Just after the end of the second World War, one of the worst problem in Japan was the severe food and housing shortage. Everybody was hungry, so many city people—writers, artists, teacher and the like—went into the country for a few years to make their living as farmers.
A little girl named Toshi, with her mother, a domestic science teacher, went to live in a mountain village in the rugged northern part of Japan. It is an area with climate and landscape very like New England of the Cascade Mountains of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. With them went her mother’s friend, Aunt Hana, and Aunt Hana’s young nephew, Akira. They built their own little house at the foot of a hill, and were very happy to be the masters of their own new home. But soon after, they began to wonder if the really were the masters, for flocks of mice—house mice, field mice and what not—came to live there too, and tried to take over. Then, of course, the very special black-and-white cat, Tom, had to come to help them. He became a real member of the family and had many adventures with the other four.
It was now their third winter in the mountains, and for Tom, his second.
The mountains and fields were covered with snow. During the slack farming season, Mother and Aunt Hana help a sewing class for the neighboring girls. Also, it was the only season of the year when the two children could enjoy more or less free time in the hours after school.
Every day, Akira put on his skis which really had been Aunt’s until last year, and went over the snowbound trails. He even took them to school to show off to his friends. Now it was easy for him to go out each morning to set his rabbit traps.
In the back of his mind, though, there was one uneasy thought, which was the only thing to mar his enjoyment of the winter weather. This was the thought of Christmas, which was getting closer and closer.
For some weeks now, all of the other in the family had been hard at work on secret tasks during their spare time. Akira was the only exception.
The year before, they had all promised not to buy anything with money for their next Christmas. Instead, they were to think of gifts which they could make themselves, start their preparations early, and avoid troublesome eleventh-hour rushes. Even so, not one of them had been successful with the careful planning. Now at the last minute, Mother, Thosi, and Aunt Hana were as busy as could be, working in places where no one else could watch.
Whenever Akira forgot and flung open a certain wall closet—“Now, Akira, you leave that bundle alone!” Aunt Hana would shout.
And late at night, when he opened the sliding door to the inner room, there were squeals of “No! Don’t’ peek!” from Toshi, who was supposed to be asleep.
Akira was at his wit’s end. He had no idea what to do. One morning Mother took him aside and suggested that he might try twisting a coil of packing rope out of straw, signing it “For everybody with from Akira.”
Akira nodded happily. He thought that this was an excellent idea. Soon after, he began the project in the shed. But working in the hiding as he was, somehow he did not seem to make much progress. In the dark and cold of the shed, he shivered as he worked. When finally he completed a yard or so of the rope, it looked too much like a picture of animal entrails in a science book. So he gave up in disgust and threw the rope away.
By this time, he was in such difficulties that the broke down and wrote a letter asking his uncle in Tokyo to send something he could use for a Christmas gift. But since it was already the twenty-second of December, he could hardly hope that his uncle’s reply would come in time.
At home, where everyone else was busily hurrying along with work in an atmosphere of tremendous secrecy, the usually carefree Akira could only sigh and look glum. This only made matters worse. And even as he worried, the morning of the twenty-third came.
There was, he decided, only one way out for him. If only a rabbit would be good enough to help him by getting itself caught in one of his traps, now! If he could produce a rabbit, then he could cheerfully sign it, “For everybody with love from Akira” in full confidence that there could be no better gift.
For several days now he had not gone out to look over his trap lines. How could he tell? There might even be two or three rabbits scared and waiting for him. Of course, if his traps had been robbed by a fox as they were last year, it would be a different matter, but still there was room for hope.
By the afternoon of the twenty-third, he could no longer stand the suspense. He put on his winter cap, took his skis over his shoulder, and went out.
Eager for a walk, the family cat, Tom, came along.
At the bottom of the slope in front of the house, Akira fastened on his skis. Tom trotted along after him in the hard-packed ski tracks. They crossed the wheat field and came out into the first marshy gully. Walking sidewise like a crab, Akira skillfully made his way to the other side and came to the next gully. So far all his snares were empty. For the past four or five days, the weather had been clear and bright, and the snow had packed down considerably. The snares were left hanging high and dry on branches far above. No sensible rabbit would try to jump through a wire ring hanging so far up off the ground, Akira thought, unless perhaps in a rabbit circus.
“Blast,” he muttered, and was about to start for the other side of the gully. Then, something starling and unexpected happened. At his feet, a fluttering, flapping sound arose suddenly, surprising him so much that he fell over.
Whoosh! Tom came racing up as though shot from a gun. In front of him, a large plump object was setting up a great commotion as it tried to take off from the ground. It was a pheasant!
Akira gasped.
For some reason probably the severe cold, the pheasant did not fly far. It landed on the south side of a thicket of reeds, just to Akira’s left.
Akira shouted out loud. Quickly he slipped off his skis, tumbled down the slope, and began to inch his way up to the clump of reeds.
But Tom was even quicker. He streaked upward, ahead of Akira.
“Tom! Wait!” Akira roared.
“R-r-r-r!” Tom growled, leaping as though he were on springs.
By now, Akira caught up with him. In the shadow of the reed thicket, the pheasant was crouching, with its head buried in the dry grasses, and its russet and gold tail standing straight up.
“Got it!”
Even as he yelled, Akira plunged forward and grabbed the pheasant. Wildly it lashed against his hands, but Akira did not give up. He flung his whole body against his violently struggling prey.
“Gyoo!” Tom leaped upon him.
“Idiot! Tom! Lay off!”
Akira kicked Tom out of the way, and then he stood up. He was still clutching the pheasant.
Was he dreaming, or was it all real?
“Hey,” Akira called.
