Gobbolino the Witch's Cat

“Well, well, well!” said the woodcutter, patting her very kindly on the head. “All is well that ends well, for here you are safe at home, Granddaughter, and no doubt we shall live together very comfortably as before. And just see what a pretty playfellow I have for you here, with such a splendid coat, such elegant paws, and such beautiful blue eyes!”

But his granddaughter screamed when she saw Gobbolino.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Send it away! Send it away! That cat is the cause of all our troubles! It is no common tabby, but a witch’s cat that blows sparks out of its whiskers, as I saw with my own eyes. Turn it out directly, Grandfather, or I shall run straight out into the forest and never return!”

But the woodcutter picked up Gobbolino and set him gently on his knee.

“Tell me, my little cat,” he said kindly. “Is this true what my granddaughter says about you?”

“Why, yes, master, it is,” agreed Gobbolino sadly.

“And can you blow sparks out of your whiskers as my granddaughter says you can?”

“Why, yes, master, I can certainly do that,” said Gobbolino.

“But you have never done anyone any harm, have you, my little cat?” the old man asked.

“Oh, no, master, never, never, never!” said Gobbolino, shaking his head. So, although his granddaughter sulked and stamped her foot and tossed her head, the woodcutter refused to turn Gobbolino out of doors, but poured him out a saucer of milk and gave him a comfortable corner beside the fire.

Now that she was home again, the woodcutter’s granddaughter looked after the house, kept the kitchen spick and span, washed the dishes, and cooked the dinner while her grandfather worked in the forest.

“Stay at home with her and look after her!” the woodcutter said to Gobbolino. “I should not like any harm to come to her while I am away.”

So Gobbolino stayed in the cottage, and although at first the girl tossed her head whenever she saw him, by and by, having no one else to talk to, she threw a remark or two at him while she wiped the pots and pans, till presently she was chattering merrily, and seemed to have forgotten her grudge against him.

“It was bad enough in the tower,” she grumbled. “But there was my lady who talked to me, and knights who came every day, bringing such beautiful presents! My lady gave me all her old dresses to wear, but here I am with nothing at all but this patched gown that I tore sadly when I ran through the forest. Oh, if only I could have one new dress!”

And that evening she plagued her grandfather to give her the money to buy one.

“No! No! No!” said the woodcutter. “Your old gown is good enough for the present. If I give you one now, when the colder weather comes you will say it is not warm enough and ask for another one. When the berries turn brown, you may ask me again, and perhaps I will give you one then.”

But his granddaughter could not wait till the berries turned brown.

She sulked and scolded and complained until the cottage echoed with her ill temper, and at last her grandfather gave her a silver coin to keep her quiet.

“If you cannot buy yourself a gown with that you will have to wait till the berries turn brown,” he said. “For I have no more to spare.”

His granddaughter was delighted, and gave the woodcutter several kisses.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the pedlar-woman to pass by with her silks and satins and laces, stuff for fine dresses and cloaks and petticoats.

“Stay by the door, Gobbolino!” the woodcutter’s granddaughter told him as she polished the floor and wiped the dishes. “Watch for the pedlar-woman, and don’t fail to tell me if you see her coming!”

Gobbolino waited many days in vain, but at last he saw the pedlar-woman approaching through the forest, with her bundles of silks, satins, and laces, all tied on the back of a little donkey that trotted beside her.

“Here she comes, mistress! Here she comes!” cried Gobbolino, and the next moment his mistress was at the door.

“Stop, good mistress! Stop!” she cried to the pedlar-woman. “Come in by my fire and have a bowl of milk, and show me some of your wares!”

The pedlar-woman laughed as she tied up her donkey outside the cottage door.

“No pretty girl has ever let me past her door without asking me to walk inside!” she cackled, stepping into the woodcutter’s cottage with her arms full of her wares, which she laid on the kitchen table.

There was something about the pedlar-woman’s cackle that made Gobbolino prick his ears and look at her more closely. Before he had stared at her more than a few moments he felt sure that the old woman was a witch. Only witches laughed like that, and had such long crooked fingers and such long crooked noses.

He quite made up his mind about it when the woodcutter’s granddaughter began to turn over the silks and satins.

When she exclaimed:

“Oh! How I should love that crimson silk if it were only a little shade less purple!” The old woman just passed her hand over it, and – lo and behold! – it was exactly the shade the girl had dreamed of.