The Leather Bag
It was a long time ago. An old woman named Clootie came to a village that stood on the banks of the beautiful River Tyne.The men of this village were happy and content with their lot. Since time immemorial, they had lived on this land, herding sheep and cows, plowing, sowing, and living in abundance. Everyone had sturdy, good houses, warm clothing in winter, and plenty of food. And so it went, until old Clootie came to the village and settled in a small house with a crooked chimney.
The women of this village were hardworking and friendly. They baked their own bread and rolls, sewed and knitted, and stocked up on provisions for the winter. And so it went, until old Clootie came to the village and settled in a small house with a crooked chimney.
The children of this village—what can you say about them!—were like all children on earth, big and small, sometimes obedient, sometimes unbearable, but they were all happy because their parents took care of them: they fed them, gave them drink, and didn’t scold them needlessly. The boys and girls loved to run on the green pasture, shout loudly, and laugh merrily. And so it went, until old Clootie came to the village and settled in a small house with a crooked chimney.
One evening, the shepherd’s kind daughter, Janet, sat by the burning hearth, spinning her yarn in the flickering light of the fire. Her mother came into the room and sighed heavily: the shelves in the pantry were bare.
"It was an ill-fated hour when old Clootie came to our village. No one is to blame that we only learned of her a week later. And when we did, we immediately brought gifts to the small house with the crooked chimney at the edge of Gladwren Field. I baked her larks then, and there are no larks tastier than mine in all of Northumberland. Mrs. Marjorie brought a jug of mead, and the neighbor across the way, Mrs. Agnes, brought a bundle of firewood. And now, look what has happened."
Kind Janet looked at her mother and sighed sadly. Who in the village didn’t know what had come of it? Old Clootie took the gifts and ordered the neighbors to bring them every week. Let anyone try not to bring them—the chickens would stop laying eggs, the cows would stop giving milk, and a plague would strike the livestock. Those who failed to honor the old woman and didn’t bring gifts found their butter wouldn’t churn, their husbands came home from work aching all over, their children became rude and fought, and at night they cried and wouldn’t let anyone sleep: now their teeth ached, now their ears throbbed.
Too late did the village realize that Clootie was no ordinary old woman, but a wicked, quarrelsome witch.
The women brought her everything they could to appease her temper. And they knew that once a week, old Clootie went to the market in Newcastle, where she sold eggs, milk, butter, wool, and linen—everything they had given her, taking from themselves and their children. In return, she received shiny golden guineas, which she put in a bag under her apron, and upon returning, hid somewhere in her little house with the crooked chimney.
"It was an ill-fated hour when old Clootie came to our village," repeated the shepherd’s wife. "We’ve given her so much, soon the whole village will be destitute. In every house, someone is sick, and the children don’t eat their fill."
"Don’t cry, mother," said kind Janet. "You’ll see, old Clootie will regret the harm she’s caused."
And the next day, on a Saturday, old Clootie herself came to the village; her face was darker than a storm cloud, her brows furrowed.
The women saw her and hid in their homes, locking their doors and shuttering their windows.
"Don’t you dare lock yourselves away! Listen to why I’ve come. It’s become too hard for me to manage alone in my little house with the crooked chimney. At my age, it’s time to rest. I’m looking for a maid to tend the fire, cook meals, clean the house, wipe the dust, sweep and scrub, so that I can see my reflection in the frying pans as if in a mirror."
The women heard this and trembled with fear: though they were now poor, who would want to send their daughter to serve a witch? Just then, the tinsmith was passing by. He had heard that old Clootie went to Newcastle every week and returned home with golden guineas.
"Take my daughter," he begged, "clever Kate. She’s strong, handy, and hardworking. No one in all of Northumberland cleans frying pans better than her."
"Send her to me tomorrow," said old Clootie. "She’ll eat at the table with me and sleep under it. And if she works hard, I’ll pay her one shiny golden guinea after seven years and one day."
The old woman hobbled home, and the tinsmith went on his way, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
The women gathered and gossiped about what would come of it. The tinsmith, as everyone knew, was the most cunning scoundrel in all of Northumberland, and clever Kate was just like her father—always eager to take what wasn’t hers: if something was left unattended, she’d snatch it up in no time.
