The Magic Pitcher

Long ago in India lived a woodcutter named Subha Datta with his happy family. Every day he went to the nearby forest for wood, which he sold to neighbours, earning enough for wife and children. Sometimes his three boys came; now and then, as a treat, his two little girls trotted beside him. The boys longed to chop for themselves; he promised each a little axe when old enough. The girls, he said, must break off small twigs—he did not wish them to chop their fingers. The children liked being included in his work, though he gave the boys and girls different tools.

All went well a long time. Each boy got his axe; each girl a little pair of scissors for twigs; all were proud bringing wood home to their mother. One day he said that none of them could come, because he meant to go very far into the forest for better wood. The boys begged in vain. “Not today,” he said. “You would get tired, and you might lose yourselves coming home alone. Help your mother and play with your sisters.” The children did as he asked and stayed home that day. They expected him back late that evening. Darkness came with no sign. Again and again their mother went to the door, mistaking night-bird cries for his voice, until at last she went to bed with a heavy heart, fearing some wild beast had killed him.

When Subha Datta started he fully meant to return the same evening; but as he cut a tree he suddenly felt he was not alone. Looking up, in a little clearing he saw four beautiful young girls like fairies in thin summer dresses, long hair flowing, dancing round and round hand in hand. Astonished, he let his axe fall; the noise startled them; all four stood and stared. He could not speak—only gazed—until one asked who he was and what he did in depths where they had never seen a man. “Only a poor woodcutter,” he said, “come for wood to sell so that my wife and children may eat and have clothes.”

“That is stupid,” said one. “You cannot get much money that way. Stop with us, and we will have your family looked after better than you can do it yourself.”

Though he loved his dear ones, he was so tempted that after hesitating he agreed—if all would truly be well with them. “Fear not,” said another. “We are fairies and can do wonderful things. We need not even go to them; we will simply wish them everything they want. First we will give you food, but you must work for us in return.”

“I will do anything you wish,” said Subha Datta.

“Then begin by sweeping the dead leaves from the clearing, and afterwards we will all sit and eat together.”

Glad the task was easy, he cut a branch and swept. Then he looked for food—saw only a great pitcher in the shade of a tree. “Will you show me where the food is, and where I should set it out?” he asked. All the fairies laughed—laughter like tinkling bells—and laughed more at his astonishment, seized hands, and whirled. Tired and hungry, he began to wish he had gone home; he stooped for his axe to turn away—when they stopped and cried, “Halt! We don’t bother fetching this and that. See that big pitcher? We get all our food and everything else we want from it. We wish as we put our hands in, and there it is. It is the only magic pitcher in the wide world. Get what you like first, and then we will tell you what we want.”

He could hardly believe his ears. Down went the axe; he put his hand in wishing for food he knew—curried rice and milk, lentils, fruit, vegetables—and soon had a beautiful meal spread. Then the fairies called, one after another, for things he had never heard of, which made him discontented with his own choice. The next few days passed like a dream; at first he thought he had never been so happy. The fairies often left him alone, returning only when they wanted something from the pitcher. He got all kinds of things he fancied, yet presently wished wife and children shared the wonderful meals. He missed them terribly, and missed work too—no good cutting wood when food came ready cooked. Sometimes he thought of slipping home when they were away, but looking at the pitcher he could not bear to leave it.

Soon he could not sleep for thinking of those he had deserted. Suppose they hungered while he had plenty! It even entered his head to steal the pitcher when the fairies were gone—yet he lacked courage; even out of sight he felt they would know and punish him terribly. One night he dreamed his wife sat crying bitterly, youngest on her knee, the other children standing sadly beside her. He started up determined to go—yet at a little distance saw the fairies dancing in moonlight and felt again he could not leave them and the pitcher. Next day he was so miserable that the fairies noticed. “Whatever is the matter?” they asked. “We don’t care to keep unhappy people here. If you cannot enjoy life as we do, you had better go home.” Frightened they might really send him away, he told the dream and his fear that his dear ones starved for want of the money he used to earn. “Don’t worry,” they said. “We will let your wife know what keeps you. We will whisper in her ear while she sleeps, and she will be so glad you are happy that she will forget her troubles.” Cheered, he decided to stop a little longer. Now and then he felt restless, but on the whole time passed pleasantly, and the pitcher was a daily delight.