Again and again, Tom jumped up at him, and again and again, he kicked Tom out of the way. Holding the pheasant tightly, he began to run.
“Pheasant! Got one!”
He heard answering shouts from the direction of the house.
“Hey!”
Stumbling and staggering, Akira ran on. In the distance before him he thought he saw a rapidly increasing crowd—a score or so of people, standing on the long open verandah shouting, and waving their almost like ocean waves.
As he neared the house, he saw that his eyes were not tricking him. For when they heard the shouts from out of doors, all of the girls in the sewing class and everyone in the family came running. He could see them on the verandah and at the open windows of the living room, raising their hands, stamping their feet, and laughing in wild enthusiasm. They were cheering even more energetically than the onlookers for the village relay race at a school athletic meet.
Kicking Tom away, and shaking off the snow, Akira kept on running. Puffing and panting, he attacked the last barrier, the slope immediately in front of the house, as he held the pheasant high for everyone to see.
“Hooray!”
Shrill shouts of excitement resounded.
By this time, everyone was weak from laughter. Holding their sides, falling over each other, they plopped down to sit upon the verandah. No one had seen such a jolly sight in years.
“Akira! Bully for you!” Aunt Hana’s enthusiastic shouting nearly drowned out the other’ laughter.
“Whew!” chugged Akira. Relieved, he plumped down in the snow in front of them all.
At that moment, flap! There came a loud noise of fluttering wings. The pheasant flopped out of Akira’s grasp and rose uncertainly into the air.
“Look out! It’s getting away!” Mother’s voice exploded like a thunderclap.
“No!” they all gasped. Just then, a small noiseless black streak sprang up after the pheasant.
It was Tom.
Tom leaped into the air. Now he was as high as the floundering bird, and higher.
Then, he came down directly on top of his feathered target. The two of them plunged and fell to earth.
“Hooray!”
Once again a shout arose, followed by cheering and clapping. It was ten times as loud as before. But this time, it was all applause for Tom.
Dragging the pheasant along over the snow, Tom marched into the house.
After dinner the next day, which was Christmas Eve, they all retreated into their particular hiding places and made ready to bring out the gifts. The preparation time for the gift exchange was fifteen minutes.
When the time was up, the all came out, trying hard to suppress their giggles, and gathered around the heated table, bringing with them an assortment of queer-looking bundles.
First, it was Mother’s turn.
For Aunt Hana: a woolen mitten for outdoor work in cold weather. (The other one would be finished in a day or two, so she hoped Aunt Hana would not mind waiting).
For Akira: a quilted vest. (Made out of an old black air-raid curtain. On the chest, his initials, A. O., were embroidered in red in fancy capital letters).
For Toshi: a kimono. (An exquisitely colored and patterned piece of patchwork, made from many tiny bits of cloth stitched together).
Next was Aunt Hana.
For Mother : extra large ski underwear. (Made over from n old jersey dress, but guaranteed to be warm).
For Akira : Here, Aunt Hana went out the kitchen door and returned with one of the skis. (She had actually handed them over to him rather earlier than she intended, but now she reaffirmed the gift. He was, please, to excuse her for not bringing both in because they were so long).
For Toshi: extra small ski underwear. (She felt rather sorry, since both Toshi’s gifts were made of patchwork, but she hoped Toshi would not mind, because these matched the others she had made for Mother).
Now, Toshi took over.
For Mother and Aunt Hana and Akira: one pair of hand-embroideret cloth armguards apiece. (So nobody’s hands would get hurt or frozen from field work during the winter).
The last turn came to Akira. Until now, he had simply sat there grinning idiotically each time one of the others gave him a present. But now that it was actually his turn, he laughed even more sheepishly than ever, for he knew that the others knew perfectly well what wa coming.
At first, all he could saya was, “Um—eh—he! Ha! Ha! Ha!” They had trouble getting any more out of him.
Finally he settled down enough to open the cloth bundle by his side and to take out a large tray. On the tray was a bundle of bright pheasant feathers tied with ribbons.
“Um—he! He! Well, the pheasant meat was our dinner tonight, and most of it must be in our stomachs by this time, I imagine, but—he! He!—well, this is for everybody, with love from Tom and me.”
The other there applauded furiously.
Then, the last gift of all came. “From everybody, with love, for Tom.” It was a nice new collar, made over from what had been a puppy’s collar. When Toshi fastened the collar around Tom’s neck, Tom, who had been sleeping on Akira’s lap, opened his eyes drowsily. “What is all this fuss about?” he seemed to ask. In a moment, he had curled himself up again, sound asleep.
The First Snake
“Oooopiee…Oopiee…”
“Oome, oome…”
Menico, whose nickname was Ome, was calling his friend Pietro. And Pietro, whose nickname was Opie, was answering.
Menico was calling from the railroad station in the middle of the street, and Pietro was answering from a window of his house on the hillside.
It was close to St. Joseph’s Day, the 19th of March. At Cocullo, a village in Abruzzi, Italy, the mountain began to feel the end of winter and the snow began to melt. The first glints of grass began to show between patches of snow melting in the meadows. The first violets bloomed under sunny hedges. According to a local proverb, it was also the time when the first snake pokes its head out of a hole in the ground and basks in the sunlight.
The snake comes out slowly, slowly. It glides lazily, one scale at a time. It seems to be stretching itself sleepily after a long winter’s nap. Bit by bit, it grows longer and longer till it reaches its full length. Then it sheds its skin.
Nearby, a lizard pauses to look at the snake. It listens. It moves closer. Is the snake friend or enemy? The snake’s tongue darts out. The lizard becomes the snake’s victim.