The next morning, clever Kate went to old Clootie. She washed her face and hands in the stream by the mill, combed her hair with a comb she had swiped from someone’s windowsill, dressed in a red dress she had snatched from a clothesline, and even threw on a green blouse: the blacksmith’s daughter had been playing "Jack Jump Over the River," got too hot, and tossed her blouse onto a bush; Kate happened to pass by, and the blouse was hers for the taking.
Clever Kate arrived at the old woman’s house, and the cat, Blackie, came out onto the porch and began rubbing against her legs.
"Clever Kate," he said, "please pour some milk into my white saucer." And he purred with pleasure.
"Pour it yourself," replied clever Kate to the cat. "I wasn’t hired to serve cats."
She kicked him and knocked on the door. The cat looked at her and stopped purring.
Old Clootie opened the door, looked at clever Kate, and was pleased—strong, healthy, she could handle any work.
"Come in," said the old woman. "You’ll tend the fire, cook meals, clean the house, wipe the dust, sweep and scrub, so that I can see my reflection in the frying pans as if in a mirror."
"I can do that," replied clever Kate.
She entered the house, took the broom, and began to sweep. And the cat, Blackie, sat on a chair, watching her and not purring.
"Just be careful," said old Clootie, "don’t even think about sticking the broom up the chimney!"
"Ah, so that's where she keeps the golden guineas," Kate thought to herself, nodding her head and continuing to sweep. All day long, Kate scrubbed, swept, and scraped. When the old woman, Clootie, saw her reflection in the polished frying pans that evening, she praised the maid and hobbled upstairs to sleep.
"I'll go to sleep too," thought Kate, curling up under the table and falling asleep. In the morning, she woke up at the first crow of the rooster, grabbed her broom, and began sweeping out the chimney.
From there, a leather bag filled with shiny golden guineas fell out. Clever Kate was delighted, took the bag, didn't forget to grab her green sweater, and slipped out of the house while old Clootie was still asleep.
Clever Kate ran across Gladowran Field and saw a gate at the end of it.
"Dear girl," said the gate, "open me. No one has opened me for years."
Kate shook her black hair and shook her head.
"Open yourself," she replied. "I don't have time." She leaned on the crossbar, easily jumped over the fence, and ran on.
She ran and ran until she saw a cow grazing in a green meadow full of yellow buttercups.
"Dear girl," said the cow, "milk me. No one has milked me for years."
Kate shook her black hair and shook her head.
"Milk yourself," she replied. "I don't have time."
And she ran on. She saw a mill by the beautiful River Tyne, where three leisurely ducks swam and dove to the bottom for fat worms.
"Dear girl," said the mill, "turn my wheel. No one has turned it for years."
Kate shook her black hair and shook her head.
"Let it turn by itself," she replied. "I don't have time."
The thing was, clever Kate was getting angrier by the minute: she was running fast, out of breath, the bag of guineas was heavy, and she was sleepy—after all, she had gotten up early.
"It's not fair that I'm the only one suffering," she said to herself. "Who found the golden guineas? I did. Who carried this heavy load for so long? Me again. So let my father carry it from now on." And she hid the bag in the chute where grain pours into the millstones. Then she ran to her father and told him how clever she was.
Old Clootie woke up at the third crow of the rooster, came downstairs—the floor wasn't swept, the hearth was cold, and there was a pile of soot on the floor. She realized that clever Kate had been sweeping the chimney with her broom and had found the bag of guineas.
"You'll pay for this," said the witch, and she limped off in pursuit.
She crossed Gladowran Field, approached the gate, and asked, "Gate, gate, have you seen my nasty maid? She has a leather bag in her hands, and in that bag are all my golden guineas."
"Go on," replied the gate.
The old woman hobbled across the green meadow full of yellow buttercups and saw the cow grazing.
"Cow, cow," asked the old woman, "have you seen my nasty maid? She has a leather bag in her hands, and in that bag are all my golden guineas."
"Go on," replied the cow.