Meanwhile his poor wife was at her wits’ end how to feed the children. But for the boys’ efforts she would have despaired. When their father did not return and all search failed, they set to work. They could not fell trees, but they climbed and chopped small branches with their axes, tied bundles of sticks, and sold them. Neighbours, touched by their courage, paid well and often gave milk and rice. In time they grew used to being without Subha Datta; the little girls nearly forgot him. Little did they dream of the change soon to come.

At last he told the fairies he must go home. They saw he was in earnest and consented, yet being kind-hearted felt they ought to give him a parting gift. They led him blindfold to a cave full of jewels—rubies, diamonds—and splendid robes. “Choose anything you like,” they said, “and let us keep our pitcher.” But he did not see the jewels as more valuable than a pitcher that could supply what he wanted. He shook his head. “No, no, no! The pitcher!” One fairy after another held jewels up to the light, and when he still refused, they tried the robes on him. “No! The pitcher!” At last they gave up, bound his eyes, and led him back to the clearing.

Even then they hoped to keep it. “It will break very easily, and then it will be no good to you,” they said. “Take money, or jewels you can sell.”

“No! No! No! The pitcher!”

“Very well, take it, and never let us see your face again!”

He carried it very carefully lest he drop it before home. He did not think how cruel it was to leave the fairies to starve or seek food themselves. They watched till he was out of sight, then wept and wrung their hands. “He might at least have waited while we got food for a few days,” said one.

“He was too selfish,” said another. “Come, let us forget him and look for fruit.”

Hand in hand they left off crying. Fairies live on fruit and dew and do not stay sad long; you need not fear lasting harm from their generosity.

What a surprise for wife and children when they saw him on the path! He did not bring the pitcher—he hid it in a hollow tree near the cottage, meaning no one to know. He said he had lost his way and feared never to see them again; nothing about fairies. Asked how he got food, he told a long story of forest fruits; she believed him and meant to make up for all she thought he had suffered. When she called the girls to help prepare a meal, he said, “Don’t bother. I’ve brought something with me. I’ll fetch it, and no one is to come.” His wife was disappointed, for she had wanted to welcome him with a meal, and the children were eager to follow, but he ordered them to stay, seized a fuel basket, tumbled the wood out, and went alone to the pitcher. Soon he was back with the basket full of good things. “Am I not a clever father, to find all that in the forest?” he said. “Those are the ‘fruits’ I meant.”

Life completely changed. He no longer cut wood to sell; the boys stopped too. Every day he fetched food; each longed to learn where it came from. They never could—he made them afraid to follow. The secret he kept from the wife to whom he used to tell everything soon spoiled home happiness. Children with nothing to do quarrelled; their mother grew sadder and at last decided that unless he told where the food came from she would leave with the little girls. She meant it—but something soon changed everything again.

Neighbours who had bought fuel and helped with fruit and rice heard of his return and the wonderful change. Now the family ate well every day though none knew how. Subha Datta loved showing off and sometimes asked old woodcutter friends to meals. They found good things spread on the ground and wines in beautiful bottles. This went on months; he grew prouder; it seemed the secret might never be discovered. Everybody tried; many followed him secretly; he was clever at dodging, hiding the treasure constantly in new places at dead of night.

Contentment with food from the pitcher and pure water might have kept him safe. But he could not rest there. Till he owned the pitcher he drank only water; now he often took too much wine. That led to losing his beloved treasure. He began to boast there was nothing they wanted he could not get; one day after a grand feast of rare dishes they had asked for, he drank so much he no longer knew what he said. Guests seized the chance—teased him, said he must be a wicked robber who stole food or money. Angry, he at last was silly enough to tell them all to come and he would show he was no robber. His wife was half pleased the secret would out, half afraid something terrible would happen. Children, greatly excited, followed with the rest toward the last hiding-place.

