The Shoemaker And His Wife

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A shoemaker and his wife have magical assistance from some elves every evening when they go to bed. But do the elves need help too?
This is a vintage fairy tale, and may contain violence. We would encourage parents to read beforehand if your child is sensitive to such themes.
There was once a shoemaker, who worked very hard and was very honest: but still he could not earn enough to live upon; and at last all he had in the world was gone, save just leather enough to make one pair of shoes.
Then he cut his leather out, all ready to make up the next day, meaning to rise early in the morning to his work. His conscience was clear and his heart light amidst all his troubles; so he went peaceably to bed, left all his cares to Heaven, and soon fell asleep. In the morning after he had said his prayers, he sat himself down to his work; when, to his great wonder, there stood the shoes all ready made, upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think at such an odd thing happening. He looked at the workmanship; there was not one false stitch in the whole job; all was so neat and true, that it was quite a masterpiece.
The same day a customer came in, and the shoes suited him so well that he willingly paid a price higher than usual for them; and the poor shoemaker, with the money, bought leather enough to make two pairs more. In the evening he cut out the work, and went to bed early, that he might get up and begin betimes next day; but he was saved all the trouble, for when he got up in the morning the work was done ready to his hand. Soon in came buyers, who paid him handsomely for his goods, so that he bought leather enough for four pair more. He cut out the work again overnight and found it done in the morning, as before; and so it went on for some time: what was got ready in the evening was always done by daybreak, and the good man soon became thriving and well off again.
One evening, about Christmas-time, as he and his wife were sitting over the fire chatting together, he said to her, ‘I should like to sit up and watch tonight, that we may see who it is that comes and does my work for me.’ The wife liked the thought; so they left a light burning, and hid themselves in a corner of the room, behind a curtain that was hung up there, and watched what would happen.
As soon as it was midnight, there came in two little naked dwarfs; and they sat themselves upon the shoemaker’s bench, took up all the work that was cut out, and began to ply with their little fingers, stitching and rapping and tapping away at such a rate, that the shoemaker was all wonder, and could not take his eyes off them. And on they went, till the job was quite done, and the shoes stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before daybreak; and then they bustled away as quick as lightning.
The next day the wife said to the shoemaker. ‘These little wights have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them, and do them a good turn if we can. I am quite sorry to see them run about as they do; and indeed it is not very decent, for they have nothing upon their backs to keep off the cold. I’ll tell you what, I will make each of them a shirt, and a coat and waistcoat, and a pair of pantaloons into the bargain; and do you make each of them a little pair of shoes.’
The thought pleased the good cobbler very much; and one evening, when all the things were ready, they laid them on the table, instead of the work that they used to cut out, and then went and hid themselves, to watch what the little elves would do.
About midnight in they came, dancing and skipping, hopped round the room, and then went to sit down to their work as usual; but when they saw the clothes lying for them, they laughed and chuckled, and seemed mightily delighted.
Then they dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye, and danced and capered and sprang about, as merry as could be; till at last they danced out at the door, and away over the green.
The good couple saw them no more; but everything went well with them from that time forward, as long as they lived.
Header illustration by Hugh Thomson at Old Book Illustrations
1. The shoemaker and his wife see that the elves have no clothes. What do they worry about the elves?
2. After thinking about how they feel, how do they try to help the elves?
1. The elves are kind to the shoemaker, and help him do his work. In turn, the shoemaker and his wife do a kind thing for the elves. What do you think this says about kindness?
2. Do you think the shoemaker, his wife and the elves are all better off, for helping one another and showing each other kindness? Why or why not?
Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm were 18th and early 19th century scholars who collected folk tales across Europe and popularised them in children's ... More
(c) Storyberries 2021. All Rights Reserved.

When Rüya Is Sad
Man is an intellectual being. Without the least hesitation, as well as from the most careful investigation, if, indeed, there be any question about it, we are led to conclude that the intellect is to be cultivated. Indeed, the doubt, if any exist, cannot be solved, without the exercise, and, consequently, the cultivation of the intellectual fantasies. — Henry David Thoreau
An old man, a shoemaker, living outside of town,
at the edge of a wood, with a quiet wife.
Never able to have children—the doctor said it was him,
that his wife was healthy and capable, fertile as Eden,
though the doctor had not used those words—and now in the twilight of their days,
it would seem the couple has little to look forward to.
Handsome once, with such vitality, such strong hands,
the woman fell most in love with his selflessness.
They were young, and all the young people in town
more or less knew of everyone else and spent
summer nights drinking by the lake, laughing beside a fire or
sitting on the dock, a girl’s naked feet hanging over the edge,
her toes making ripples on the black water, a man beside her watching the stars.
