Yuletide the Christmas Goat: A Christmas Folktale from Norway

A long time ago, in the Norwegian village of Vestfold, there was a 12-year-old girl named Ingrid Danielsen, whose best friend in the whole wide world was a goat. 

“Yuletide, did you hear the witches?” cried Ingrid to the goat, with whom she had spoken since the time she was young. Her breath clouded the moonlight. She stood at the goat’s shed door in tears. 

The quaint village was nestled by the sea at the base of a mountain. Wagons rolled through the town in the snow.

“Baa, why did the witches come back again on Christmas Eve?” asked Yuletide the Christmas Goat. Then, he took a mouthful of hay from the haystack in the shed. 

Every year, Griselda, Queen of the Sky Brooms, and her witches liked to harass Father Christmas on Christmas Eve. They threatened to steal the children and their presents. From what Ingrid heard, Griselda used to love Christmas as a child. When she grew up, she wanted Father Christmas’ job, and when she realized she could not have it, she was bitter. At first, she just stopped decorating Christmas trees, but as she got older, she became vindictive and dangerous.

“If I can’t have Father Christmas’ job, then there will be no Christmas!” Griselda cackled. She circled the sky on her broom with her witches. “The children will serve as our slaves and do our dirty work that we don’t have time to do ourselves.”

Spotting the witches fly in her direction, Ingrid fled from the shed. Yuletide ran with her into her family’s cottage. Their footprints left tracks in the snow.  

“Mother and Father should be home shortly from the coast,” Ingrid reminded her friend. “They only work a half day at fishing today!”

Through the snowy window, she watched children dressed as wise men and shepherds as they caroled on the street corners. She cringed as she saw a witch on her broom swoop down and steal a paper star from one of the children. Although the witches had bullied the children before, they had never succeeded in actually kidnapping anyone.

“I want to throw them off their brooms!” Ingrid declared. “I feel like charging outside with a sword and fighting them.”

“Baa, it is Christmas Eve,” Yuletide reminded her. “There’s supposed to be peace on Earth. Maybe we should just ignore them.”

Then, another witch flew down and grabbed three of the children who had been caroling. Although they tried to scatter, she tossed the children on her broom before they could escape.

“Never!” Ingrid cried. “The witches just snatched my cousins! This is the worst attack from the witches that I’ve ever seen!” Tears rolled down Ingrid’s cheeks. “We’re going to have to clog the chimney so they can’t fly down it,” Ingrid said, as she tugged Yuletide’s beard.

“Evil shuns the bright light of a Yule Log!” Yuletide exclaimed and nodded at the fireplace. “If we find the ancient Magic Yule Log, we can defeat Griselda and her witches!” 

“The witches are more determined than ever to undermine Julenissen and his Nisser (Father Christmas with his gnomes),” Ingrid said with a shake of her head. She lit a match to start the fireplace. 

“Baa, Julenissen, please, make it here without a problem,” Yuletide bleated.

Ingrid had spent hours making Julekurver—heart-shaped, small paper basket Christmas tree decorations. She baked cakes and biscuits, especially the Julekake with raisins while singing “Musevisa,” a popular Christmas song. She loved pepperkaker, or ginger cookies, and planned to leave them for Father Christmas with rice porridge, or risengrynsgrøt. 

“Leave us alone, you stupid witches! It’s Christmas!” Ingrid yelled out the window.

“I’m only a goat. Baa, I don’t know how much good I’ll be at getting rid of the witches on their brooms, but I’ll try,” he said and stomped his hoof. “Witches schmitches!”

Then, Yuletide meandered to a large folklore book on the side shelf. It was a gift from Father Christmas, who gave Yuletide the power to speak at birth. He knocked it off the shelf, picked it up with his mouth, and laid it flat. Then, he opened it with his nose and pointed to a map with his hoof.

“The Magic Yule Log is hidden in the cave on the peak of Vestfjellet Mountain,” he said with a groan. “It’s said to be strong enough to destroy the power of the witches.”

“Oh, how did you know that?” Ingrid asked and placed a jingle bell necklace around Yuletide’s neck. “We must find it!”

“Baa, Father Christmas once told me about it. Just in case we needed help to defeat the witches when he was not able to help us,” he explained. “We didn’t really need the power of the Magic Yule Log until now.” 

“According to this book, if we find the Magic Yule Log and burn it in my parents’ fireplace, its power should be strong enough to overcome the witches, so we can rescue my cousins and other missing children,” Ingrid said to Yuletide. “It has to be strong enough!”

“Father Christmas warned me! The Northern Star blessed the Yule Log to have power on Christmas Eve!” Yuletide insisted. “We must burn it tonight. Not one second past midnight. Or it won’t work!”

“Then let’s set off now,” Ingrid said. “It’s not even noontime, so we have at least twelve hours to succeed!”

“Baa, you’re not going anywhere!” Yuletide said. “I’ll run up the mountain. Be back before midnight. I’ll pull your sleigh with me to carry the log. Try to keep Griselda and the witches away!”

“I wish Mother and Father were here now,” Ingrid whispered.

“I’ll leave now. Tell them I went wandering in the snow. I’ll be back soon,” Yuletide bleated. 

“Don’t let the witches catch you!” Ingrid said, as she raised her eyes to heaven. 

“Baa, broomsticks beware. I’m coming,” Yuletide declared. 

Then, Ingrid opened the door for Yuletide and kissed him on the cheek. She looped the rope from her small, red sleigh around his body, and he ran off in the snow. She shut the door, locked it, and barricaded it with the Christmas tree. Griselda was not going to ruin her Christmas. 

