The Shoemaker and the Elves

Once upon a time there lived a shoemaker and his wife. He was kind and hard-working, but oh, so very poor. All he had left was one piece of leather, just enough for a single pair of boots.

One evening the shoemaker cut out the leather, laid it on the table and said:

"I’ll sew them first thing in the morning."

And off to bed he went.

In the morning he woke up, and there on the table stood a pair of boots. All finished! Stitch after tiny stitch, neat and even and shiny.

"Well, I never!" gasped the shoemaker. "Who could be sewing in the night?"

A merchant came by, tried on the boots and simply beamed. He liked them so much that he paid enough to buy leather for two whole pairs.

That evening the shoemaker cut out two pairs. And in the morning, there on the table stood two pairs of brand-new boots.

"Who could be sewing in the night?" the shoemaker wondered.

And so it went on: whatever he cut out in the evening was ready by morning. The little house grew cheerful again. A fire crackled in the stove, and the smell of warm pies filled the air.

Outside, the snow began to fall. Christmas was coming. One day the shoemaker said to his wife:

"Let’s stay awake tonight and see who’s been helping us."

"Let’s," whispered his wife.

They hid behind a curtain in the corner and left a candle burning on the table. Midnight came. Then, creak, creak, went the door, and in came two little men. They were no taller than a mitten. They had bare feet and no shirts, and their little noses were red from the frost.

Hop, hop, up onto the table they went. And how they sewed! Tap-tap went their little hammers, swish-swish went their threads. Their tiny fingers flew. When they had finished, they jumped down and slipped out the door.

In the morning the wife said:

"Did you see? They’re freezing! Barefoot themselves, and here they are making boots for us."

"We must thank them," the shoemaker nodded.

So the wife sewed two little shirts, two little jackets and two pairs of trousers, and she knitted two pairs of warm, cosy socks. And the shoemaker made two pairs of teeny-tiny boots, the smallest in the whole wide world.

That evening they didn’t put any leather on the table. They put out the presents instead. And once again they hid.

Midnight came. Creak, creak: in came the little men. Hop, hop, up onto the table. They looked for the leather, but what did they find? Shirts! Jackets! Boots!

"Oh!" squeaked one.

"Are these for us?" squeaked the other.

They were dressed in a twinkling. They twirled about, clapped their hands, and then they began to dance! Across the table, over the bench, along the windowsill, stomp-stomp in their brand-new boots. And they sang:

"Now we’re dressed so fine and neat, no more boots for others' feet!"

And out they leapt into the snow.

The little men never came back. Not that night, nor the next, nor when spring came.

For a long time the wife still left a little slice of pie on the table. Just in case! But every morning the pie lay exactly where she had put it.

“Our little ones have gone,” she would sigh. “In those new boots they’ll go a long, long way.”

And from then on the shoemaker was lucky in everything: whatever he set his hand to turned out well. He and his wife lived in comfort right into old age. The little men had gone, but the good they had brought stayed.