In gatherings such as these, or, during winter,
on Saturday nights in the tavern, it seemed the shoemaker,
only an apprentice then, would always arrive late, hoping
to go unnoticed. Though someone would inevitably ask him
how he had spent his day: “Walking in the hills is all,” the shoemaker would reply,
heading to the bar for the one ale he allowed himself, or pulling a stump
closer to the fire, to watch the flames.
When asked where he had walked, how far,
the shoemaker’s reply, the honesty of which no one ever doubted,
always made the men nod their heads in respect. Sometimes the silence was
broken with a joyful remark, made by a man
who had been schoolmates of the shoemaker’s:
“More bear than man, he will walk all the way to Portugal one of these days!”
It was scenes such as these that made the young woman think:
“He will be my husband, I will be his wife.”
She would be sure to watch out her window in the mornings,
to see him leaving his grandmother’s
when most of the town was still sleeping,
with his walking stick and small leather pouch that she knew
contained bread and cheese,
a bit of tobacco.
In daylight, on the outskirts of town,
the young children would dance around the apprentice shoemaker,
they would follow him into the foothills as far
as they could before he made them turn back, asking them
what their parents would say if they knew
he was taking them so far from home.
Upon his return the children would surround him, holding his hands, asking him
about his journey, imploring him
to tell of the sights, of the size of the ram’s horns and the waterfalls,
the deer and the approaching storm. It was scenes such as these that made the woman say:
“It will be so. He will be the father of my children.”
Of modest beauty and gentleness and a motherly love, the young woman had little more to do
than sit beside the shoemaker amidst the merrymaking of some spring festival or
celebration of the harvest, take his hand warmly, smile upon him,
not reproach him for his silence, and whisper in his ear:
“If ever you need me, I will be here.”
The shoemaker fell in love
and soon asked the woman for her hand.
We have already related the greatest pain of this marriage.
Upon first learning of his impotence the shoemaker renounced science altogether,
renounced medicine and began trying harder with his wife, for a long while
each and every night. But nothing came of that,
the shoemaker was confronted with the truth of the doctor’s diagnosis.
Though the shoemaker never laid a finger on his wife, he went through spells of great violence,
upending the dining room table, smashing plates against the walls.
Through his beard, in a deep voice whose claws retained their sharpness
because used so sparingly,
he would scream for her to leave him, to pack her things, to find someone else.
She never did leave him.
They kept more and more to themselves.
Their home was outside of town, things were convenient that way.
The townsfolk began to talk, of course, but what is to be done about that?
Business was steady enough, they got by.
When the shoemaker goes now on his walks into the hills
(having saved a modest sum, and having few needs and fewer wants,
he no longer has need to practice his trade), he tells his wife:
“I will find mushrooms for you today, for you to cook with.”
Always returning empty-handed, his wife begins to doubt
whether his eyes are open during his walks at all.
“No luck today, maybe tomorrow.”
One evening, returning from the hills much later than normal,
the shoemaker bursts through the front door,
dozens of mushrooms wrapped in his handkerchief.
“Quick, my love! Clear a space on the table! I’ve found some!”
The shoemaker is in too much of a hurry, a nervous wreck some would say,
half of the mushrooms roll off the table, falling to the ground.
“I’m sorry, my dear, but there are more, many more. Not far, not far at all.
I must be off again, lest I forget beneath which tree they grow.
Do you have an empty flour sack for me?
Thank you, my sweet, I will leave you to do with these as you please,
and I will pick the others to the very last, all for you!”
The shoemaker was already out the door as he spoke
these last words. True to his promise
he returned after a few hours, with the flour sack nearly full.
Meanwhile, his wife had prepared supper: mushrooms and roasted rabbit.
That night, they sleep together for the first time in over a year.
The next morning
the shoemaker leaves early, before his wife awakens.
She spends her day in peace: placing the remaining mushrooms in a wicker basket
and setting the basket in the center of the table; she tends to the garden,
she picks flowers, she goes to market.
Beside the lake she pauses
to watch the wind play on the water, and the sailboats.
When the shoemaker returns home that evening he is cold, distant.
He sits in his chair in the corner,
buries his nose in a book.
“What shall I make us for supper this evening?” the woman asks, timorous.
“Make whatever you would like,” the shoemaker replies, without lifting his head,
“I stopped in at the tavern. I am not hungry.”
“But the mushrooms, we have all of the mushrooms you picked yesterday.
Have you forgotten?”
“What does that matter? I care nothing for mushrooms. Sell them at market, give them away.”
The woman does not understand, though she knows
her husband to be honest above all else,
knows not to question him further, knows there would be great violence
if she did. Though she had arranged the mushrooms so beautifully
in the wicker basket, and though she had set the flowers she had picked
beside them on the table, the shoemaker never once so much as glanced at
the mushrooms after that first night.
Many months later
(it is alright if we say in the springtime), upon leaving for the woods,
the shoemaker says to his wife: “I will find mushrooms for you today, for you to cook with.”
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