 

As Yuletide journeyed to the mountaintop to retrieve the Magic Yule Log, he tried not to look into the sky at the witches. He stayed close to buildings and trees, and hid from the witches’ views, so they could not snatch him with the children. When he reached the base of the mountain, a huge gust of snow blew in his eyes. 

“Baa, I’m blind! Oh, just one hoof in front of the other up the mountain,” Yuletide said, as he encouraged himself. Ingrid’s red sleigh slid behind him in the snow. 

After a few hours of climbing up the mountain, he neared the snow-covered caves. Once he reached the caves, he dug his way through piles of ice and snow with his nose and hooves. His back ached from pulling Ingrid’s sleigh, and he worried she might be captured by the witches by now. He wondered if he would ever find the log. 

“Maybe I failed,” the Christmas goat bleated and kicked the snow. Then, just when he was about to give up, he could see a golden sparkle shine from the corner of the cave. “The Magic Yule Log!” he cheered. With all his might, he rolled the log onto the red sleigh. 

By then, he had scraped and bruised his body. His legs trembled. Each breath stung like frostbite in his lungs. When he looked back, he could see drops of blood in the snow. His shins were raw and sore. 

“Ingrid, I’m coming,” Yuletide said, as he hoped she could somehow hear him.

The trip down the mountain was easier than the trip up the steep hill. Yuletide ran as fast as he could, pulling the sleigh with the log behind him. Every now and then, he hit a bump. Only once did the log roll off, and he had to roll the log back onto the sleigh with his hoofs. 

“Baa, Father Christmas, help me get to Ingrid in time,” he cried. The night sky seemed so dark. Even with the log almost to Ingrid’s home, he felt a little hopeless.  

 

In the meantime, Ingrid huddled by the fireplace and built a large fire with the regular logs and twigs. Out of desperation, she tried sprinkling her mother’s dried rosemary sprigs and dried sage from the cupboard into the flames. She thought the herbs might grow the fire.  

“Stay away, you witches!” Ingrid said. “It’s Christmas Eve!”

Waiting for Yuletide and her mother and father, she ate one too many Christmas macaroons, until she had a stomachache. By the late afternoon, she became concerned that her mother and father might have been sidetracked by the witches as well.

“Now what?” Ingrid asked, as she noticed the fire had died down. “Oh, no! There are only embers. This is too much for me by myself . . . Uff da!”

Then, as she looked at the fireplace, she saw a broom handle sticking down the chimney with the heel of a boot. She thought it must be Griselda, and she had come to capture her.

“Oh, no!” Ingrid cried, putting a few logs in the fireplace and lighting the kindling. She blew on the flame softly to get the fire burning again. Then, the fire roared, and a large flame burst up the chimney. “Go away! Leave me alone!”

“It will never be Juletid, the Christmastime you love, for you!” Ingrid heard Griselda’s voice cackle. “Christmas joy, julefryd, is over in Vestfold.”

“Griselda, I will fight you until you leave me alone,” Ingrid said. “Don’t even think of coming into my house!”

Ingrid looked out the window to see other witches snatching the children and setting them on their brooms. 

“Where are my parents?” Ingrid whispered. “It’s Christmas Eve, and they should be home by now.”

“I hate those stupid Christmas carols!” Griselda yelled from up the chimney. “It hurts my ears to hear children sing about wise men and angels.”

“Well, then, I must sing ‘Musevisa’ for you until you leave me and my village alone!” Ingrid hollered, as she fanned the fireplace. 

Almost out of wood, Ingrid threw scraps from around the house into the fire, like wooden kitchen spoons. Then, she broke up a chair and threw it into the fireplace. 

“Do you really think this little flame will keep me away? I will conjure a spell for rain and douse it!” Griselda screamed. “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. / You are all out of hope! / Frost shall bind, / Wind shall blind. / Your strength’s too small. / Your fight ill-timed!”

As the witch threatened to use her dark magic, Ingrid heard her parents knocking on the cottage door. She quickly moved the Christmas tree and unbarred the door, and her parents bustled inside. Then, she once again barricaded the door.

“The witches are everywhere!” Ingrid’s father cried. “They’re overtaking the village and kidnapping the children.”

“Yes, Father,” Ingrid said, as she watched the fire died down again. Then, she threw another wooden chair into the fireplace.

“Is that a witch’s broom coming down the chimney?” Ingrid’s mother asked. “Oh, is a witch trying to invade our home? Griselda? Ingrid, how did this happen?”

“I’ve been trying to fight her off,” Ingrid told her mother. “It doesn’t seem to be enough.”   

Then, Ingrid’s father looked around the room. “Where is Yuletide?” he said, as he noticed that the goat was missing. “I’m going to go check on him in the shed.”

“Oh, he’s out in the snow,” Ingrid said and bit her lip. The fire jumped high. “He’ll be back soon.”

As Ingrid looked out the window, she hoped Yuletide would return any minute. Her mother stirred the logs and coals in the fire to ignite them.

“This is not getting rid of the witch in our chimney!” Ingrid’s father said. “Maybe I should go on the roof and fight her with my shovel.”

“Dear, please don’t do that,” Ingrid’s mother cried. “Father Christmas will save us!”

“It looks like the witches in the sky might have surrounded the village!” Ingrid said. She peered out the window again and kept her head low. She hoped the witches would not see her. “How will Father Christmas ever visit us?”

“I’m going to destroy you and your village! There’ll be no more Christmas!” Griselda yelled from inside the chimney. “I douse you and your fire with rain and pain.” 

