One for Me, One for You

On a snowy hill there were lots of round doors. There were big doors and little doors, red doors and blue doors, doors with knockers and doors with bells. Behind every door was a burrow, and in every burrow somebody lived.

At the very top of the hill was Granny Hare’s house. Every snowy morning, Granny Hare made porridge in her big black pot. And every morning she put in one spoonful too much honey.

Near the bottom of the hill was a small round door. Behind it lived Pim.

Pim was a small young hare with long ears and a very good frying pan. The frying pan used to be Granny’s. Now Pim used it for digging, because the shovel was twice as tall as he was. Whenever he tried the shovel, it tipped him over into the snow. The frying pan never tipped him over. And when it got warm in his paws, it smelled of pancakes.

Pim was very proud of his frying pan.

That winter, snow fell on the hill every night. In the morning every door was snowed right in. And every morning Pim wanted porridge.

So he opened his door, picked up his frying pan, and dug.

Scrape. “One for me.”

Scrape. “Two for me.”

Scrape. “Three for me.”

Pim counted every scoop out loud. It was sixty-three scoops to Granny’s door. He knew, because he counted.

Halfway up the hill was a big round door with a brass knocker. That was where Mrs. Brock lived. Mrs. Brock was a badger. She was very large and very sleepy, and she was never quite awake until lunchtime. Her door was snowed in too.

Pim stopped. He could not dig all the way to Mrs. Brock’s door. He was much too small, and the porridge was waiting. But he could dig one scoop.

Scrape. “And one for you,” said Pim.

Then he went on up the hill, all the way to sixty-three, and the porridge, and the honey.

* * *

At lunchtime, Mrs. Brock opened her door and yawned an enormous yawn. She was wearing her nightcap. Nobody on the hill had ever seen her without it.

She looked at the snow. She looked at the little dent in the snow, right by her doorstep.

“Somebody has started,” said Mrs. Brock. “It would be rude not to finish.”

So she fetched her spade and dug, still in her nightcap, all the way across to Pim’s path. Then she looked at the rabbits’ door next along, all snowed in. She dug one scoop towards it.

“And one for you,” said Mrs. Brock. Then she went in for her lunch.

The next morning the rabbits found the dent. They dug across to Mrs. Brock’s path, and one scoop towards the mice. The mice dug across to the rabbits, and one scoop towards the moles. The moles dug across to the mice, and one scoop towards the old otter. And so it went, door after door.

Winters came and winters went. Pim grew a little, but not very much. He still dug with the frying pan, and it still smelled of pancakes.

And now, on every snowy morning, the whole hill was scraping and counting.

“One for me. One for you.”

Soon every round door was joined to every other round door by a little path. From Granny’s window, the hill looked like a big white cake with lines of icing all over the top.

* * *

Then came the deepest snow of all.

It fell all night, thick and soft and quiet. In the morning it came right up to the top of Pim’s round window.

Pim looked at the snow. He looked at his frying pan. The frying pan looked very small.

“Oh dear,” said Pim. “That is a lot of snow for one frying pan.”

He put on his scarf anyway. He picked up his frying pan anyway. He opened his door.

There was a path. A big wide path, dug all the way to his doorstep.

On it stood the rabbits with their spades. The mice with their teaspoons. The moles with nothing at all, because moles do not need spades. And at the very front, in her nightcap, stood Mrs. Brock.

It was nowhere near lunchtime.

“You’re awake,” said Pim.

“Only just,” said Mrs. Brock, and she yawned.

Then the whole hill said it together. “One for you, Pim!”

Pim’s ears went pink right to the tips.

* * *

They all walked up the path to Granny Hare’s. The kitchen was much too small for everybody, so everybody squeezed. The rabbits sat on the dresser. The mice sat in the teacups. Mrs. Brock took up all the room by the stove.

Granny Hare stirred the big black pot. She put in one spoonful too much honey. Then, because it was a special morning, she put in one more.

“Dig one scoop for your neighbour,” said Granny Hare, “and one day the whole hill will dig for you.”

Everybody had porridge. Pim had two bowls.

Then he was full, and warm, and for once he was not digging at all. He leaned against Mrs. Brock’s big woolly side. His frying pan sat by the stove and got warm, and the whole kitchen smelled a little of pancakes.

Granny Hare fetched two blankets. She tucked one round Pim.

“One for you,” said Granny Hare.

She tucked the other round Mrs. Brock.

“And one for you.”

But Mrs. Brock was already asleep, nightcap and all. And so was Pim, snug by the warm stove at the top of the snowy hill, with all his neighbours around him.

The end.