But in rocky Cocullo, it is the snake who never escape. Century after century since the world began, in this haven for snakes, the men have been snake hunters.
“Oopie.”
“Oome.”
The two young snake hunters were calling to each other to go snake hunting.
“Where are you going?” Pietro’s mother asked as he started down the stairs.
“Where am I going?” Pietro repeated. “Do you need to ask? For snakes, Ma, for snakes. It’s in the blood.”
“In the blood? Snake hunting?”
“Yes! For as long as anyone can remember, we of Cocullo have been snake hunters, and those of the Fiocco family even more than the rest.”
Pietro’s father had brought Mother, blond and thin, to that house of swarthy people long ago. Pietro was born dark, too, with velvety dark eyes and jet black hair. His little sister, Livia, was blond and dainty like Mother. When they sat at the table or in front of the house or walked down the road, they seemed to belong to neither the family nor the region.
In fact, everyone called Pietro’s mother “the foreigner.” Everyone. Sometimes, even Grandpa said jokingly, “Hey, foreigner, is the soup ready yet?”
Mother was no longer a foreigner. She had become one of them now, only she did not want to accept the snake customs. But how can one be from Cocullo and not hunt snakes?
In Cocullo, the patron saint is Saint Domenico. On the day of his festival, the first Thursday in May, the people of Cocullo form a procession and carry snakes on a statue of the saint. They also carry the snakes in bunches, in balls, in sacks—the snakes that snake-hunting boys have been collecting since spring arrived in the mountains to melt the snow and warm the rocks.
Pietro’s grandfather was the most famous snake hunter of his time. Even as a boy, Pietro’s father had not always followed the custom. When he married a woman who hated snakes, he gradually stopped hunting them. But Pietro was born with a great interest in snakes. He was a snake hunter of the old school. No boy his age was as clever as Pietro when it came to catching snakes—not even Menico.
Pietro had never hunted poisonous snakes, though. Only one old man, Paolo di Fala, hunted them. His only companion was his old white mule. In good weather he spent a long time in the mountains catching poisonous snakes that he sold to a specialist in the town.
After meeting in front of Pietro’s house, Pietro and Menico walked along a path near the Pezzana River. They walked slowly, talking. Each carried a strong sack and a forked stick—the special stick they used to pin down snakes by the neck.
“Opie,” said Menico, “I think we’ll catch some today.”
“What kind?” asked Pietro.
“Some black snakes, no? The sun is hot, and they’ll be out warning themselves. We’ll catch them as soon as they come out, you’ll see.”
“I’ll see those I catch myself.” And Pietro laughed, looking at his friend sideways.
“What a sly one you are,” said Menico.
“Not sly. Snake hunters are born in my family. Grand-father says that in our house the white snakes don’t come to steal the lamb’s milk, they come to give milk to the babies. That’s why snake hunters are born there and grow there.”
“Opie, your granddad always tells fibs about snakes. Do you think there is a snake that would give milk to babies?”
“Sure I do. Anything is possible.”
Menico shrugged his shoulders. When it came to a member of the Fiocco family who were the leading snake hunters, there was nothing else to do. You either gave in or you challenged them. So Menico gave in. Not because he believed that snakes gave milk to the babies of the Fiocco family, or in the number of snakes, thousands upon thousands, that Pietro’s grandfather claimed to have caught in his time, but because he was very fond of his friend.
Walking and talking, the two snake-hunting boys came to a place where the rocks from the hill formed a kind of plateau.
“Opie, let’s sit down and be quiet. Maybe Gelsomania will come out soon.”
The boys always gave names to the snakes they hunted.
They sat down and made themselves comfortable, but they were very carefull not to loosen any stones. The snake is suspicious and, at the slightest movement, it draws back into its hole in the ground and won’t come out again all that daya.
Almost an hour passed.
“Gelsomina isn’t going to take a walk today,” said Menico.
“She will, Ome, she will,” said Pietro. “How can a snake stay in its hole on a day like this?”
It was truly a beautiful day. There was not even a wisp of cloud in the sky, and the March sun was as warm as that of May.
All of a sudden, a snake cautiously poked its head out of a hole.
It was a black snake, the most harmless of snakes, the kind of snake that slithers away in fright when it sees a man.
“Gelsomina,” whispered Menico. Pietro said nothing, but frowned at his friend and put his fingers to his lips.
Reassured, the snake, wanting the sun, glided forward about a foot—slowly, slowly, sleepily.
The boys looked at one another. Pietro’s dark eyes flashed with light. Menico’s brown eyes remained calm. But both boys were excited.
Gelsomina stopped. She was a foot out of the hole. She was warming up. Then she began to move again and came out until the part of her body which began thinning to word her tail, showed. Then the snake slid all the way out. It was heavy and black against the rocks.
Pietro pounched on the snake, pinning its head to the ground with his forked stick. Then he caught its neck between his thumb and index finger, dropped his forked tongue out, hissing, and puffing itself up like an angry toad. But its rebellion was of no use. The snake was finished—alive—but finished, a prisoner.
“I would have done it,” said Menico. But anyone could see that he really was not disappointed. It was interesting to watch Pietro catch the snake. Pietro was so fast.
“It’s a beauty,” said Menico.
“Beautiful enough to put on the head of the statue of Saint Domenico on the day of his festival. Open the sack, Ome.”
And Menico opened the sack. Pietro pushed the snake into it. Menico tied the string.
“Good night, Gelsomina,” said Menico.
“Good night, little Gelsomina,” said Pietro. “We’ll see you again at the festival of Saint Domenico.”
The Flight from Home
I had always lived in dread of water. When my friends practiced swimming I had always stayed away because my mother had made me promise her never to go swimming and I kept this promise very well.