The sorcerer sent a downpour on the fire, and flames instantly vanished. Then, Ingrid imagined the nightmare that would take place if the witch placed both feet on the brick floor of the fireplace. It seemed that the chimney was too small for her to get through. 

“Quick! Light the fire again,” Ingrid said. She ran into the kitchen for flour and threw it on the wet logs. “I hope this makes the soggy wood dry enough to light new logs on top of it.” 

Then, Ingrid broke pieces off her favorite rocking chair to light the fire. 

As Ingrid and her parents kept the fire burning, the witch cast her rain-making spells, sending sparks into the kitchen. Ingrid continued to hope for Yuletide’s return. The clock on the wall tick-tocked closer and closer to midnight when the Magic Yule Log would no longer have the power to defeat the witches. 

“We’re almost out of wood!” Ingrid’s father said. “Now what will we do?”

“Run out of wood? We’re about to run out of matches to light the wood that we don’t have!” Ingrid’s mother said.

“I don’t want to be captured by Griselda,” Ingrid cried. Sweat rolled down her face, and she felt exhausted. 

“Christmas magic will come to an end!” Griselda chanted. “On that one thing you can depend!”

Just when Ingrid wanted to collapse, Yuletide hobbled in the cottage through his small pet door at the back of the house. He rolled the glowing Magic Yule Log inside. The goat’s knees were scratched and bloody, and he stumbled as though he might faint at any moment.

“Hoof to heart!” Yuletide said. “By the beard of Blitzen!”

“Yuletide!” Ingrid cheered. She ran to him in tears and hugged him. “It smells like cinnamon.”

“It’s about to be thunder!” Yuletide said, as Ingrid looked at the ticking clock. Shadows stretched across the walls of the hearth. “Let’s roast some broomsticks!”

Then, as the clock struck midnight, Ingrid threw the Magic Yule Log into the fireplace. A huge explosion shot from the chimney. The light from it stretched over the village. 

“Aaaaaaahhhh!” Griselda screamed, and her voice echoed throughout the sky. The explosion scattered Griselda and her evil witches in every direction. 

The children who were kidnapped hours earlier fell from the witches’ brooms and magically landed feet-first in the snow.

From the window, Ingrid could see her cousins jump for joy!

“It’s Christmas again!” Ingrid said, as she danced in the kitchen with her parents and Yuletide in celebration. 

“I’m freezing! I almost didn’t make it,” Yuletide exclaimed. Icicles fell from his fur as he shivered. “The Magic Yule Log was hidden deep in the mountain.”

“Did you see Father Christmas?” Ingrid asked, as she cleaned Yuletide’s wounds and laid him next to the fire to get warm and dry. 

“Baa, yes,” Yuletide bleated. “I did see him flying in the sky. He told me to thank you. He can’t right all the wrongs. He’s fought the witches for years. He was so grateful.”

At that, Ingrid heard sleigh bells and saw sparkles outside the window. Her family fell asleep by the fireplace with Yuletide, and Father Christmas finally made his visit in the snow with presents, all because a goat decided that he would go on a journey to save his best friend. 

And from that snowy Christmas on, Ingrid and the people of Vestfold hung jingle bells on their trees, to remember the courage of Yuletide the Christmas Goat, who saved the children. Even the longest night yields to the candle!

 

The Ballad of the Christmas Goat

On Yuletide’s back, he carried the log. 

He was a goat, not even a dog. 

Jingle bells and hoofs defeated a witch.

And Christmas went on without a glitch.

 

He climbed the mountain where magic slept.

He guarded the hearth while children wept. 

His heart was good, and eyes so bright.

Yuletide came to bring the light. 

 

Don’t ever despise a lonely goat. 

He might one day save your throat. 

When night is dark and hope is lost,

He’ll fight for you despite the cost. 

 

Copyright 2016, 2025 Jennifer Waters

 

The Christmas Lantern Festival: A Christmas Folktale from the Rhine River

Jule stood on the banks of the Rhine River and watched the sparkling lanterns float downstream. She held her brother’s hand as tight as she could, mostly because she was his eyes. Tonight, she would see the Christmas Lantern Festival for both of them. It felt like the whole town was bringing light into the world. The paper lanterns twinkled like bright stars in the universe. A horse-drawn carriage trotted through the snow beside the river. 

“Killian, I just placed our lantern into the river,” said 10-year-old Jule Schmidt to her 7-year-old brother. He held her hand so tight that sometimes she didn’t know how he would ever let go. “The whole river is lit up like a Festival of Lights. It’s so bright it’s almost blinding!”

Every year during Advent, a nighttime procession of families and children gathered with lanterns on the riverbank at the Rüdesheim Christmas Market and sang songs. The Schmidt children and their parents stood bundled in gloves, hats, and scarves. 

Since Killian had been blind from birth, he could only imagine what things looked like from Jule’s descriptions. The river was lined with snow-covered firs, a large castle, rocks, and a sharp cliff. Jule loved Killian so much and wished he could see everything. The lights on the river looked like floating lamps, which could be seen for miles.

“The lanterns must be as bright as the angels,” Killian said. “I’ve never met an angel, but I’d like to meet one. Until then, I have you.” 

Killian kissed his sister on the cheek. His lips felt cold, and Jule kissed him back. Over the years, Jule and her parents tried to celebrate Killian for everything good that he brought to the world. Even if he couldn’t see, he had an acute sense of taste and smell. He enjoyed feeling the hand-carved Christmas tree decorations. He also loved music and joined in singing whenever he knew the song. Every now and then, he fiddled with playing the family guitar.

“Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!” Killian sang at the top of his lungs. Jule always let him sing louder than her. She figured it was a way to let him shine. 

“Let’s go sit on the bridge,” Jule said to her brother. They wandered from their parents to a rickety old bridge at a narrow part of the river. The bridge had been hardly used in recent years, but at times, people still crossed it after they had said a special prayer to the angels for blessings.

Jule liked to make prayers to the angels for her brother and had insisted that she had met a large angel by the bridge on the river. Of course, her parents never believed her, and it hurt her feelings, but she knew she was telling the truth. 

As they sat down on the bridge that night, it creaked a little more than normal, but Jule ignored it because she was having so much fun. Killian swung his feet back and forth with joy.

“I met an angel who told me that you would be healed of blindness,” Jule said to Killian. She had full faith that the miracle would one day happen. 

“You like to tell this story,” Killian said with a giggle. Jule decided to tell the story again in hopes that maybe what the angel said would finally come to pass.

“Now tell me if you see her,” Jule said to Killian. “She had long golden hair and a pink dress with a blue flowing jacket.”

“She must have wings. Does she have wings?” Killian said. “Like the wings on the bird in mother’s garden that I held.”

“Of course, she has wings, silly,” Jule said. “She likes to visit this bridge. That’s where I saw her before . . .”

“Well, I’ve never seen her,” Killian said. “I’d like to meet her though. You’ve been telling me about her for so long.”

When Jule spoke to the angel, the heavenly being said that at certain seasons she descends into the river and stirs up the water. After she stirs up the water, whoever steps into the river first is made well from whatever disease is in their body. 

Jule didn’t understand exactly how it all worked, but she believed the angel anyhow. Some people believed Jule’s story; others scoffed. She was still determined that Killian would be first in the river at some point. It was said that a few other people in town had been visited by the angel, so this gave Jule extra hope that what the angel said was true. 

“When the angel stirs up the water, you’re going to have to jump in to get healed,” Jule insisted. “Even if it seems a bit scary.”

“I can’t swim, and I might drown,” Killian said in a soft voice. “I can’t see anything. It’s too dangerous.”

“Well, just don’t let go of my hand,” Jule said, as a mighty wind blew the lanterns across the river in a squall. She watched as her parents placed their lanterns into the river.

With that, the side of the bridge where Killian and Jule sat broke into two, and the brother and sister fell into the river. 

“Help!” Killian screamed. Although he fell into the river first before his sister, Jule felt the ice-cold water overtake her body. She held his hand as tight as she could. “Somebody, help!” 

“Oh, no!” Jule yelled. She kicked her legs extra hard and paddled for her and her brother. “Save us! Angel, come and save us.”

Jule kicked with all her strength, but the current dragged them down. The brother and sister were sucked into a fast-moving tide. 

She flailed her free arm and heard screaming from the banks of the river.

Her father jumped into the dark river, swimming madly, trying to find the children, who were hidden in the night. Jule made eye contact with her mother with a nod. 

“Lisa! Look! Over there!” a man on the riverbank said, as she shined his flashlight.

“Christoph! The children are more to the right!” Lisa, her mother, called.

“The angel said my brother would be healed,” Jule cried out in the turbulent current. 

As Jule clung to her brother with fear, a bright light shone on them from above the river.

“Then, the eyes of the blind will be opened,” the voice of the angel boomed across the rippling water. “The Lord opens the eyes of the blind.”

Suddenly, the angel with long golden hair, and a pink dress with a blue flowing jacket stood on the water before the children. She was twice as big as their father, who struggled to swim in their direction. Jule wondered if her father could see the angel. 

Then, Jule started to sink along with her brother. It was the most hideous feeling. Even if she kicked as hard as she could, she could not kick hard enough to get back to the surface. She looked at Killian with complete despair as bubbles floated around his head. One last time, she prayed for the angel to save her and her brother. 

In the nick of time, Mr. Schmidt grabbed both children by the arms and pulled them to the surface. Jule had never felt such relief. Then, she felt a second pair of large hands on her forearms from the angel in the pink dress. Both she and her brother could now breathe again.

The crowd of people on the riverbank had thrown a scarf into the river, which Christoph grabbed. The father and his two children were pulled to shore as the angel did more than her share of towing the family to the bank. Their mother threw her arms around her wet family and sobbed with joy. 

“Daddy, I can see!” Killian said as he landed in the freezing snow. “Oh, my eyes! That’s what it must mean if something is bright.”

Jule looked at her brother in silence. She heard what he had said but wondered if it was too good to be true. She gave it a moment to see if his new sight was real and lasting. 

Killian covered his eyes from the shining lights of the Christmas lanterns. He buried his head in his father’s shoulder. The cold wind blew against the father and his children. The crowd shared their dry coats, hats, and gloves.

“Killian! My baby,” Mrs. Schmidt cried. She held her child in her arms and rubbed his skin to make him warm again. “I hope the two of you and your father don’t get pneumonia! Ring out your clothes before they freeze!”

Jule had a sneaking suspicion that the miracle she had prayed for had happened in the most unusual way. Because Killian was too afraid to jump in the water, God had solved that problem for him with a broken bridge. 

“Did you see the angel in pink, Killian?” Jule said. She buried her head in her mother’s coat. “Did you hear the voice?”

“Oh, the two of you almost died!” Christoph said. “Look at me, son! Can you really see? Is it actually true?”

