they owed the farm’s prosperity.
Unfortunately, after a few years Margery fell ill and died when the children were still quite small. As was the custom in those days, Jonathan soon married again in order to provide his children with someone to look after them. The new wife seemed a pleasant enough woman, never unkind to the children, but she had come from a hill farm where strict economy was essential for survival. She was used to keeping a tight hand on the purse strings. When Jonathan told her about the hob’s cream she could hardly believe her ears. A whole jug of cream that might have been made into butter, wasted! She did not want to offend her new husband so she grudgingly put out the cream every night, but it pained her careful mind sorely.
One evening it was too much for her. At the market that day she had seen how expensive butter had become and that she could have made a handsome profit if only she had had more of it to sell. That night she put out a jug of whey (the thin watery stuff left over from butter making, normally given to the pigs).
The very next day all luck left the place; the tireless hob stopped working. There was no more help with the shearing or mowing or threshing. Worse still, lots of things that had gone well before began to go badly. The hob who had worked so hard for the farm’s prosperity now began to work for its destruction. The butter would not come, no matter how long the dairymaids churned; the wife’s nicely fattened hens were carried off by a fox; the mould on the cheese was a thick blue fur so that no one would buy it; the ale brewed and the bread baked were all spoiled by some strange unpleasant yeast.
Now you might think that if the farmer’s wife had started to put out the cream again the hob might have come around. But not she! On the contrary, she was so angry and upset at what was happening that she swore by the Bible that the hob would never have another mouthful of cream from her.
‘He’s nobbut an evil boggart!’ she declared to her alarmed husband. ‘Don’t you try to change my mind. I’ve sworn on the Bible!’
No one likes being called a boggart.
‘I’ll boggart them!’ thought the hob and he began to act like one.
Soon the house was almost unbearable to live in. No one could sleep for the banging of kettles, the clashing of pewter plates, the crashing of pottery and the clanging of fire irons. The house echoed every night with groans, howls, rude noises, thumps, rattles. People were tripped up; beds were lifted and then dropped with a bone-shaking crash; candles were blown out; people were pinched black and blue. It was not long before no farmhand would stay anywhere near the farmhouse.
Jonathan and his wife endured this for a few months, but the farm was going to pieces; they were both at the end of their tether. Nearly all the money made by Jonathan’s father and grandfather had gone. They were forced to give up the tenancy their family had held for so many generations and take another on a much smaller farm.
‘It will be harder work for us, but at least we’ll be free of that hob!’ said Jonathan.
The family packed up, with many tears from the children, very unhappy about leaving their home. The old carthorse was put between the shafts of their last remaining cart, which was piled high with all the furniture that remained after the family had paid off its immediate creditors.
They still owed the landlord part of the year’s rent, but there was no way they could pay it so they left the farm late one night, doing a ‘moonlight flit’ to avoid being seen by the landlord’s bailiff.
Jonathan looked back at the place where his family had been so happy.
‘Enjoy yourself!’ he shouted to the hob. ‘Make someone else’s life a misery, why don’t you!’ Then he turned away and shook the reins.
At the bend in the road, they met one of Jonathan’s neighbours who had been out late with his dog, shooting rabbits.
‘Hey Jonathan!’ he
Unfortunately, after a few years Margery fell ill and died when the children were still quite small. As was the custom in those days, Jonathan soon married again in order to provide his children with someone to look after them. The new wife seemed a pleasant enough woman, never unkind to the children, but she had come from a hill farm where strict economy was essential for survival. She was used to keeping a tight hand on the purse strings. When Jonathan told her about the hob’s cream she could hardly believe her ears. A whole jug of cream that might have been made into butter, wasted! She did not want to offend her new husband so she grudgingly put out the cream every night, but it pained her careful mind sorely.
One evening it was too much for her. At the market that day she had seen how expensive butter had become and that she could have made a handsome profit if only she had had more of it to sell. That night she put out a jug of whey (the thin watery stuff left over from butter making, normally given to the pigs).
The very next day all luck left the place; the tireless hob stopped working. There was no more help with the shearing or mowing or threshing. Worse still, lots of things that had gone well before began to go badly. The hob who had worked so hard for the farm’s prosperity now began to work for its destruction. The butter would not come, no matter how long the dairymaids churned; the wife’s nicely fattened hens were carried off by a fox; the mould on the cheese was a thick blue fur so that no one would buy it; the ale brewed and the bread baked were all spoiled by some strange unpleasant yeast.
Now you might think that if the farmer’s wife had started to put out the cream again the hob might have come around. But not she! On the contrary, she was so angry and upset at what was happening that she swore by the Bible that the hob would never have another mouthful of cream from her.
‘He’s nobbut an evil boggart!’ she declared to her alarmed husband. ‘Don’t you try to change my mind. I’ve sworn on the Bible!’
No one likes being called a boggart.
‘I’ll boggart them!’ thought the hob and he began to act like one.
Soon the house was almost unbearable to live in. No one could sleep for the banging of kettles, the clashing of pewter plates, the crashing of pottery and the clanging of fire irons. The house echoed every night with groans, howls, rude noises, thumps, rattles. People were tripped up; beds were lifted and then dropped with a bone-shaking crash; candles were blown out; people were pinched black and blue. It was not long before no farmhand would stay anywhere near the farmhouse.
Jonathan and his wife endured this for a few months, but the farm was going to pieces; they were both at the end of their tether. Nearly all the money made by Jonathan’s father and grandfather had gone. They were forced to give up the tenancy their family had held for so many generations and take another on a much smaller farm.
‘It will be harder work for us, but at least we’ll be free of that hob!’ said Jonathan.
The family packed up, with many tears from the children, very unhappy about leaving their home. The old carthorse was put between the shafts of their last remaining cart, which was piled high with all the furniture that remained after the family had paid off its immediate creditors.
They still owed the landlord part of the year’s rent, but there was no way they could pay it so they left the farm late one night, doing a ‘moonlight flit’ to avoid being seen by the landlord’s bailiff.
Jonathan looked back at the place where his family had been so happy.
‘Enjoy yourself!’ he shouted to the hob. ‘Make someone else’s life a misery, why don’t you!’ Then he turned away and shook the reins.
At the bend in the road, they met one of Jonathan’s neighbours who had been out late with his dog, shooting rabbits.
‘Hey Jonathan!’ he
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