On this day after spending a long time at the stream trying in vain to catch fish, my friends pulled off their clothes and leapt into the stream. I stood at the bank at the bank watching them. They jeered at me and called me “his mother’s son.” I was tempted to get into the water to prove to them that I was not the fool they took me for.
I was still gazing attentively at the stream when one boy, who had quietly crept behind me, gave me a push. I fell heavily into the water. I was in my clothes. Even if I knew how to swim, I would have been handicapped by my dress. But I couldn’t swim. I tried to shout but I took in a gulp of water each time.
I went deep down and it was dark. I was pushed up again and I saw daylight. It was then I heard the boys laughing at me. Down I went again felt I was going to drown and these wicked boys were going to continue laughing till I died. At that moment I remembered my mother and even my sister and felt sorry for them. They would weep and weep when I was gone. I felt sorry for myself. I was going to die so young. What was going to happen to my ambition when I had become food for the fishes? I remembered those things that always gave me joy and I missed them. My father would probably think that it was well that I was dead for I was always doing bad things. I blamed myself for running out of the house, and if I could have wept, I would have.
Then a hand gripped me by the waist and at first I wanted to hold tight to this hand. But when I knew that he was trying to save me I controlled myself. When I was pulled out, I was tired. I remained very quiet and I couldn’t quarrel with the boys who were still in the water laughing at me. Some of them wished have cured me of my fear. The boy who pushed me in said that I should go home and tell my mother. I wanted to be angry but I couldn’t. I had not much strength in me and at the same time I was overjoyed at being alive and safe again.
When I had regained my senses and I was strong once more, I decided to teach these boys some sense too. While they were still having their fun in the water, I collected their clothes at the bank of the stream and walked off to the deeper end of the stream. I knew they wouldn’t dare to swim so far because even elderly men feared that part of the stream. I cast all their clothes into the stream and watched them sail away. Then I called to the boys to see their clothes as they sailed down the stream.
I ran homeward. I ran into the house once again and sat down. My sister called mother to see my wet clothes. She said that she was sure I had been swimming for my eyes were red. I had rubbed some dust on my face and neck, my arms and legs and they no longer looked very fresh. But I could I could do nothing to my eyes.
The boys having failed to recover their clothes came to the village almost naked. They were furious and they made for our house. I saw them coming and I went to hide. When they came in, they made such a noise reporting the incident to my mother that my father woke up from his sleep. I was not aware all the time that he was in. He learned the story from the boys and when he called me, I came out of my hiding place and saw that he had his whip in his hand. I made for the door and hopped out. I then disappeared into the bush.
I knew I had made the situation worse for myself. I had run out on the spur of the moment and immediately I reached the bush, I regretted this. But there was no turning back. I felt very lonely and wanted to go back home but I feared what my father would do to me. I knew that the night would come and wondered where I was going to sleep. I walked farther and farther into the bush. I picked fruit after fruit but I did not need them. I was not in the mood for eating but when I felt thirsty, I quenched my thirst by eating an overripe pawpaw.
When it was almost dark, I returned to the back of our house in the village. I was so close to the house that I could hear my mother worrying about me. She had thought that I would come home before it was night but she was growing anxious now. She spoke to my father, she spoke to my sister, she spoke to herself, each time wondering what she would do. I was sorry for her and very much wished I could bring myself to come out of my hiding place. But I overhead my father threaten that he would teach me a lesson which I would not forget in a hurry and I could not face it.
Something later, I saw my mother carrying a clay lamp and, with my sister for company, go out of the house. I guessed that she went to the homes of all my friends asking if I was with them. When she came back, not having heard of me, she was afraid that I might come to some harm. She therefore went along the village calling out for me late in the night, pleading with me to come out of my hiding place. I was sorry for her. Tears stung my eyes but I did not come out. When she was tired of shouting, my mother gave up and went in. I knew she would not sleep a wink that night.
Soon, all grew quiet in the village. I could not remain in the bush for I feared the wild animals, snakes, and all sorts of danger. I came out of the bush thinking of passing the night in the shed where my mother made corn flour but I found that it was wet all over. Someone must have broken the pot of water.
I next went to a friend’s house and tapped on a window. It was the father’s voice that ring out, “Who’s there?” I took to my heels and once again I was in the bush but the same fear got me out very quickly. A new idea then came into my head.
Very near a house at the outskirts of the village there was a big clay pot. There was no water in it but it had a cover. I took off the cover and went inside and sat down comfortably. I replaced the lid and left enough space to let in air. Soon I was fast asleep and lost count of the time.
All of a sudden, water was pouring on me. I woke up with a start and shrieked. I heard someone throw away a pot of water, scream, and run. It was a woman. She was screaming and calling for help as she ran. Then the whole thing dawned on me.
This woman had awakened in the early hours of the morning, and had gone to the stream in the company of others to fetch water. Women usually did this on market days in order to get done with the housework in time. This woman was then pouring the water into the pot where I was enjoying my quiet sleep. She did not expect to find anyone in the pot. Therefore, when she heard me shriek she was badly scared and so she screamed and ran.
Now I was wide awake and I hurried out of the pot and was attempting to run away when a strange man gripped me. He was going to deal me some hard blows, when he realized that I was a little boy. I called out to him to leave me and gave him my name and story.
He dragged me to my father’s house, and knocked. When the door opened, he simply pushed me in and went away. I was drenched and shivering with cold and fear. My mother was overjoyed to see me and I thought my father showed some sign of relief. Even my sister came running from her sleep. She embraced me. Tears came down from her eyes. For once we were friends.