“I can see you, Daddy!” Killian said. “There was a lady in the river with you that grabbed me and Jule, but it wasn’t Mom. She’s still standing over there and singing a beautiful song. Is she an angel? She has beautiful wings!” 

Killian pointed to the middle of the river, where no one could stand without sinking. 

Jule knew it was the angel that she had met, who promised her brother’s healing. She had large wings, and a bright light surrounded her. Despite her radiance, Jule realized that the rest of the townspeople were unable to see her appearance. 

“Lisa, our boy can see! How can this be?” Christoph said to his wife. He huddled around his son with his family among the onlookers. 

Mr. Schmidt moved his fingers in front of Killian’s face and watched the boy’s eyes follow his hand. Jule had waited for this day for so long and could not believe it was finally happening. From the first moment the angel told her that her brother would be healed, she believed her. Then, Killian looked across the river, and a large smile filled his face. 

“I’m not sure who he’s seeing over the river though,” Mr. Schmidt said with a worried expression. Jule knew that Killian saw the angel but decided not to try to convince everyone else. Maybe only Jule and Killian were supposed to see her. 

When Killian’s father turned around, Jule no longer saw The Angel that Troubled the Waters. She had vanished into the winter night’s air. It was almost like she had never been there, except that Killian could now see. 

“She’s gone now, Dad,” Killian said. “She disappeared. She must be a good swimmer.”

“I’m freezing,” Jule said. “Let’s run home and make a fire with lots of logs and eat fruitcake and gingerbread. I’m going to teach you the name of everything that you never saw before. The whole world is new! All because the bridge broke!”

As Jule looked over her shoulder, she saw one more momentary glimpse of the angel that had saved her and her brother. As the angel reappeared for a second, she waved and smiled at Jule, as if to say that she had kept her promise. All the trouble had somehow been turned to good, because her brother could finally see. 

Jule would always remember the night the bridge broke, the night when light finally entered her brother’s eyes—and proved that hope was never wasted.

 

Copyright 2016, 2025 Jennifer Waters 

Noëlle Baboushka: A Christmas Folktale from Russia

There is an old tale told in snowy Russian villages. Once in a small Russian town, Grandmother Agata Baboushka spent her mornings sweeping out the empty stable on her farm. She had heard that three Wise Men had been roaming the countryside, in search of a star that would lead to a royal child. She was unsure how the men had come to her country. 

She worried about strangers drifting through her town. It seemed like such a far way away from their home near Bethlehem. 

“I hope those Wise Men don’t come to my door,” she said. “My memory is no good, but some of this doesn’t make sense. I have no time for folklore. There is no star or royal child.”

Although Grandmother Baboushka lived alone, she fought with her family over every expense in raising her grandchildren. She could not spare a penny for their lives, whether it was for their fun or for daily necessities like shoes and clothes. Every day, she dusted the old toys from her children’s youth. She kept them as a reminder of the happier days when her deceased husband would spend money on small luxuries.

“Aren’t you excited about the star?” a neighbor asked the grandmother. “All the townspeople are waiting to see it in the sky! Everyone wants to meet the new king!”

She was too old to keep up with such matters and could not remember how the people of the village started babbling about this supposed star leading to the birthplace of a king.

“I’m busy!” she said. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I have a business to run on my farm.”

She spent the week sweeping, dusting, scrubbing, gardening, cooking, and baking—all by herself without any distractions. She had always believed that she could work her way out of any mess. Any problem could be fixed by working harder, or so she thought. 

As the week went on, the traveling Wise Men had heard of Grandmother Baboushka’s farm from the village people. The three kings were told that there was more than enough room in her stables to spend the night and get a good night’s sleep, but Grandmother Baboushka wanted no part in hosting any foreign guests. She was aghast that she was volunteered for the task. 

When the three men came to her door right before midnight, she was so nervous that she could hardly speak. She just wanted them to go away. There was no way that she was going to give way to such foolishness and let them stay with her.

“Can we stay with you for the night?” called a voice, as she heard a knock on the door. One of them jangled sleigh bells in his hand. “We only want to find the star that leads to the coming king. There will soon be a new King of Israel. His star will rise when he is born. If we follow the star, we will find him. We have gifts to give him. Do you have a gift to give to the child? Join us tomorrow on our journey, if you please.”

“Oh, I’m an old grandmother for heaven’s sake. I’d only slow you down,” she said. She opened the door a crack to see their faces. Although they looked like kind men, the thought of them staying with her was just too much trouble. She already did enough cooking and cleaning.

“All are welcome on our journey,” one of the Wise Men said. He wore a bright colorful tunic. The camels with the men also looked tired and in need of water and rest. 

“I don’t know why you would want to stay here with me. I saw the Star in the West, or maybe it was the East. I really don’t know,” she said. Even if she told a fib, she thought it was for the best. “I’m a poor widow. I don’t have money to help you. Now don’t spend another moment in our Russian village! Find the baby now. I’m sorry, but I have no gift for him.”

“But we thought we saw the star over your village,” one of the other Wise Men said. 

Then, she closed the door in their faces, locked it tight, and left the three kings in the blistering snow and cold in the Russian town. After the kings were long gone, a family arrived at the grandmother’s door, a pregnant mother on a donkey with her poor husband.

“We are fleeing to Egypt. We might stop in Bethlehem first. It is such a far journey. We have been traveling for days. Please, we need a place to stay for the night,” the husband said. “My wife is pregnant. Our baby can’t die in the winter. She is due any day now.”

“There is no place to keep you in my home or stable,” Grandmother Baboushka said. She knew full well that she could help them, but she felt unsafe with strangers and had so little extra money. “The beds in my home are full of my children and grandchildren. My stable is full of animals. You’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.”

