The House in the Hollow – Read and Print

By Rachel Dunstan Muller, copyright 2021

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There was once a little stone house in a hollow in the woods. Oh, but it was a lovely little house – snug and warm and dry, with a little fireplace, and a little chimney, and a pretty stone hearth. But the cozy little house was also a lonely little house, for no one had lived under its roof for many years. No one even knew the house was there – except the wind, and the birds and the mice.

But one stormy autumn night a traveller came through the forest. Oh, but the traveller was cold and wet and miserable. More than anything he wanted somewhere to get out of the rain, somewhere to rest his sleepy head. As he walked, the traveller prayed that Heaven would direct his steps, would lead him to shelter. Well imagine the traveller’s delight when he spied that little house sitting all by itself in the hollow – as if it were waiting for him.

No one answered when the traveller knocked. But the door wasn’t locked, and so the traveller went inside. Oh, but he was happy to be out of the rain.

Now the traveller had his own little lantern in his pack, and he took it out and lit it and had a good look around. Well, as you can probably imagine, the little house was filled with cobwebs after sitting empty for so many years. But there was a broom propped up beside the door, and the traveller wasted no time using it. He swept and he swept and he swept, until there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, not even in the corners. And then he went to the fireplace, where there was a stack of dry twigs and branches, and he made himself a crackling fire. The traveller wasn’t quite ready to fall asleep, so he made himself some tea in the kettle that hung over the fire, and he played a few cheerful tunes on a little wooden flute. And then, as the rain fell on the roof and the wind rattled the shuttered windows, the traveller spread his cloak on the floor, and fell fast asleep.

Oh, but the little house was happy that night. Happy to be swept clean, happy to have a crackling fire, happy to have a guest sleeping beside the hearth.

But in the morning, after he’d cooked himself a little porridge, the traveller put all his belongings back in his pack, and got ready to leave. He was a traveller; there was somewhere down the road he needed to be. But before the traveller left, he gathered more twigs and branches and stacked them beside the hearth – for the next guest who might come along. Then the traveller latched the door behind him, and continued on his journey.

Well, the little house in the hollow was even lonelier than before. Oh, how it missed the sound of the traveller’s flute, the smell of hot porridge cooking over its fire, even the tickle of the broom across it floor.

Days passed – many days – and soon the autumn rain turned to winter snow. One cold, bright morning a woodcutter and his young son came tramping through that snow, hauling a sled behind them. All day long the woodcutter and his son worked side by side in the forest, chopping fallen trees into firewood to take back to their village. They worked so hard, they didn’t notice the dark clouds gathering above them. The snow fell gently at first, like soft feathers floating to the ground. But then the wind began to blow and the snowflakes swirled faster, until the woodcutter and his son could barely see their hands in front of their faces.

“We must find shelter quickly,” the woodcutter said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

But the little boy heard his father’s fear, and he was afraid too.

So imagine how relieved they both were when they stumbled upon the little house, half-buried in the snow. The woodcutter and his son let themselves in, and built themselves a fire, and said a grateful prayer as the fire’s heat and light filled the snug little space.

Oh, how happy the little house was to have company. All through the night, the little house stayed awake, keeping watch over its two guests, keeping them snug and warm and dry and safe, even as the wind howled and the snow covered everything outside.

And in the morning when the sun rose, the winter storm was over. They sky was clear again.

“It’s time to go,” the woodcutter said to his son. “Your mother will be worried.”

But just before they closed the door behind them, the boy turned and spoke to the little house. “Thank you,” he said.

Oh, but the house was heartbroken when the boy and his father were gone. It felt lonelier, emptier, than it had ever felt before.

The days got shorter, the nights got colder, and the little house waited. It waited and waited and waited – but no one came.

Do houses dream, I wonder? The little house in the hollow did. It dreamt of all the people who had ever slept under its roof. It dreamt of their voices, and their songs, and their laughter – even their tears. And it was still dreaming as the snow began to melt, and the first crocuses poked up from the ground.

But one bright spring morning, the little house heard real voices. At first the house didn’t recognize them. But as three people stepped out of the trees, the house saw that it was the woodcutter and his son – and a woman he’d never seen before. “See,” said the boy, as he tugged his mother through the doorway. “I told you it was a good house.”

“It is a good house,” the boy’s mother agreed. “A perfect house. It just needs a good cleaning.”

And a good cleaning is exactly what the little house got. The woodcutter’s family soaked and scrubbed and swept and polished until the little house sparkled. And then – and then the woodcutter’s family moved in.

If the little house in the hollow had had a voice, it would have cried out with joy. If the little house in the hollow had had a heart, it would have nearly burst with joy. It wasn’t alone anymore. It had a family living under its roof. There were voices, and laughter, and music. There was a fire in its hearth, and tea in the kettle, and a little garden planted just outside the door.

The woodcutter and his wife lived in that house for the rest of their lives. And when the woodcutter’s son grew up, he lived in the house with his wife and children. And so it continued for many generations. And the little house in the hollow kept them all snug and warm and safe.

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