Nils Karlsson, the Elf
Bertil stood looking out the window. It was getting dark. It looked foggy, chilly, and nasty outside. He was waiting for Mama and Papa to come home. He was waiting so anxiously, it was strange they didn’t appear over there by the street lamp. Usually, he caught a first glimpse of them by the street.
Every day Mama and Papa went to the factory. Bertil was left alone in the apartment. Mama put food on the table so Bertil could eat when he got hungry. But it wasn’t any fun eating alone. On the whole, it was very boring to be alone all day with no one to talk to.
If only time wouldn’t go by so slowly! He didn’t know what to do with himself. He had gotten tired of his few toys a long time ago. He had looked through every book in the house. He couldn’t read yet. He was six years old.
It was cold in the room. Papa had made a fire in the fireplace in the morning, but by afternoon, almost all the warmth was gone. Bertil was cold. It was getting dark in the corners of the room, but he thought there was no use turning on the light. There was nothing for him to do anyway.
It was so sad, he decided to lie down on his bed to think about it. He had not always been alone, he had had a sister, Martha. But one day Martha came home from school, sick. She was sick for a week. Then she had died. He cried when he thought about it and about how lonely he was now.
It was right then that he heard them. Little pattering steps under his bed.
“Is this place haunted?” bertil wondered. He leaned over the edge of his bed. There, under the bed, stood a—yes, he was just like an ordinary little boy. The only thing was that he was no bigger than a thumb.
“Hi,” said the little boy.
“Hi,” said Bertil a bit shyly.
“Hi, hi,” said the little one.
Then no one said anything for a while.
“Who are you?” asked Bertil. “And what are you doing under my bed?”
“My name is Nils Karlsson, the Elf. I live here. Well, not under your bed exactly, but a flight lower down. You can see the entrance right over there in the corner.” He pointed at a large mouse hole under Bertil’s bed.
“Have you lived here long?” Bertil wondered.
“No, only a few days,” said the elf. “Before, I lived under the roots of a tree in the park. But when fall comes, one has had enough of camping and want to go back to town. I was lucky enough to rent this room from a mouse who was moving to her sister’s in Sodertalje. As a matter of fact, it’s awfully hard to find a small apartment.”
Yes, Bertil had heard that it was.
“I rent the room unfurnished,” explained the elf. “That’s the best way. At least, if you have some furniture of your own,” he added after a pause.
“Well, do you?” Bertil asked.
“No, that’s just it, I don’t,” said the elf looking worried. He shivered. “Brrr, it’s cold down at my place. But it’s cold up here too.”
“I’ll say,” said Bertil. “I’m about to freeze to death.”
“I have a fireplace,” said the elf. “But I don’t have any wood. Wood is so expensive nowadays.” He jumped up and down to try to get warm. Then he looked at Bertil and asked, “What do you do all day?”
“Well, nothing much,” said Bertil.
“Neither do I,” said the elf. “It’s quite boring being alone, isn’t it?”
“Very boring,” said Bertil.
“Want to come down to my place for a while?” the elf asked eagerly.
Bertil laughed. “Do you really think that I can get through that hole?”
“That’s the easiest thing in the world,” said the elf.
“You just touch that nail next to the hole and say ‘killevippen.’ Then you’ll be just as small as I am.”
“Are you sure?” said Bertil. “Can I get big again by the time Mama and Papa come home?”
“Sure,” said the elf. “You just touch the nail and say ‘killevippen’ once more.”
“How strange,” said Bertil. “Can you also get as big as I am?”
“No, I can’t, unfortunately,” said the elf. “But it would be nice if you came down to my place for a little while.”
“O.K.,” said Bertil. He crawled under the bed, put his finger on the nail, and said, “Killevippen.” Sure enough! There he stood in front of the mouse hole, as small as an elf.
“As I said before, my name is Nils,” said the elf and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s run down to my place.”
Bertil felt that something exciting and extraordinary was happening. He had a burning desire to enter the dark hole.
“Be careful when you walk down the stairs,” said Nils. “The handrail is broken in one place.”
Bertil walked with cautious steps down the little stone staircase. Just imagine! He hadn’t known that there were stairs there. They ended at a closed door.
“Wait, I’ll turn on the light,” said Nils. Then he opened the door and turned a switch. “It looks rather bare in here,” Nils said.
Bertil looked around at the little empty room with a window and a blue tile fireplace in one corner. “Yes, it could be cosier,” he admitted. “Where do you sleep at night?”
“On the floor,” said Nils.
“Gee, isn’t it cold?” Bertil said.
“You bet it is! It’s so cold that I have to get up and run around once every hour so I won’t freeze to death.”
Bertil felt sorry for Nils. At least he didn’t have to be cold at night. Suddenly he got an idea. “How stupid I am,” he said. “I can get you some wood.”
Nils grabbed Bertil’s arm. “Do you really think you could?” he said eagerly.
“Of course,” said Bertil. Then he looked a little worried. “But the worst is that I’m not allowed to light any matches.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Nils assured him, “If you get the wood, I’ll get it lighted.”
Bertil ran up the stairs. Them he touched the nail and—he had forgotten what he was supposed to say.
“What was I supposed to say?” he shouted down to Nils.
“Why, ‘killevippen,’ of course,” said Nils.
“Why, killevippen, of course,” said Bertil to the nail. Nothing happened.
“Golly, you should say only ‘killevippen,’ ” Nils called from below.
“Only killevippen,” said Bertil. Nothing happened.
“Good heavens,” cried Nils. “You mustn’t say anything but ‘killevippen.’ ”
Finally, Bertil understood. He said “killevippen” and became big again. It happened so quickly, he knocked his head against the bottom of his bed. He crawled out from under the bed and ran to the kitchen stove. There, he found a whole lot of used matches. He broke them into tiny pieces and piled them at the side of the mouse hole. Then he made himself small and called to Nils, “Come and help me with the wood!” Now that he was small, he was not strong enough to carry the wood by himself.
