hope that he (or she) will feel grateful enough to leave a suitable present for the unseen helper, for hobs are sensitive to slights of that sort and have been known to punish the ungrateful – as can be seen in the following tale …
T HE F ARNDALE H OB
Jonathan Gray was a wealthy farmer who lived in Farndale, near Kirby Moorside. His grandfather had had the good fortune to gain the friendship – and free labour – of a hob. This grandfather had been farming for many years before making the hob’s acquaintance and had a particularly fine farm servant called Ralph who could shear or thresh or mow better than anyone else in the area.
One cold winter’s day Ralph was caught in a sudden blizzard and frozen to death as he crossed the moor. Everyone in the dale was very sad and said that the farmer had lost the best thing on his farm.
Not long after Ralph’s funeral, the farmer was awoken in the middle of the night by a thumping noise that seemed to come from the barn. He jumped out of bed wondering what on earth it could be; downstairs he met some of his servants who had also been woken by the noise.
‘What do you think it is? Is it ghosts?’ whispered one of the young farm lads who slept in an attic over the kitchen.
‘Don’t be daft, lad,’ said the farmer, but he was worried. ‘It sounds like someone’s threshing!’ They all listened in terrified silence. Soon the unmistakeable crack of a wooden flail on the stone floor of the barn was clearly recognised by everyone.
‘But who’d thresh at night?’ quavered the farmer’s wife, gripping his arm. ‘Oh my goodness, perhaps it’s our Ralph come back from the dead?’
The farmer saw panic spreading. ‘Nonsense,’ he said firmly, ‘there’s no such thing as ghosts. Get off to bed, everyone, it’ll be one of the hands trying to get into my good books. Get to bed, I say!’
In the morning he and his wife, who would not let him go alone, went down early to the barn. Something had certainly happened to the wheat stored there. The pile of sheaves heaped at one end of the barn had halved, while at the other end there were two new piles, one of shining brown wheat grains and the other, much larger, of all the husks and straw that had been threshed off, waiting to be turned into chaff for animal feed.
‘That’s never a right man’s work,’ gasped the farmer’s wife. ‘It’d tek ten men to do that much in a night. Even our Ralph couldn’t have done it!’ The farmer ran his fingers through the wheat and rubbed a few grains between his palms.
‘Wheat seems right enough, though.’
‘Do you think it’s Ralph’s ghost?’
‘Nay lass, Ralph’s in Heaven like the Good Book says – dinna you mind the parson? This is summat else. I reckon we’ve got us a hob!’
And so it proved. The hob continued to work. Come hay-time he mowed half a field a night and carted it home too; at shearing he sheared as many sheep in one night as three farmhands could do in two days. At harvest he reaped and loaded a whole wagon by himself. The other farm labourers might have complained at losing paid work, but as the farmer could now afford to rent more land to expand the farm, they were all still employed. The whole place flourished.
The farmer was a wise man and knew better than to kill the goose that laid the golden egg.
‘The labourer is worthy of his hire!’ he said to his wife, so every evening she put out a big jug of cream for the hob, and every morning she found it empty (and washed and neatly turned upside-down on the draining board).
Well, years went by and the hob went on working. The farm remained prosperous, the garden flourished and the workers always seemed lucky and cheerful. When the old man died, he passed the farm on to his son who continued to value the hob and never forgot his jug of cream. When the time came, he, in his turn, passed the farm on to his son Jonathan and his wife Margery. In his will, he reminded them never to forget to whom
T HE F ARNDALE H OB
Jonathan Gray was a wealthy farmer who lived in Farndale, near Kirby Moorside. His grandfather had had the good fortune to gain the friendship – and free labour – of a hob. This grandfather had been farming for many years before making the hob’s acquaintance and had a particularly fine farm servant called Ralph who could shear or thresh or mow better than anyone else in the area.
One cold winter’s day Ralph was caught in a sudden blizzard and frozen to death as he crossed the moor. Everyone in the dale was very sad and said that the farmer had lost the best thing on his farm.
Not long after Ralph’s funeral, the farmer was awoken in the middle of the night by a thumping noise that seemed to come from the barn. He jumped out of bed wondering what on earth it could be; downstairs he met some of his servants who had also been woken by the noise.
‘What do you think it is? Is it ghosts?’ whispered one of the young farm lads who slept in an attic over the kitchen.
‘Don’t be daft, lad,’ said the farmer, but he was worried. ‘It sounds like someone’s threshing!’ They all listened in terrified silence. Soon the unmistakeable crack of a wooden flail on the stone floor of the barn was clearly recognised by everyone.
‘But who’d thresh at night?’ quavered the farmer’s wife, gripping his arm. ‘Oh my goodness, perhaps it’s our Ralph come back from the dead?’
The farmer saw panic spreading. ‘Nonsense,’ he said firmly, ‘there’s no such thing as ghosts. Get off to bed, everyone, it’ll be one of the hands trying to get into my good books. Get to bed, I say!’
In the morning he and his wife, who would not let him go alone, went down early to the barn. Something had certainly happened to the wheat stored there. The pile of sheaves heaped at one end of the barn had halved, while at the other end there were two new piles, one of shining brown wheat grains and the other, much larger, of all the husks and straw that had been threshed off, waiting to be turned into chaff for animal feed.
‘That’s never a right man’s work,’ gasped the farmer’s wife. ‘It’d tek ten men to do that much in a night. Even our Ralph couldn’t have done it!’ The farmer ran his fingers through the wheat and rubbed a few grains between his palms.
‘Wheat seems right enough, though.’
‘Do you think it’s Ralph’s ghost?’
‘Nay lass, Ralph’s in Heaven like the Good Book says – dinna you mind the parson? This is summat else. I reckon we’ve got us a hob!’
And so it proved. The hob continued to work. Come hay-time he mowed half a field a night and carted it home too; at shearing he sheared as many sheep in one night as three farmhands could do in two days. At harvest he reaped and loaded a whole wagon by himself. The other farm labourers might have complained at losing paid work, but as the farmer could now afford to rent more land to expand the farm, they were all still employed. The whole place flourished.
The farmer was a wise man and knew better than to kill the goose that laid the golden egg.
‘The labourer is worthy of his hire!’ he said to his wife, so every evening she put out a big jug of cream for the hob, and every morning she found it empty (and washed and neatly turned upside-down on the draining board).
Well, years went by and the hob went on working. The farm remained prosperous, the garden flourished and the workers always seemed lucky and cheerful. When the old man died, he passed the farm on to his son who continued to value the hob and never forgot his jug of cream. When the time came, he, in his turn, passed the farm on to his son Jonathan and his wife Margery. In his will, he reminded them never to forget to whom
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