Very near, some sense that he was foolish entered his head. He stopped, faced the crowd, and said he would go no further till they all went back to the cottage. Wife begged to come; children clamoured; no good—back they went while he watched them out of sight. Sure no one could see, he took the pitcher from its hole and carried it carefully home. Everybody rushed to meet him and crowded round—danger of the pitcher being thrown down—yet he got indoors without accident. Then he began taking things out and flinging them on the ground, shouting, “Am I a robber? Who dared to call me a robber?” Getting more excited, he set the pitcher on his shoulder and danced wildly. “Oh, take care! You will drop it!” cried his wife. He paid no heed. Suddenly he felt giddy, fell, and dropped the pitcher. It broke to pieces; a great cry of sorrow went up. He was broken-hearted—he had done the mischief himself; if only he had resisted the wine he would still have his treasure. He meant to pick up the pieces to see if they could be stuck—but to his surprise could not touch them. He heard a silvery laugh and what sounded like children clapping, and thought he heard a cry that the pitcher was theirs. Could it have been a dream? No—for there on the ground were the fruits and cakes from inside, and wife, children, and friends looking sadly and angrily at him. One by one friends left him alone with his family.

A new chapter opened in the lives of Subha Datta and his household. They could not forget the wonder-working vessel; the children never tired of hearing how their father came to own it. They often wandered the forest hoping for adventure, but they did not meet the fairies or find a magic pitcher of their own. By slow degrees the woodcutter slipped back into his old habits—yet he had learnt one lesson. He kept no secret from his wife after that day; for he felt sure that if he had told her the truth when he first came home, she would have helped him save the precious treasure.

About this story

“The Magic Pitcher” is the first story in Hindu Tales from the Sanskrit, translated by S. M. Mitra and adapted by Mrs. Arthur Bell, published in 1919. In her introduction, dated 1918, Mrs. Bell writes that Hindu children learn such tales “at their mothers’ knees” and are trained to answer questions on them.

The original is told in chapters, each followed by questions; one asks what Subha Datta should have chosen if he had let the fairies keep their pitcher. The woodcutter’s drinking is kept, because the story makes it the cause of his downfall, but it is described briefly.

Read the original: S. M. Mitra and Mrs. Arthur Bell, Hindu Tales from the Sanskrit, 1919 (Project Gutenberg #11310)

Best for ages 9–12 — a long story about greed and secrets, in which a father’s drinking costs him a magic gift.

A closer reading

The fairies promise that his family will have what they need, but the story shows the children working and neighbors helping while he enjoys abundance. Their later offer to whisper reassuring words is not the same as providing food. The reader can compare the promise with the household’s actual circumstances, even while Subha Datta accepts reassurance because it lets him stay.

At home, food is plentiful but information is scarce. He claims credit for finding the meals, frightens the children away from following him, and treats his wife’s wish to understand as interference. That secrecy isolates him from the people who could help manage a fragile shared resource. His drinking and boastful dance break the pitcher, but the loss of trust starts much earlier.

The ending favors honesty, not a rule that everyone must disclose every private thought. The relevant secret affects the family’s livelihood and daily decisions. His choice of a renewable food source over jewels is also understandable; the problem is how he obtains, hides and handles it, rather than the idea that a woodcutter is incapable of judging value.

Try this with the story

Make a timeline with two tracks: what Subha Datta is told about his family, and what the family is actually doing. Mark when the tracks diverge. Then choose one decision about the pitcher that husband and wife could have made together if both had known the facts.

Talk about it

• Why did Subha Datta insist on the pitcher instead of jewels he could sell?
• Was it fair of him to leave the fairies with no way of getting food? Why or why not?
• Subha Datta decided that keeping a secret from his wife was his real mistake. Do you agree?

Related stories

• The Goose That Laid Golden Eggs — an Aesop fable where greed destroys the very thing that brought wealth
• The Magic Shoes and Staff — another Mitra tale with a magic bowl that never runs out of food
• The Hermit’s Daughter — a story from the same book in which secrets and suspicion spoil a happy home