Nils came running and together they carried the wood downstairs and into the room and over to the fireplace. Nils was so happy, he jumped for joy. “Excellent wood,” he said. “Really excellent wood.”
He filled the fireplace and piled what was left in the corner.
“Now, I’ll show you something,” he said. He squatted in front of the fireplace and blew into it. Right away the wood started to crackle and burn!
“How practical,” said Bertil. “That sure saves a lot of matches.”
“You bet,” said Nils. “What a wonderful, wonderful fire. I haven’t been really warm a single time since last summer.”
They sat on the floor in front of the blazing fire and stretched their freezing hands toward the pleasant warmth.
“We have a lot of wood left,” said Nils happily.
“Yes, and when that’s gone, I can get as much more as you want,” said Bertil. He was happy too.
“Tonight, I won’t be so cold,” Nils said.
A little later Bertil asked, “What do you usually eat?”
Nils blushed. “Well, a little of everything,” he said uncertainly. “Whatever I can get hold of.”
“What have you eaten today?”
“Today,” said Nils, “today, I haven’t had anything to eat, as far as I can remember.”
“You must be terribly hungry,” Bertil exvalimed.
“Yes,” said Nils. “I am terribly hungry.”
“Why didn’t you say so, silly! I’ll get something right away.”
“If you do that,” Nils said, “I’ll like you as long as I live.”
Bertil was halfway up the stairs already. Quickly, quickly, he said, “Killevippen.” Quickly, quickly, he ran to the pantry. He look a little piece of cheese, a tiny piece of bread on which he spread some butter, and a meatball, and two raisins. He piled piled the food next to the mouse hole, made himself small, and shouted, “Come and help me with the food!”
He didn’t have to shout because, sure enough, Nils stood waiting. They carried it down. Nil’s eyes sparkled like stars.
Bertil felt hungry too. “Let’s start with the meatball,” he said.
The meatball was almost as large as Nils. They started eating it, each from his side, to see who would reach the middle first. Nils did.
Nils wanted to save the cheese. “Because, each month I have to give the mouse a piece of cheese for the rent. Otherwise I’ll be evicted.”
“We’ll take care of that,” said Bertil. “Go ahead and eat your cheese.”
Then each nibbled at a raisin.
Nils said he was going to save half his raisin until the next day. “Then I’ll have something to eat when I wake up,” he said. “I’m going to lie down front of the fire,” he continued.
Suddenly Bertil cried out, “I know something wonderful!” in a flash he had disappeared up the stairs.
Some time went by. Then Nils heard Bertil calling, “Come and help me with the bed!” Nils rushed upstairs.
There Bertil was, with the prettiest little white bed. He had taken it from Martha’s old dollhouse. Her smallest doll had slept in that bed, but Nils needed it more.
“I’ve brought some cotton for you to lie on and a piece of the green flannel Mama used for my new pajamas. You can use it as a blanket.”
“Oh,” said Nils. He couldn’t say more. After a while, he said, “I’ve never slept in a bed. I would very much like to go to bed right away.”
“Sure, why don’t you?” said Bertil. “Mama and Papa will be coming home any minute now so I have to leave anyway.”
Nils undressed quickly, ran over to the bed, snuggled down in the cotton, and pulled the flannel blanket over his ears.
“Oh,” he said again. “I’m so full. And completely warm. And very sleepy.”
“Bye now,” said Bertil. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” Nils didn’t hear him. He was fast asleep.
The next day Bertil could hardly wait for Mama and Papa to leave. Usually Bertil stood in the hall, said good-by, and looked sad. But not today. As soon as the front door closed, he crawled under the bed and went down to Nils’s. Already, Nils was up and had made a fire in the fireplace.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.
“Of course not,” said Bertil. “You can make as many fires as you want.” Then he looked around the room and said, “Nils, sit down over there by the stairs and you’ll get a surprise. Cover your eyes! You mustn’t peek.”
Nils covered his eyes. He heard Bertil scraping and making a lot of noise with something on the floor upstairs.
“Now, you may look,” said Bertil. And, well, didn’t there stand a table, a corner cupboard, two little armchairs, and two wooden stools!
“Well, I never!” said Nils. “Are you a magician?”
No, Bertil wasn’t that, of course. He had brought them from Martha’s dollhouse. He had brought a striped rag carpet too. First they spread the carpet. It covered most of the floor.
“My, how cosy it looks,” said Nils.
It looked even nicer when the cupboard was in the corner, the table was in the middle of the room with the two armchairs next to it, and the two stools were in front of the fire.
“Imagine that one can live so elegantly,” said Nils with reverence.
Bertil also thought it was elegant. Much more elegant than upstairs in his own home.
They sat in the armchairs and talked.
“Now, I should be a little elegant too,” said Nils. “And not as dirty as I am.”
“Why don’t we take a bath?” Bertil suggested. He got a jelly dish and filled it with clean, warm water. Two little pieces from an old, ragged Turkish towel made bath towels. Quickly, they threw off their clothes and jumped into the bathtub. It was wonderful.
“Please scrub my back,” said Nils.
Bertil did. Then Nils scrubbed back. Then they splashed water at each other. Later they rolled themselves in the bath towels and sat on the stools in front of the fire and told each other everything about everything. Bertil ran upstairs for some sugar and a tiny piece of apple which they roasted over the fire.
Suddenly Bertil remembered. Mama and Papa would soon be home. He hurried to put on his clothes. So did Nils.
