Sweet Porridge

Once upon a time, in a little town, there lived a girl and her mother. They were very poor. Some evenings there wasn’t even a crust of bread for supper.

One morning the girl went into the forest to pick berries. And what did she see? On a tree stump sat an old woman, tiny and bent, wrapped in a warm shawl.

“Why so sad, my child?” she asked.

“I’m hungry,” sighed the girl. “And so is my mother.”

The old woman smiled and gave her a pot. It was round and made of clay, with a little blue flower on its side.

“This is no ordinary pot. Say to it, ‘Cook, little pot, cook!’ and it will cook you sweet porridge. Say, ‘Stop, little pot, stop!’ and it will stop. Can you remember that?”

“I can!” said the girl, nodding.

She thanked the old woman and ran home so fast her heels flashed.

At home she set the pot on the table.

“Cook, little pot, cook!”

Bubble-bubble, bubble-bubble! And just like that the pot was full of porridge. It was yellow and hot and sweet, and it smelled of honey too.

“Stop, little pot, stop!”

And the pot went quiet.

Her mother clapped her hands in amazement. They sat down and ate until they couldn’t eat another bite. From then on, there was porridge on their table every single day.

One day the girl went to visit her aunt. Her mother stayed at home, and by and by she got hungry.

“Cook, little pot, cook!” she said.

Bubble-bubble! And there was a whole bowl of porridge. Mother ate it all up and said how tasty it was. Soon she was full.

“Well, that’s enough now,” she said.

But the pot kept cooking.

“I said, that’s enough!”

But the pot kept cooking.

“Please stop!”

But the pot cooked and cooked and cooked. Mother had forgotten the magic word!

The porridge spilled over the rim, across the table and onto the floor. Splish, splosh! Now it was in the hallway, now on the porch, and now out in the street.

And the pot cooked and cooked.

The porridge crept to the neighbors' houses. It crept past the bakery, past the well and into the town square. The cats jumped onto the fences, hop, hop! The geese flapped up onto the roofs, honk, honk! People stared and said, “Well, I never!” And nobody knew what to do.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Mother. “How do I make you stop?”

But the pot cooked and cooked. Soon the whole street was full of porridge, and then the whole town. Only one little house was left dry.

Just then the girl came home. She saw a sweet yellow river running down the street, and she understood everything at once.

“Stop, little pot, stop!” she called out, loud and clear.

And the pot stopped. It sat there so quietly you’d think it had never done a thing.

Mother hugged her daughter tight, tight, tight.

“Oh, what a clever girl you are!”

And the people of the town laughed and laughed. Anyone who wanted to get down the street had to eat their way through with a spoon. Yum-yum, yum-yum! Nobody was cross. After all, the porridge was sweet! And the children were the happiest of all.

That evening, Mother and her daughter washed the pot and put it back on the shelf.

“Tomorrow I’ll remind you of the word,” the girl whispered.

“Yes, please do,” laughed Mother.

They climbed into their warm bed, full and happy. Mother tucked the blanket around her daughter and kissed her on the nose. Then they both fell asleep. And up on the shelf, the magic pot was fast asleep too.