As she slammed the door shut, she stood there alone. Some say time stood still for her. 

The scent of pine filled her home. Her children were at their own homes with her grandchildren, and in general, spent very little time with her. She peered out the frosty windowpane at the pregnant mother, who cried as she held the donkey’s neck. 

“Where is your mother?” the grandmother asked the woman through the window. “Who sends a pregnant woman riding around on a donkey? I’m going to bed. What nonsense!”

A few weeks later, the angel Gabriel appeared at the grandmother’s bedside, and she was thrown to the floor in shock and fear. A bright light surrounded the angel, and Grandmother Baboushka trembled on her knees, as if she knew her crime.

“Jesus, the Son of the Most High God, has been born in Bethlehem in a stable. You refused the three Wise Men trying to find him, and you sent his own mother away. In penance, you will travel to Bethlehem. On your way, you will journey through Russia and beyond with a candle and place toys at the bedside of each child that you meet. Seek the Babe of Bethlehem while he still may be found. This is Christmas morning! Your new name will be Noëlle.”

Before she could say anything in her defense, the angel Gabriel disappeared, and the bright light vanished. Grandmother Baboushka sat still for a moment, and then, she wept in sorrow for her selfishness and greed.

“Maybe I can still find this baby named Jesus,” she said, as she gathered her children’s old toys in a knapsack. She placed the candles from her cupboard in her bag as well. She kept one candle for herself to burn on her journey.  

Then, she set out for Bethlehem, like the angel said. Night after night, on her way to Bethlehem, she stopped by the homes of strangers to give gifts to their children. Though she gave gifts, no one let her rest for the night. 

She roamed from place to place with her candle, never at peace, always searching. However, she did bless the Russian children with presents of every kind—first her children’s old toys, and then others she bought along the way, like tumblers, spinners, rocking horses, bean bags, toy soldiers, Russian folk dolls, and kaleidoscopes. 

Even though her money was running low, she figured she was giving everything she had to this new king called Jesus. Then, maybe, somehow, she could be forgiven. 

Although his earthly parents were not wealthy, it seemed that Jesus was royalty of a heavenly type. He was the type of king who had angels at his command. She thought the Wise Men must have known this from the beginning, which is why they were so eager to find him. She was so worried that she would never make it to Jesus.

“I will never find the baby king,” Grandmother Baboushka said. “I will die alone. I am so sorry for my greed.”

Despite her fears, she eventually arrived in Bethlehem and inquired at a local inn about the three Wise Men and the Son of the Most High God named Jesus. 

“Yes, the Wise Men and babe were here, but they left,” the innkeeper said. “I wish that I had more than a stable to offer them.”

“Oh, do you know which way they went?” the grandmother asked. She could not waste any time.

“The baby king has fled to safety in Egypt with his parents. The three Wise Men have returned to their own country,” the innkeeper said. “However, if you would like to sleep where the child slept, I can let you stay there for the night. It is such a shame that you are too late.” 

“Thank you,” she said. “I would like to sleep where Jesus slept for the night. Then, I will be on my way to find him.”

“What would have happened if he didn’t find me?” the innkeeper said. “I had to hide him for the night. King Herod is trying to kill him. He gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem two years old and younger.”

So upset about Jesus’ safety, Grandmother Baboushka collapsed in a barn filled with animals for the night. She wet the straw with her tears and prayed about what to do. 

“Please, let me have another chance, God,” she said. “I just didn’t know that it was your son that the pregnant mother was carrying. If I had only known . . .” 

The next morning, she set out to buy more gifts, to leave at the pillow of each child that she met. She secretly hoped that one of the children might even be Jesus. 

“Here you go, sweet child,” she whispered, as she gave a rocking horse to a small boy in a Bethlehem home. He had been asleep for the night, and his mother allowed the grandmother to visit his bedside. “Might his name be Jesus?” she asked his mother while he slept. 

“No, his name is Aaron,” the mother said. “Are you looking for someone special?”

“Yes, but in the meantime, I hope your son enjoys the toy,” Grandmother Baboushka answered with such disappointment. She felt so heartbroken inside that she had not found Jesus. 

“I used to say that I have no gift for him,” she said to herself. “Now, I have nothing left but gifts to give.”

Still hoping to find the Son of the Most High God, after she spent years of wandering, she returned home to her Russian farm in defeat. 

Even her own children would not speak to her. She had been gone for more than a decade, and they had gone on with their lives as though she had died. She figured it would only be a matter of months before she passed away.  

“I’ve already given gifts to every child that I met,” Grandmother Baboushka said to God in prayer. “Why have I not been able to find Jesus?”

That night, in her sleep, she woke to find Jesus, the Son of the Most High God, still a child, standing at her bedside. 

“Truly, I tell you, whatever you did for the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,” Jesus said. “Thank you for every gift that you gave to a child. I loved every single present, and so did my mother.”

            Before Grandmother Baboushka could say anything, she was whisked away to heaven with a company of angels. The legend of Noëlle Baboushka, the Christmastime Grandmother and her gifts, lives on, warning those who forget to bless strangers in need, reminding them that Mary once birthed Jesus in a stable with Wise Men on Christmas Eve.  

            To this day, children in Russia light candles on Christmas Eve, remembering the woman who once carried them on her journey to Bethlehem.