“It would be fun if you came along upstairs,” Bertil said. “You could hide inside my shirt pocket so Mama and Papa wouldn’t see you.”
Nils thought that was an exciting idea. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he said.
“What in the world? Your hair is wet,” said Mama as the family sat at the dinner table.
“Yes, I’ve taken a bath,” said Bertil.
“Taken a bath,” said his mother. “Where did you take a bath?”
“In that,” said Bertil. He laughed and pointed to the dish filled with jelly on the table.
Mama and Papa thought he was joking.
“What fun it is to see Bertil in a good mood again,” said Papa.
“Yes, my poor boy,” said Mama. “It’s too bad that he has to stay here alone all day.”
Bertil felt something moving inside his shirt. Something warm. Something mighty warm.
“Don’t feel badly about that, Mama,” Bertil said, “because I have so much fun when I’m by myself.”
Then he put his finger inside his shirt and gently patted Nils Karlsson, the Elf.
Crucita and Her Piggy Bank
Crucita wandered through the barrow, twisting streets of San Luisito. She loved to look at the hills among which the town seemed to be hiding timidly. And she liked the low, brightly painted houses that lined the stone-paved streets.
From every doorway, a family greeted her without stopping their work. Parents and children were making pottery. Pots, dishes, candlesticks, animals, birds, suns, saints, and mermaids appeared as if by magic.
In the market place, Crucita studied the pottery that each family showed in its own stall. Her black eyes sparkled in her gold-brown face. She threw back her long braids and thought of the designs she would make someday. With the mind and heart and hands of an artist, she longed to work with clay.
Now she must go home. How empty home seemed since her mother died! The nine days of morning and of telling the rosary in their house had just ended.
As she neared the door, she heard her oldest sister, Rosa, saying, “Papacito, I can keep house. Jesusita and the boys will help me or tend the stall or make pottery.”
The other brothers and sister were enthusiastic. The twelve-year-old beauty only wanted to tend the birds and flowers, but they made her feed the pigs.
Crucita and Antonio were left out. Tonio only wanted to play, even though he was eight years old—two whole years older than his little sister. But Crucita felt hurt.
When the others had gone, she saw tears in her father’s eyes. “Papacito, why are you crying? Shy are you sad?”
“You’re all so good! I’m crying for happiness.”
“Grown people talk silly,” said Crucita.
“You must study before you can help,” her father said, wiping his eyes. “Soon you’ll go to school. Now run and play.”
Only her adored brother Tonio had time for Crucita.
That night, curled up in bed beside Rosa, Crucita thought, “If I were older, I could take the crooked road over the hills to Guanajuato. I could work in the city with its carved doors and towers, and its high, stone houses that sometimes form arches over the streets. But no! I’m going to be a great artist. I’m sure! My fingers, like magic wands, will make wonderful things of clay.”
Finally she went to sleep. She had to wake early. Tonio had promised her a surprise.
Crucita was up before the church bells struck six. She dressed quietly and ran outside. Tonio was waiting.
“You’re just an old woman,” he scolded. “Always late.”
“Oh Tonio, don’t be cross. What’s the surprise?”
“Last night I visited Dona Choley.”
“That horrible witch?”
“She’s no witch, she’s just old. People are jealous because she knows so much. She told me her husband was paymaster in the mine on Bufa Hill when the terrible landslide buried all the workmen. He had boxes and boxes of gold, because there was no paper money hen. At night when no one can see her, Dona Choley goes to the mine to dig. She told me just where he gold is.”
“And what are we going to do”
“We’ll dig it up first. Unless you’re afraid.”
“I’m not! I’ll go anywhere with you.”
After an hour’s hard climbing, falling now and then, they reached the cold, dark tunnel of the mine.
“Sis, you’re trembling! Do you want to go back?”
“Oh no! I’m not scared! I’m just cold water dripped from the roof, spider webs stuck to their faces, and insects made strange noises. Their feet slipped in icy water over their ankles. It was pitch dark.
Tonio lit the lantern, but it soon went out. They groped down many tunnels till they were tired, chilled through, and lost. Finally they sat down on a rock. Both cried.
At home, their family searched for them everywhere.
Dona Choley said, “Perhaps they have gone to the abandoned mine.”
Francisco, Crucita’s big brother, formed a search party. Armed with lanterns, picks, shovels, and ropes, they entered the mine. After a long, weary search they found the children, muddy from head to foot, trembling with cold and fright. The neighbors carried them home. Later, Tonio got a beating from his brothers for his bright idea.
The next day, Crucita could not get up. Her whole body ached, and her head felt as if it would burst.
Rosa finally asked, “Do you feel badly about Tonio? Don’t! he has forgotten the beating. Even while he is being punished, he is thinking of some new mischief.”
“I’m all right,” Crucita said. “I’m just still scared.”
Rosa hugged her and kissed Crucita’s forehead. It was burning with fever.
Frightened, Rosa ran to the neighbors for help. Soon the house was full of people, all talking at once, offering home remedies. Crucita swallowed one horrible dose.
But every moment her fever was higher, her pain greater. “Rosa, I can’t move,” she cried. “What’s happening to me? I’m not afraid. You’ve said that all good children who die go straight to heaven. But I want to stay here. I want to help. That’s why we went to the mine.”
As soon as her father came home and saw Crucita, he went for the doctor. It was almost midnight when the doctor arrived. The family stood around the bed, crying.
Rosa was praying, “Lord, you have so many angels. Can’t you leave us ours?” even Tonio promised to be good.
The doctor examined Crucita carefully. “She must go to the hospital in Guanajuato at once,” he sighed. “Her discase is contagious. She has polio.”
