The Little Bakers Under the Hill – Read and Print

By Rachel Dunstan Muller, copyright 2021

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Once upon a time there was a village, a very ordinary village, full of ordinary people – the kind of people that probably live in your neighbourhood. There were little people and big people, friendly people and grumpy people, kind people, and people who weren’t always kind.

But one bright morning, something not quite so ordinary happened in this village. As the people were getting up, they each heard a little tap on their front doors. And when they opened their doors, there were loaves of fresh-baked bread sitting on their doorsteps. Each house in the village received one loaf of bread. There were big round loaves and little round loaves, there were long skinny loaves, and short fat loaves. There were dark loaves, light loaves, braided loaves and loaves with seeds. Basically, every kind of bread you can imagine.

Well, some of the villagers were delighted the moment they saw the fresh bread. “Oh, it smells delicious! This will be perfect for breakfast! What a treat! I wonder which neighbour left this for me.”

But some of the villagers were not so happy. “I didn’t ask for this bread. I don’t know where it came from, and I am not going to eat it.” And they threw it away.

Now it is true that you should never eat food unless you know where it came from, or you have permission from whoever is looking after you. But this is a story, and the villagers in this story had no reason not to eat the fresh loaves of bread on their doorsteps. So most of them did. And that bread – was delicious.

The next morning when the villagers woke up, they each heard a little tap at their door. And when they went to their door – there was something waiting on the doorstep. All those people who had eaten the bread the day before – found another loaf of bread. But those villagers who had thrown their loaves away – they found stones instead. And let me tell you – after hearing everyone talk about how delicious that bread was, the villagers who received stones .  . . were very unhappy.

“Here, have some of my bread,” said a kind woman to her neighbour. “There’s more than enough for both of us.”

Every morning it was the same. When the villagers got up, they heard a tap at the door, and there was a loaf of bread – or a stone – on their doorstep.

Well, of course it was all anyone could talk about, as everyone tried to guess who in the village was baking all this wonderful bread. And they began to compare their loaves with each other as well.

Most of the villagers were grateful for what they’d been given, but some were less pleased.

“How come I always get the smallest loaves,” said one woman. “It isn’t fair.”

“I’ll tell you what’s not fair,” said a man. “I never get a braided loaf. All I get is this funny bread with seeds on top.”

“What about me?” said another man. “I don’t even like dark bread, and that’s all I ever get.”

And so it went, day after day, week after week.

But it was very strange. The villagers who shared their bread, or said how pleased and grateful they were, well, they received even bigger and tastier loaves the next morning. But the villagers who complained – their loaves got smaller and smaller.

Now there was a young girl in this village, named Freyja, who was especially curious about where this bread was coming from.

“Oh, Freyja,” said her grandmother. “It’s meant to be a mystery. If you solve it, the baker might stop baking this delicious bread – and wouldn’t that be a sad thing?”

But Freyja was a very curious girl, and she couldn’t just let it go. So every morning she got up early, ready to peek out the window as soon as she heard anyone on the doorstep. But no matter how early she rose, or how silently she waited, she simply could not catch the mysterious baker. No matter when she peeked out, there was never anyone there.

But one morning when she got up, she saw that a thin layer of snow had fallen in the night. And when she heard the soft tap and opened the door, she saw little footprints leading away down the road. As quick as she could, she grabbed her boots and her coat and her warm woolen hat, and ran outside.

The little footprints led away from her house, away from the village, and into the forest. Deeper and deeper those footprints went, through the trees, past a frozen pond, and finally, around the far side of a steep hill.

And that’s where the footprints stopped.

Freyja could hardly believe her eyes. There was a little house carved right into the stony hillside. It had a little door, and a little window, and a little chimney. And the most delicious smell was coming from that chimney – the smell of freshly-baked bread.

Freyja’s heart was pounding as she crept closer and bent over to look through the window. Sure enough, there they were – not one, but two little bakers – little brownies – with their arms elbow-deep in bowls of bread dough.

But as Freyja was staring in, the brownies both turned and looked out – and they did not look happy to see a girl peering through their window. In fact, they looked quite cross.

Poor Freyja didn’t stop to introduce herself. She turned and she ran, as fast as her legs would carry her, around the hill, past the frozen pond, through the forest, all the way back to her own little house.

At first, she didn’t tell anyone what she’d seen. But then later that afternoon, when school was out, she talked a few of her friends into coming with her back into the woods. The snow had melted and the little footprints were gone, but Freyja was still able to find her way.

“Shh,” she whispered, as they got closer.

But when they got to the hill, and went around to the far side – there was no little door, no little window, no little chimney. The brownies were gone, and so was their little house – as if it had never been there.

The next morning when the villagers got up, there were no taps at the door, no loaves of bread on their doorsteps.

At first the villagers were disappointed. Of course they were. And they were even more disappointed the next day, and the day after that. The women and men and children of that village had grown very fond of their morning bread, and they were very sad when they realized that the mysterious bakers were never coming back.

But they didn’t stay sad for long, because that’s when the villagers rolled up their sleeves and decided to start baking for themselves. They made big round loaves and little round loaves, long skinny loaves and short fat loaves, dark loaves, light loaves, braided loaves and loaves with seeds. Basically, every kind of bread you can imagine.

In fact, Freyja’s village became famous – people came from all over to buy their delicious bread. And when Freyja grew up, she opened her own little bakery. And she called it “The Two Brownies.”

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