 

Copyright 2016, 2025 Jennifer Waters 

Christmas Boxing Day: A Christmas Folktale from Harrods

On Christmas morning, Frances Mountbatten stumbled down the stairs from her second-floor bedroom and gazed at her glowing Christmas tree in front of the bay windows. Piles of wrapped packages sat beneath it. She already wondered which presents would be returned and what deals she could find the day after Christmas on Boxing Day. 

As she looked out the window of her Notting Hill Gate flat, snow covered the red telephone box on Lansdowne Crescent. She could only hope that this Christmas would be better than last year. Her boyfriend Spencer Arthur was due to arrive at any moment. 

“Frances, is he here yet?” her mother called from her upstairs guest bedroom, as Frances waited for a knock on her door. 

“You could do better than Spencer,” her father called. “Besides, we could be spending Christmas at home in Cambridge.” 

“I didn’t tell Spencer that you were coming,” Frances explained. “So, stay upstairs until I figure out what’s going on! I’ll bring you Christmas breakfast in bed.”

After feeding her parents, she waited for her boyfriend and prepared a full breakfast to share with him: bacon, poached eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, fried oatcakes, black pudding, baked beans, and fresh orange juice. She hoped Spencer would like it. Sometimes, he was extra picky. 

“Oh, where is he?” Frances asked, as she watched the clock. “He’s always late. It’s so rude.”

“I see his Volkswagen from the window. He just parked outside!” Mrs. Mountbatten called. “Try to stay calm.”

“He’s only an accountant,” her father snapped. “You need a big ring!”

A knock at the door made Frances’ heart leap with anticipation as the doorbell rang. 

“Coming, dear!” she called to Spencer, her longtime love. Through the window, she could see him as he stood at the door with a pile of packages. 

This has to be the year that he would finally ask her to marry him. All of her family and friends expected him to propose, and it embarrassed her that he kept dragging it out. 

On the side table sat a stack of Frances’ romance novels. She was one of Britain’s most famous authors. She could write the best romances, but she hadn’t been able to get married.

“Merry Christmas, love!” Spencer said to Frances as she opened the door. He kissed her on the cheek and handed her his armful of gifts.

“Oh, I wonder what’s in these boxes!” Frances said and placed them beneath her Christmas tree. “Wait until you see what I got for you! I hope you love it,” she said. “I just finished making breakfast . . .”

“Brilliant!” Spencer said with a smile. He looked at the feast placed around Frances’ kitchen table. A Santa Claus tea pot with a candy cane handle sat in the middle of the food.

“Do you want to open gifts first or eat breakfast?” Frances asked. She kissed him and wrapped her arms around him. 

“Why don’t we open gifts first?” he said and hung his jacket on a hook. “We can open them quickly, so the food doesn’t get cold.”

“Oh, good!” Frances said. She had a knot in her stomach. “I’m so excited.”

After opening all five boxes from Spencer, she had a pearl necklace, a wool sweater, an ink pen, a journal, and a Christmas stocking full of toffees. “Anything else that I missed?” she asked. She bit her lip, breathed deep, and exhaled slowly. 

“No, that’s everything, dear,” Spencer said to her. “Hope you like your gifts! Now what did you get me?”

Frances shook her head and thought of all the years she watched her other girlfriends get married, some even at Christmas. Then, she caught her parents trying to tiptoe down the steps without Spencer noticing them. As his back faced the staircase, he stared out the window. She shooed her parents away before he saw them.

“Definitely open this gift first,” Frances demanded, stiffly handing Spencer a large, heavy box with a large bow.

He ripped open the gold wrapping paper, pulled off the lid, only to find a pair of red boxing gloves. Frances grabbed the gloves and shoved them on her tiny hands. She said, “These are for me!”

Then, she punched Spencer on the cheek and knocked him over in one full swing—he toppled onto the wooden floor. It looked like he fainted with shock. Moments later, when Spencer regained consciousness, he held his head.

“What did you do that for?” Spencer cried. “It’s Christmas! I love you. I really do love you.”

“The gift that I gave you is a set of boxing gloves for me!” Frances said. “Tomorrow morning, on Boxing Day, Harrods is having a sale. It starts at 10 o’clock sharp. You are buying me an engagement ring, or I’m knocking you out for good!”

“I was going to do just that,” Spencer said, though his tone betrayed him. “Or . . . would you fancy a rugby match instead?”

Frances felt more irritated by the minute and suspected he was stalling from making any real decision about their relationship. It was no different than last year. 

“I’m not taking off the boxing gloves until you put a ring on my left hand!” Frances insisted. “Do you understand me?”

“Of course, darling, anything you want,” Spencer said to her. “Can I have some ice for my eye?”

She looked at the stack of unopened gifts that sat beside him and wondered if they could be re-gifted. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t deserve another gift until she got a ring. She handed him the ice and hoped that it was freezing cold. 

Then, Mrs. and Mr. Mountbatten tiptoed down the stairs, even after Frances shooed them away. She knew they were trying to protect her from more heartbreak. 

“Oh, Noah, sir, I didn’t know you were here!” Spencer gasped.

“Amelia and I have definitely been here for days,” Frances’ father mumbled. 

“We thought that Christmas might be merrier this year!” her mother said.

“That’s what I thought, too!” Frances said, as she held up the boxing gloves again.

Spencer held ice on his face. Frances secretly hoped that he wouldn’t go blind from her right hook. Although she was very angry at him, she did love him, or so she thought. Under the watchful eye of the Mountbattens, Frances enjoyed a calm breakfast with Spencer. He noted that it was “the best Christmas breakfast he had ever eaten.”

“Your bachelor days are over!” Frances said to Spencer. She raised the red gloves in his face. “I can’t believe that I have to fight you like this!”