For many long weeks, Crucita remained in the hospital between life and death. Then one day, the doctor told her family, “I have good news! Soon you will have Crucita home.”
“Thanks be to God,” exclaimed the father.
“Will she be all right?” asked Rosa.
The doctor hesitated. “Her legs are paralyzed and her hands are still clumsy. But the child is brave and she is determined to get well. You must help her by acting cheerful and treating her as if nothing had happened.”
The family cleaned the house from top to bottom.
When the doctor brought Crucita home, the family was overjoyed. Crucita was excited, too, but she answered all their questions. Then, turning to Antonio, she said, “Tonio, don’t laugh at me, but in her brother’s eyes, but he said bravely, “Of course, Sister, because I wasn’t there.”
That made everyone laugh.
Crucita said, “Doctor, where is my little wheel chair? I want to show them how well I can manage it!”
Antonio watched until he could not keep still and said, “Won’t you lend it to me?”
In the days that followed, Crucita tried to do everything for herself. She did not want to be a bother to anyone. The people of San Luisito marveled to see the little girl ride along the narrow streets in her wheel chair, always smiling, always interested in pottery.
Her father taught her to work the clay, and praised her efforts. Day after day she made tiny toys.
Sometimes Crucita was sad. She longed to be as she had been before. She missed playing with Tonio. And sometimes at night when no one could hear, she cried.
Months dragged by. Little by little, Crucita’s hands lost their clumsiness.
One day Crucita decided, “I’m going to make a clay pig.” She worked hard. Each time her work displeased her, she started over. At last she was satisfied. She called to her brothers, “Boys, come and see. I’ve finished what I was making.”
Her brothers looked at the figure and then at each other. Jesusita asked. “What is it?”
“Don’t you like it?” asked Crucita. “Of course it’s not decorated. When it is finished you will tell me the truth.”
At that moment their father came into the shop.
“Papa,” said Crucita, “come see what I’ve made. To morrow, when it is painted, you’ll like it still better.”
Her father thought quickly before answering. “It seems to be very original.”
Crucita looked at her brothers. “I told you so,” she said. “If Papa approves, it’s sign that it isn’t bad.”
The next day Crucita waited impatiently for the afternoon so she could finish her pig. In the morning she exercised, and this, too, exited her. No one knew, but far away in a field, Crucita had a secret place where she was learning to walk from tree to tree and lean against them when she had to. Now she could walk quite a distance, not perfectly, but she had made great progress.
No one in the family even dreamed that Crucita could walk—not even Tonio. Crucita was saving her secret until Christmas. Then she would surprise everyone!
The afternoon came at last, and Crucita went to the shop to work on her clay pig. She painted the background white, the tip of pig’s snout and its ears, red. Its eyes were two shiny black spots. She painted a flower on its side, and yellow stripes on its legs.
Crucita put the clay pig into kiln to bake and made the sign of the cross. When she took the well-baked pig out, she exclaimed, “I really have made a masterpiece!”
The family gathered round, but no one said a word. Turning to her father, Crucita asked, “What do you think of it now, Papacito? When you take it to the market, you will get lots of orders.”
Her father looked doubtful. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep it at home?” he asked. “After all it’s your first work. You can keep it for a souvenir.”
Crucita could not believe her ears. “What are you saying? Please don’t say you don’t like it. I think it is so pretty.”
“I think so too,” said Tonio. “Crucita’s piggy bank is the best I’ve seen. For years the markets have had the same thing. It’s time someone changed it a little.” Furiously, he turned to his brothers. “You think you are artists, but I have never seen you make anything new!”
Crucita’s lip trembled. She bowed her head to hide her disappointment. Carefully she put her piggy bank next to her in her wheel chair and started home.
Everyone felt terrible. How could they have been so stupid? None of them meant to hurt Crucita’s feelings.
“Crucita, wait,” her father called. “You misunderstood me. I like your pig. It’s just that I thought for a moment that perhaps you should wait till you had more practice before putting your pig on sale. But Tonio is right. Tomorrow you and I will take it to the market.”
Seated in her wheel chair near the stall, and wearing her best dress with a red ribbon in her hair, Crucita waited. Every time a customer approached, her heart beat faster. She silently begged, “Please let them look at my little pig. Let them like it.”
After a long while, a group of well-dressed men and women stopped by the stall. They looked at all the pottery. One women picked up Crucita’s pig. “How much is this?” she asked.
Crucita’s father named a price he knew was high, but no one said anything. Then one of the group asked, “And by the dozen? How will you sell it? We are merchants from Mexico City. We will want many dozens.”
Crucita’s father arranged all the details and received a sum of money to close the deal. Then he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to meet the artist who made this piggy bank.”
They were astonished to meet such a young artist. They praised her, caressed her, and asked permission to take her picture. Crucita was very happy.
The whole family helped make copies of Crucita’s piggy bank. Crucita felt very important when they asked her advice. At last, the order was filled and brought a delivered.
A few weeks later, the postman brought a letter.
“What do you think?” Crucita’s father said when he finished reading the letter. “Crucita’s bank is a great success! They want us to send more. It is an enormous order. They also ask permission to use Crucita’s pig on advertising posters. They will send the posters to countries around the world. Of course they say they will pay well.”
There were shouts of joy. Everyone hugged and kissed their little sister.
Crucita felt giddy. Too many things seemed to be happening at once. She was so excited she forgot about waiting still Christmas to tell her secret. She got out of the wheel chair, and with awkward steps went to her father.
No one dared speak. Still as statues, they stared astonished at the miracle.
When Crucita reached her father, they were at once in each others arms.
“Little daughter, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?” asked her father.
“Because I’m so happy, Papa! Now I’m big too!”
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