The Goblin and the Woman
"You have soul, Mr. Kisserup," said the Woman, "a great deal of soul, I assure you. After talking with you, one clearly understands oneself."
And so they talked on, equally well and beautifully. But out in the kitchen somebody else was talking, and that was the Goblin, the little gray-dressed Goblin with the red cap-you know the fellow. The Goblin was sitting in the kitchen, acting as pot watcher. He was talking, but nobody heard him except the big black Pussycat-"Cream Thief," the Woman called him.
The Goblin was mad at her because he had learned she didn't believe in his existence. Of course, she had never seen him, but with all her reading she ought to have realized he did exist and have paid him a little attention. On Christmas Eve she never thought of setting out so much as a spoonful of porridge for him, though all his ancestors had received that, and even from women who had no learning at all. Their porridge used to be so swimming with cream and butter that it made the Cat's mouth water to hear about it.
"She calls me just a notion!" said the Goblin. "And that's more than I can understand. In fact, she simply denies me! I've listened to her saying so before, and again just now in there, where she's driveling to that boy whipper, that Assistant Schoolmaster. I say with Pop, 'Mind the pot!' That she doesn't do, so now I am going to make it boil over!"
And the Goblin blew on the fire till it burned and blazed up. "Surre-rurre-rup!" And the pot boiled over.
"And now I'm going to pick holes in Pop's socks," said the Goblin. "I'll unravel a large piece, both in toe and heel, so she'll have something to darn; that is, if she is not too busy writing poetry. Madam Poetess, please darn Pop's stocking!"
The Cat sneezed; he had caught a cold, though he always wore a fur coat.
"I've opened the door to the larder," said the Goblin. "There's boiled cream in there as thick as paste. If you won't have a lick I will."
"If I am going to get all the blame and the whipping for it, anyway," said the Cat, "I'll lick my share of the cream.
The sun;Or, the three golden hairs of the old man Vsévède
Category: Slavic Folktale
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