled the saucepan with milk once more and set it over the fire. She only turned around, though, when the milk boiled over. Again, it was just as burned and spoiled as it had been before.

“Well, this is no fault of mine,” the housewife said. “The saucepan must be dirty; but now there are two quarts of rich milk with the cream, all wasted.”

“And that’s fourpence!” said the strange voice, speaking again, and this time it seemed to come from out of the fire itself.

They looked behind the bellows and back of the chimney, but they could see no one. They made up their minds at last that it must have been the creaking of the fire logs that they had heard. The housewife washed, and scrubbed, and scoured the saucepan, and then she filled it for a third time with all the milk that she had left. She set it for the third time over the fire, and both she and the maid-servant watched it to see that nothing happened to it.

Then, before their very eyes, the milk burned and boiled over for a third time. It was hopelessly spoiled. The housewife began to cry at the waste. “I never had anything like this befall me in my life!” she bemoaned. “I have wasted three quarts of milk for one meal!”

“And that’s sixpence,” said the voice that seemed now to be right at her elbow. “You didn’t save the price of the tinkering after all.”

She turned and there was the Hillman, standing right beside her, his little green cap in his hand, and laughing with all his might. Before she could catch him, he was off and out through the kitchen door.

But after that the saucepan was just as good as any other one.