As Far as the Stove

Whenever a window steamed up, there was Hattie with one finger out. Every morning, when the kettle boiled, she drew a fish in boots on the kitchen window.

Hattie lived in a little harbor village. Every evening the gray fog rolled in off the water and sat on the boats all night.

Hattie’s dad sailed the little blue fishing boat. He was always home for tea. But lately tea had been late. When the fog was thick, Dad couldn’t see the gap in the harbor wall. So he bobbed about outside, humming, until the fog thinned.

Tonight was pancake night. Hattie was going to pour the batter. She was going to flip a pancake all by herself.

“We’ll start when Dad’s in,” said Mom. “Pancakes don’t like waiting.”

But the fog was rolling in already.

So Hattie put on her coat. “Just to the top step,” said Mom, and she watched from the window. Hattie went across the lane to the harbor steps and sat on the top step. The fog lay on the water, close enough to pat.

“Excuse me,” said Hattie. “Please would you move? My dad needs to get home.”

Nothing happened. Then the fog spoke, in a voice like a big, slow yawn.

“It is so chilly out here,” said the Fog.

Hattie had never thought of that. Nobody in the village had ever asked the Fog anything. They only grumbled.

“What would you like?” said Hattie.

“Just once, I would like to sit by your stove,” said the Fog. “Every night I lean on your window, and the glass is so warm.”

The Fog smelled cold and wet and, very faintly, of pepper. Hattie thought hard. The stove was right by the stairs.

“Here is a bargain,” said Hattie. “You stay out past the lighthouse until Dad’s boat is home. Then I will let you into our kitchen. But not upstairs, or the beds will go soggy.” She held up one finger. “As far as the stove, and no farther.”

“A bargain,” said the Fog.

The Fog rolled away over the harbor wall, out past the lighthouse. There the Fog sat down in a big gray heap, like a pile of washing nobody had folded.

The harbor was clear. Hattie could see the gap in the wall. And there was the little blue boat, coming home.

Putt-putt-putt.

Dad came through the gap. Hattie waved with both arms. Dad waved back with his hat.

“Not one puff of fog!” said Dad. “Well, I never.”

Dad had ropes to tie and nets to hang, so Hattie ran home first.

* * *

Mom was mixing the batter. The stove was hot.

“Dad’s in,” said Hattie. “And I made a bargain, so I have to open the door.”

“A bargain with who?” said Mom.

“With the Fog,” said Hattie, and she opened the door.

Out on the sea, the big gray heap got up. The Fog rolled back past the lighthouse, over the harbor wall, across the lane, and in at the door.

“As far as the stove, and no farther,” said Hattie.

Most of the Fog curled up by the stove like a big gray cat. The rest filled the kitchen from floor to ceiling. Not one wisp went past the stove.

Mom couldn’t see a thing. She felt about for the frying pan. She found the teapot. She found a wooden spoon. She found Hattie’s nose.

“That’s my nose,” said Hattie.

Then Mom found the frying pan.

Hattie poured the batter. When the bubbles came, she flipped her very own pancake. Up it went into the gray, and nobody could see where. Everybody waited.

Plop. Down it came, right in the pan.

Just then Dad opened the door. He couldn’t see a kitchen at all. He saw only a gray cloud, with a smell of pancakes coming out of it.

“Is this the right house?” said Dad.

“Yes!” said Hattie. “Come in. It’s the Fog.”

Dad came in and sniffed. “Pepper,” said Dad. “Ah, ah, atchoo!”

“Bless you,” said the Fog.

They ate pancakes in the cloud. Nobody could see their own plate, so everybody ate a bit of everybody else’s, and nobody minded. Mom laughed until she had hiccups. Everybody said Hattie’s pancake was the best one, even the Fog, who only got to smell it.

Hattie drew a little boat on the misty window, with a sail and a flag. When she looked again, there was a fish in boots beside her boat. Its boots were a bit wobbly.

“I see you draw him every morning,” said the Fog. “I have always wanted a go.”

“That’s a very good fish,” said Hattie.

Then it was bedtime. Mom yawned. Dad yawned. Hattie yawned the biggest yawn of all. They went to the stairs, and the Fog stayed curled up by the stove.

“As far as the stove,” said the Fog, very sleepily, “and no farther.”

Then the Fog gave a long, warm yawn. “I am warm all the way through,” said the Fog. “Thank you, Hattie.” And up the chimney the Fog went, out into the blue night, and down again over the boats in the harbor, soft as a blanket.

Dad tucked Hattie into bed. “I’m glad I was home for your pancake,” said Dad.

“Me too,” said Hattie.

Downstairs, a little boat and a fish in boots sat side by side on the kitchen window. Out in the harbor, the little blue boat was tied up safe under its gray blanket of fog.

The Fog had kept the bargain, and so had Hattie. And from then on, the Fog waited past the lighthouse every evening until the little blue boat was in and Dad was home for tea. On pancake night, the Fog came in for a warm.

Hattie snuggled down under her own warm blanket and went to sleep.