The old woman reached the mill by the beautiful River Tyne, where three leisurely ducks swam and dove to the bottom for fat worms.
"Mill, mill," said the old woman, "have you seen my nasty maid? She has a leather bag in her hands, and in that bag are all my golden guineas."
"Look in my chute."
The old woman reached into the chute and found the bag of shiny golden guineas. She took the bag, hobbled home, and hid it again in the crooked chimney.
Kate returned to the mill with her father, glanced into the chute, and saw that the sack was gone. Kate realized that old Clootie had already been there. She and her father were frightened—witches are no laughing matter—so they gathered their belongings, crossed the bridge over the beautiful River Tyne, and from that day on, no one in Northumberland heard a word about them.
On Saturday, old Clootie hobbled back into the village.
"Don't lock the windows and doors!" she shouted. "I need an honest maid to tend the fire, cook meals, clean the house, sweep the dust, scrub and scour, so I can look into the frying pans as if they were mirrors."
This time, there was no cunning tinsmith to eagerly send his daughter into the witch's service. The evil old woman's face darkened, and a curse was ready to slip from her lips, but then kind Janet spoke up.
"Take me as your maid," she said meekly. "I agree to work for seven years and one day for one golden guinea. Just promise to let me go home on Sundays."
Old Clootie nodded and limped home. Kind Janet followed her immediately; they approached the door, and out onto the porch came Blackie the cat, rubbing against the girl's legs and saying:
"Kind Janet, pour some milk into my white saucer." And he purred with pleasure.
"I'll gladly pour it," replied Janet, and she poured him some milk.
"Just remember," the old woman told her new maid, "don't you dare climb the chimney with the broom. Under no circumstances."
But the cat purred so loudly at that moment that kind Janet didn't catch the last words. It seemed to her that old Clootie was actually telling her to clean the chimney with the broom. She smiled, nodded, and began to sweep the floor.
In the morning, kind Janet woke up at the first crow of the rooster.
"Today I'll go home to my father and mother," she thought joyfully. "But first, I must clean the chimney." She took the broom and pushed it as far as she could into the chimney. And of course, out fell a leather sack full of shiny guineas.
Kind Janet looked at the gold and remembered what had become of her village: the houses were cold, the children were hungry, and all because of this insatiable witch.
"I'll go home and ask my father and mother what to do with the golden guineas," she decided, took the sack, and ran across the field to the gate.
"Dear girl," said the gate, "open me. No one has opened me for years."
"I'll gladly open you," replied kind Janet, opened the gate, and ran on.
She saw a cow grazing in a meadow of yellow buttercups, and it asked:
"Dear girl, milk me. No one has milked me for years."
"I'll gladly milk you," said kind Janet. She sat down, milked the cow, and ran on. She saw the mill by the beautiful River Tyne.
"Dear girl, turn my wheel. No one has turned it for years."
"I'll gladly turn it," said kind Janet. She turned the wheel and hurried home.
Meanwhile, old Clootie woke up that morning at the third crow of the rooster. She went downstairs and saw a pile of soot on the hearth. The old woman realized that Janet had climbed the chimney with the broom and found the money.
"You'll pay for this," said the old woman and hobbled into the field.
"Gate, gate, have you seen my wicked maid? She has a leather sack in her hands, and in the sack are all my golden guineas."
The gate said nothing, for Janet had opened it. The cow said nothing, for Janet had milked it. And the mill remained silent, for kind Janet had turned its wheel.
And with that, old Clootie's magical powers came to an end. She turned from an evil witch into a helpless old woman, unwanted and unloved by anyone.
But as it happened, her fate turned out to be happier than she deserved. Kind Janet and her parents divided the golden guineas equally among all the villagers, for in fairness, the money belonged to them. And when they learned that Clootie was no longer a witch but a poor, lonely old woman, they gave her some guineas from the leather sack. Kind Janet sometimes brought her gifts—eggs, butter, milk, and delicious lark pies baked by her mother. So old Clootie spent the rest of her days peacefully, free from want, together with her black cat in a little house with a crooked chimney that still stands to this day.
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