Fairy Tales

THE PIXIE AT THE GROCER’S

ONCE THERE WAS A real student—he lived in the garret and owned nothing. There was also a real grocer—he lived on the ground floor and owned the whole house. And the pixie stuck to him because every Christmas Eve he got a bowl of porridge with a big lump of butter in it. The grocer treated him to that, so the pixie stayed in the store, and it was worthwhile and educational for him.

One evening the student came in the back door to buy himself a candle and some cheese. He had no one to send, so he came himself. He got what he wanted, paid for it, and the grocer and his wife nodded “good evening” to him. There was a woman who could do more than nod! She had the gift of gab. The student nodded back and remained standing reading the paper that the cheese was wrapped in. It was a page torn from an old book that shouldn’t have been torn apart—an old book full of poetry.

“There’s more of it lying there,” said the grocer. “I gave an old woman some coffee beans for it. If you give me eight shillings, you can have the rest.”

“Thanks,” said the student. “Let me have that instead of the cheese. I can eat plain bread. It would be a shame if that whole book should be torn into bits and pieces. You’re a fine man, a practical man, but you don’t understand poetry any more than that trash bin does!”

That wasn’t very nice to say, especially about the trash bin, but the grocer laughed and the student laughed. It was said as a kind of joke, after all. But it annoyed the pixie that someone dared speak that way to the grocer, who owned the house and sold the very best butter.

At night, when the store was closed and everyone except the student was asleep, the pixie went in and took the gab-gift from the mistress. She didn’t need it when she was sleeping. And wherever he set it on an object in the room, the object was able to speak, could express its thoughts and feelings as well as the mistress. But only one at a time could have it, and that was a good thing, or they all would have been talking at once.

The pixie set the gab-gift on the trash bin. It had old newspapers in it. “Is it really true,” he asked, “that you don’t know what poetry is?”

“Oh, I know that,” said the trash bin. “It’s something that appears at the bottom of the newspapers and is clipped out! I think that I have more of it in me than the student does, and I’m just a poor trash bin compared to the grocer.”

The pixie placed the gab-gift on the coffee mill. My, how it ground on and on! Then he set it on the butter tub and the money till. Everybody was of the same opinion as the trash bin, and what the majority agree upon must be respected.

“Now the student is going to get it!” and the pixie went quietly up the kitchen stairs to the garret where the student lived. There was a light on in there, and the pixie peeked through the keyhole and saw that the student was reading the tattered book from downstairs. But how bright it was in there! From the book came a bright ray of light that turned into the trunk of a magnificent tree that rose up high and widely spread its branches over the student. Every leaf was so fresh, and each flower was the head of a beautiful girl, some with dark and shining eyes, and others with eyes so blue and wonderfully clear. Each fruit was a shining star, and there was sweet and lovely song and sound all around.

The little pixie had never imagined such splendor, much less seen or felt it. So he remained there on his tiptoes, peering and peeking until the light in there went out. The student must have blown out his lamp and gone to bed, but the little pixie continued to stand there because the song was still sounding so softly and sweetly, a delightful lullaby for the student as he lay down to rest.

“It’s wonderful here,” said the little pixie. “I hadn’t expected that. I think I’ll stay with the student!” And he thought and thought about it sensibly, and then he sighed: “The student doesn’t have any porridge.” And then he left and went back down to the grocer. And it’s a good thing he returned because the trash bin had almost used up the mistress’ gab-gift by repeating on one side everything it contained. It was just turning to replay the same thing to the other side when the pixie came and took the gab-gift back to the mistress. But everything in the store, from the money till to the firewood, took their opinions from the trash bin from then on. They respected it so much and believed it so thoroughly that when the grocer read the art and theater reviews from the Times in the evenings, they thought it came from the bin.

But the little pixie didn’t sit still any longer and listen to all the wisdom and knowledge down there. No, as soon the light went on in the garret, it was as if the rays were strong cables pulling him up there, and he had to go peek through the keyhole. Then a feeling of grandeur encompassed him, like how we feel when God moves over the rolling sea in a storm, and the pixie burst into tears. He didn’t know himself why he cried, but there was something blessed in the tears. How wonderful it would be to sit under that tree with the student, but that could never happen. He was happy just to look through the keyhole. He even stood there in the cold hallway when the autumn winds blew down from the attic vent, and it was so cold, so terribly cold. But the little fellow didn’t feel it until the light went out in the garret, and the strains of music died in the wind. Brrrr—then he froze and crept down to his cozy corner again. It was comfortable and pleasant!—And then when Christmas came with the big lump of butter—well, then the grocer was the tops!

One evening the pixie was awakened in the middle of the night by a dreadful racket at the window shutters. People were pounding on them. The watchman was blowing his whistle. There was a big fire, and the whole street was lit up by flames. Was it here in the house or at the neighbor’s? Where? It was horrifying! The grocer’s wife became so bewildered that she took her gold earrings out of her ears and put them in her pocket in order to save something. The grocer ran to get his bonds, and the servant the silk cape she had saved for. Everyone wanted to rescue the best they had, and so did the little pixie. He ran up the stairs and into the student’s room. The student was standing calmly by the window looking out at the fire. It was at the neighbor’s house across the street. The little pixie grabbed the wonderful book from the table, put it inside his red cap, and held on to it with both hands. The greatest treasure in the house was saved! Then he ran off, way out onto the roof and up on the chimney, where he sat illuminated by the burning house across the street, and with both hands he held onto his red cap that held the treasure. Now he knew his own heart and knew to whom he really belonged. But when the fire had been extinguished, and he thought about it; well—“I’ll divide myself between them,” he said. “I can’t completely give up the grocer, because of the porridge.”

And that was quite human of him! The rest of us go to the grocer too, for the sake of the porridge.