Hattie Minds the Wind Jars

On the windiest hill in the world there stood a crooked cottage. In the cottage there were shelves, and on the shelves there were jars, and in every jar there was a wind.

This was the house of Hattie’s Gran, who was the Wind Keeper. And one night Gran had to go away, and Hattie was left in charge.

“I will be very, very careful,” said Hattie. She had said this eleven times since lunch. To show how careful she meant to be, she had tied her hat onto her head with string, in a bow under her chin, just in case.

“I know you will,” said Gran. She was going over three hills to help the Fog Keeper, whose fog had come unfolded. “Don’t open any jars. Keep Pudding off the shelves. I’ll be home for breakfast.”

Pudding was Gran’s cat. He was large and orange, and he knocked things off shelves on purpose. Afterwards he looked at you as if the shelf had done it.

Hattie wanted very badly to get this right. Gran always said that one day, when Hattie was bigger, she might mind the jars herself. Hattie thought that if every wind was still in its jar at breakfast, “one day” might turn into “any day.”

Now I must tell you about the jars, because they are the whole point.

Every jar had a label in Gran’s neat writing. When a jar was opened, the wind inside did exactly what its label said. There was “Breeze for Washing Day.” There was “Kite Wind.” There was “Wind That Takes Hats,” which rattled its lid whenever anyone walked past in a bonnet. There was “Big Autumn Blow,” in a jar so big that Hattie could have sat in it. And at the end of the bottom shelf, in a jar the size of an egg cup, was “Wind For Blowing Out Birthday Candles (Small).”

If you ask me, the jar I would least like to open is the one on the top shelf marked “Cold Wind For Down the Back of Your Neck.” Hattie felt the same way. She didn’t even like to look at it.

Every night at bedtime, Gran hummed to the jars. It was a slow little tune that rocked up and down like a boat. One by one the lids stopped rattling, and the winds curled up inside and went still. Most nights Hattie fell asleep humming it too.

But that night Hattie did not hum. She was much too busy being careful. She sat up straight in Gran’s chair with one candle lit, and she watched the shelves, and she watched Pudding.

Pudding watched the shelves too.

Just before midnight, Pudding jumped up onto the top shelf. He walked along it very slowly, looking at Hattie the whole time.

“Pudding,” said Hattie. “No.”

Pudding leaned.

The whole tall shelf tipped over, and down came every jar at once. Gran’s jars were made not to break, which is the only sensible way to make a jar when you have a cat. But the lids popped off. Pop, pop, pop.

“Wind That Takes Hats!” read Hattie, as its jar rolled past her feet. And off went every hat in the village. Every nightcap flew off every sleeping head and went sailing away over the chimneys.

It came for Hattie’s hat too. It tugged and it pulled, but the string held. So the wind gave up and blew Pudding’s whiskers out sideways instead, and they stayed that way for the rest of this story.

“Breeze for Washing Day!” read Hattie. And off went every sheet and shirt and sock from every washing line, flapping away down the hill.

“Big Autumn Blow!” And off went every leaf from every tree. It went straight down the baker’s chimney, too. The baker’s flour went up in a great white cloud, and the baker, who was up early making bread, came outside looking like a snowman.

“Kite Wind!” And every kite in every cupboard in the village let itself out and went up.

“Wind For Blowing Out Birthday Candles (Small)!” And out went Hattie’s candle. Poof.

The only lid that stayed on was “Cold Wind For Down the Back of Your Neck,” which was lucky for everybody.

Hattie stood in the dark with the door banging and a sock going past the window. She thought about crying. Then she thought about Gran coming home for breakfast. She grabbed the first thing she could find, which was a teacup, and ran outside.

The teacup was far too small. Hattie held it up to the Big Autumn Blow, which by now was as big as a barn. The Big Autumn Blow went round and round her, and flipped her hat brim up, and laughed a big leafy laugh.

So Hattie ran back in for Gran’s butterfly net. She swung it at the Kite Wind. She swung it at the Breeze for Washing Day. They blew straight through the holes. Then the Kite Wind filled the net up like a sail and pulled Hattie three steps down the hill.

Hattie sat down on the wet grass. Hats were going by overhead. Somebody’s nightshirt waved at her from the top of a tree.

“What would Gran do?” said Hattie.

And then she remembered the tune.

She hummed it, but the wind was far too loud to hear a hum. So Hattie put two fingers in her mouth, the way Gran had taught her, and she whistled it instead, as slow and as rocking as she could.

The winds stopped.

Then they came home, one by one, the way puppies come home after a long day at the beach. They were so tired they let go of everything they were carrying. Hats came floating down onto doorsteps and chimneys and one very surprised cow. The Breeze for Washing Day yawned and dropped the socks in a heap by the gate. The Kite Wind set the kites down on the roofs as gently as it could. The Big Autumn Blow came last. It turned round three times on the doormat, and climbed into its jar, and Hattie put the lid on.

Then she pushed the tall shelf back up, which took all the push she had, and put every jar back where it belonged.

Every wind came home but one. The Wind For Blowing Out Birthday Candles (Small) would not go back in its egg cup of a jar. Each time Hattie held the jar up, the little breeze hid behind her ear and blew there, very softly, like a sigh. Hattie was too tired to argue. She fell asleep in Gran’s chair, still whistling a bit.

Gran came up the hill at breakfast. On the way she had passed the baker, who was still rather floury, and the mayor, who was getting his hat back from a cow. So Gran opened the cottage door very slowly.

Every jar was on the shelf. Every lid was on. Pudding sat under the table with his whiskers sticking out sideways, and he did not look at the shelf at all.

Hattie woke up and told Gran everything: the cat and the shelf, the teacup and the net, and the tune. “And I’m sorry,” she said. “One got away. The littlest one.”

Gran hugged her so hard that the bow on Hattie’s hat came undone.

“Anybody can keep a lid on a jar,” said Gran. “It takes a Wind Keeper to whistle them home. You can mind the jars any time you like.”

Just then the little breeze came out from behind Hattie’s ear and lifted one curl of Gran’s hair.

“Ah,” said Gran. “That one never did like its jar. I think it would rather live with you.”

So it lives in Hattie’s room now. Every night at bedtime, Hattie reads in bed, and the little breeze waits until she gets to the bottom of the page. Then it turns the page for her. Sometimes it turns two, because it can’t wait to find out what happens.