Two Estonian Fairy Tales

The Retribution of Jack Frost

One half of the village lay on low and flat terrain, the other half spread on the gravelly slopes of drumlin landscape.

The plain was rich and fertile, the meagre soil of the drumlin country grew puny crops: rye was barely knee-high to a herdboy, oats and barley hardly tall enough to shelter a bigger sort of frog from the scorching sun. The villagers, like their fields and crops, differed from each other—the lowlanders were stuck-up and noisy, the highlanders spoke little and wore a constant troubled look.

One summer on a fine Sunday afternoon, the lowland farmers were sitting in the local inn drinking whiskey and biting delicious sausage to it, laughing and talking nineteen to the dozen. And they had every reason for feasting: there was a promise of a good harvest that year!

Boasting of their riches, the farmers were all in high spirits. There entered an old man dressed in tatters and asked the innkeeper whether he could give him shelter for the night. As the landlord was doing good business he, too, turned up his nose and snapped haughtily over his shoulder,

“No, I can’t.”

“Right, no shelter for a tramp like this!” the chorus of the rich farmers joined in.

“Do let me stay overnight! You can see I’m old and tired, where could I go at this late hour?” the tattered old man begged.

“No, I can’t,” the landlord repeated even more firmly.

And the rich farmers clamoured,

“No! No shelter, no shakedown for him!” “Don’t put him up for the night!”

“Kick the scamp out!”

“Out with him!”

The tattered old man turned resignedly and made for the door, looked back on the threshold and, wagging his finger, said in a threatening tone,

“Just you wait, you niggards! You’ll have reason to remember Jack Frost.”

So saying the man left the inn and went straight across the plain to that part of the village which was situated on the slopes of the gravelly hills. The first door he knocked at was hospitably opened to him. The farmer received him kindly, fed him and brought in a straw mattress for him to sleep on comfortably.

Taking his leave in the morning the tattered old man said gratefully,

“Best thanks, brother! And best thanks to your neighbours, too. I bet they would have given me a shakedown and fed me the same as you.”

“Sure enough. Because they’re no stone-hearted robbers any of them,” the farmer rejoined.

“Well, eh... And may your crops grow thick and tall, taller than the tallest man!” the old man called back from the gate and soon disappeared behind the stunted birch grove.

The lowland farmers continued their feast in the inn until small hours when the next day broke. But the moment the first rays of the sun penetrated through the window it grew bitterly cold in the room.

At first the innkeeper alone began to shiver, while the conceited farmers laughed and mocked at him ruthlessly. By and by, however, even the greatest mockers desisted—all of a sudden they, too, were seized by a violent fit of shivering. Shivering like aspen leaves—first the very rich men, then the rich and rather rich men, and at last the not so rich men. There was nothing for it but to run home as fast as their legs would carry them, and seek warmth under heaps of sheepskin coats.

Of course, the haughty farmers finally stopped shivering with cold, but they had to brace themselves for an even greater shock. The thing was that the unforeseen late frost had killed all the crops on the fields of the plain, all to the last blade and shoot. And the wealthy farmers could do nothing but stare and scratch their heads: all their grain had gone to the granaries of Jack Frost, while the crops of the highland farmers looked a lot thicker and taller than before!

So after all the haughty flat-land farmers came to understand that in this world one did not fare well with evil and envy.