SWEET PORRIDGE

A little girl lives with her mama. They are hungry. They are very, very hungry. Their shelf is bare. Their pot is empty too.

One sunny day, the girl walks out. She goes into the green wood. Birds sing in the trees. Light dances on the path.

Soon she meets an old woman. The old woman smiles at her. She holds a little pot. “This pot is for you,” she says.

The girl looks at the pot. It is small and round. It shines in the sun. “Is it magic?” asks the girl.

“Yes,” says the old woman. “Say, ‘Cook, little pot, cook!’” She says the words slowly. The girl says them too.

“Then sweet porridge will come.” “It will be hot and good.” “It will fill your bowls.”

The girl claps her hands. She smiles a big smile. But the old woman waits. “You must know more words.”

She bends down low. She speaks in a soft voice. “Say, ‘Stop, little pot, stop!’” The girl says them too.

“Cook, little pot, cook!” says the girl. “Stop, little pot, stop!” says the girl. She knows both sets now.

The girl runs home fast. “Look, Mama!” she cries. Mama hugs the girl close. They put the pot down.

“Cook, little pot, cook!” says the girl. The little pot starts at once. It bubbles. It pops. It makes sweet porridge.

The room smells warm and good. Mama laughs with joy. They eat big bowls full. Soon they are not hungry now. Now they have food each day.

One day, the girl goes out. She skips off to play. Mama stays at home. Soon Mama feels hungry.

She puts out the little pot. “Cook, little pot, cook!” says Mama. At once the porridge comes. It fills one bowl.

Then it fills two bowls. Then it fills the table. Mama eats and smiles. But the pot keeps cooking.

Mama looks at the pot. “Oh no,” she says softly. “What are the stop words?” She does not know. She cannot make it stop.

The porridge rises higher. It fills the chair legs. It fills the floor. It fills the whole room.

Then it fills the house. It pushes out the door. It rolls into the street. It goes to the next house.

People stop and stare. They point at the porridge. They laugh and jump back. “So much porridge!” they cry.

The porridge goes up and up. It is in the town square. It is by the shop. It is on the steps.

It is on the road. It is by the well. It is on the roofs. No one knows the stop words.

Then the girl comes back. She sees porridge everywhere. Her eyes grow wide. But she is not scared.

She climbs up the porch. She stands by the pot. “Stop, little pot, stop!” she says.

At once the pot is still. No more porridge comes out. The room grows quiet. Mama gives a deep sigh.

All the people cheer. Mama hugs the girl tight. The old pot sits still. The town is safe again.

But the porridge stays there. It is on bowls and beds. It is on doors and shoes. It is even on hats.

So the people eat. They eat porridge all day. They eat porridge next day. They eat with big smiles.

They eat at the doors. They eat in the street. They eat their way back home. And they laugh and laugh.