The Three Bears

The morning smelled of wild strawberries and wet bark. The little girl walked along the forest path with a basket, and on her shoe sat a little leaf, like a green butterfly. Ahead stood a little house: round windows, a chimney in a cap of moss, and on the door hung a bell made from an acorn.

“I’ll only take one little peek,” said the little girl in her thin, quick voice. “One little peek doesn’t count.”

The door creaked open by itself: creak-creak, come in, but think. Inside, on the table, stood three bowls of porridge. The big one steamed, the middle one smelled of honey, and the little one had a silver spoon with a bell. The little girl was as hungry as a sparrow after the rain. She picked up the little spoon.

Ding-a-ling, the spoon goes ring: a borrowed thing has its own day.

“Oh, you sing too?” the little girl whispered.

The spoon answered with a bell: ding! The little girl tasted the porridge. Once. Twice. A third time. At the bottom of the bowl a little sun of butter appeared.

Then she saw three chairs. The big one was like a stump fit for a king, the middle one like a little boat, and the little one stood on a crooked leg and seemed to wink. The little girl sat down. The chair said, “Creak!” — and its leg gave way.

“Oh dear, but I’m so light!” the little girl huffed. “Lighter than a cloud with a pocket!”

From under the chair rolled a round button made of moonlight. It glowed even in the daytime.

Ding-a-ling, the chair goes ring: a borrowed thing has its own day.

The little girl put the button in her palm and climbed the stairs. There stood three beds. The big one snored to itself. The middle one smelled of hay. The little one had a blanket with yellow stars.

“I’ll only sit a while,” said the little girl. “Sitting isn’t sleeping.”

But the blanket was as soft as a warm pancake. The little girl blinked once, blinked twice — and dozed off. She dreamed of a mosquito in red boots who could count pine cones backwards.

Meanwhile, the Three Bears came home: Papa Bear with a basket of mushrooms, Mama Bear with a bunch of mint, and Little Bear with a reed pipe.

“The little sun in my porridge is gone,” Papa rumbled.

“My chair is sighing,” said Mama, calm and soft.

“And my moon button is missing!” squeaked Little Bear.

The little girl woke and sat up, holding the button in her fist. The bears stood by the door, big and warm, like three brown little coats.

“I… I only wanted one little peek,” she said. Her voice grew small, no longer in a hurry. “And then the peek pulled my hand, my hand pulled the spoon, the spoon pulled the porridge, and the chair creaked all by itself.”

Little Bear tilted his head.

“My chair always creaks before important talks. But he lost the button yesterday.”

The little girl opened her palm. The button of moonlight blinked.

“I’ll sew it back on,” she said. “Only my needle listens every other time.”

Mama Bear gave her a needle with a blunt tip, Papa held the chair, and Little Bear played his pipe like this: tweet-tweet, as if a kettle were learning to whistle. The little girl sewed the button back onto the seat, and they propped up the crooked leg with a smooth little chip of wood.

Ding-a-ling, the house goes ring: a borrowed thing has its own day.

As she said goodbye, the little girl put the little bowl in the sink, laid the spoon down straight and neat, and stroked the little chair on its back.

“Next time I’ll knock,” she said.

“Next time we’ll set out a fourth spoon,” Little Bear answered. “But let the bell ask first.”

The little girl stepped out onto the path. The acorn bell swayed softly above the door, and the button of moonlight glowed on the little chair, like a tiny window that is glad it was not forgotten.