Frances managed to hold a fork while wearing the boxing gloves and enjoyed her poached eggs with oatcakes. She watched her parents fume at the seams while Spencer squirmed.

“Darling, we’ll meet in the Christmas World section of Harrods in the morning,” Spencer agreed. “Pick anywhere for a honeymoon. I want you to be happy. I should’ve proposed before now, but I was just so nervous . . .”

“Well, you don’t have to be nervous anymore,” she said. “We’ve been together for almost seven years.”

As Christmas Day went on, Frances fell asleep on the couch with the boxing gloves covering her hands, and her parents dozed off on the rocking chairs next to her. While they were sleeping, Spencer slipped out the door before Frances and her parents could stop him. 

By the time morning came, Frances still had the red boxing gloves on her hands, ready to fight Spencer to fulfill his never-ending empty promises. She was hopeful she would now be an engaged woman with a very large ring on her hand. 

Looking in the mirror, she pinched her hairbrush between the two boxing gloves and attempted to brush her hair. It was still a bit matted on the side, but she did the best she could. Brushing her teeth was a little more difficult. She used the mouthwash instead. 

Then, she ran downstairs and grabbed some toast and jam. She was too impatient to fiddle with the fork between her gloves. After sipping a bit of tea, she grabbed her wool jacket. 

“Mom, can you get the door for me?” Frances called. “My hands are full!”

“Don’t get too disappointed if Spencer doesn’t show up!” Amelia told her daughter as she opened the front door for her. 

“I never liked him!” Noah blurted out. “There are lots of eligible men at Cambridge.”

“Please, let me handle this myself,” Frances said and waved her boxing gloves in the air.

So, on the second day of Christmastide, Boxing Day—a British holiday—Frances took the Tube to Harrods in Knightsbridge. Gifts were piled high for the homeless men and women who lived in the subway tunnels. Passersby dropped donations into the Salvation Army’s red kettles as bandsmen played Christmas carols and rang bells. 

“Boxing Day has a new meaning for me,” she said, as she wore the boxing gloves all the way to Christmas World despite odd looks from strangers. “Saint Stephen help me! At least my gloves are red for the Christmas season!” 

While walking down the street to Harrods, she watched through the store windows as servants and tradesmen received Christmas boxes from their employers as gifts. She wished this Christmas had not been so dramatic. She loved this time of year and would have rather celebrated in peace.

When she arrived in Christmas World, she took a seat next to Santa Claus’ house and waited for Spencer. As noon came and went, Spencer still hadn’t arrived, and she started to cry. Several Harrods’ shoppers gave her tissues. Spencer was a coward for not showing up.

After she had enough of waiting around for Spencer, she saw a handsome gentleman from the distance. It seemed like he would be the best solution to her problems. 

“I’d love to take you up to the second floor for lunch at The Tea Room,” Frances blurted out to the stranger. He had a blue handkerchief sticking from his pocket. 

“My dear lady, it’s Boxing Day! Everything is on sale. Please don’t cry,” he said, as he gave her his handkerchief. 

“Yes, I know, it’s Boxing Day! Look at my gloves,” she sobbed. She grabbed his tissue with the boxing gloves and blew her nose. 

“I’d love to have tea with you, dear,” the gentleman said. “It’s Boxing Day, and I don’t want to fight with you!”

“My name is Frances Mountbatten,” she said, as she stopped crying. 

“My name is Harry Williams,” he said. “It would be my pleasure to spend the day with you. In fact, I think I’ve read your novels. I work in publishing.”

He wasn’t just handsome—he had kind eyes. And unlike Spencer, he hadn’t left her crying in public. 

“Really?” she said, amazed that anyone cared about her writing at a time like this. For a moment, Harry overshadowed the disappointment that Frances felt for Spencer. 

As Frances composed herself, Harry helped her take off the boxing gloves and left them in Christmas World for Santa. They had a warm lunch together, and Frances tried not to think about Spencer. Days later, when Spencer appeared unannounced at Frances’ flat to propose, Harry quickly put on the boxing gloves as Frances wearily considered the proposition. 

“Darling, I’ve come to sweep you off your feet,” Spencer said through the front door. 

“You’re about to get swept right back off the sidewalk,” Harry yelled, as he put on the boxing gloves. 

Frances looked through the peephole with caution. She couldn’t bare another round with Spencer in the ring.  

“Darling, don’t even consider a thing that crazy man is saying!” Harry said, as he sent Spencer away once and for all. “I want to date you. You’re gorgeous.”

“Brilliant,” Frances said. Then, she kissed Harry. Spencer had put her through enough. “I need you more than I could ever need him.”

Frances called her parents the next day to tell them about Harry, and her father could not have been happier. She knew her mother and father were relieved that Spencer was gone. 

By summertime, Harry proposed on one knee with a sparkling ring, and Frances married him on Christmas Eve in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Frances made sure that Spencer only heard about the spectacular wedding. 

Happier than ever, Frances never put on boxing gloves again, but she did make sure to catch the good sales with Harry on Boxing Day—the most brilliant shopping holiday. 

Copyright 2016, 2025 Jennifer Waters

Peanut Butter Marshmallow: The Story of Bethany Buttercup and Sticky Situations

“I sure wish I had some new friends,” said 10-year-old Bethany Buttercup, eating marshmallows from a bag. “I think I need a marshmallow friend.” Then her shy eyes lit up with a bright idea. “If I leave the marshmallow tube on overnight in my father’s factory, I could make a Marshmallow friend, and he’ll be as big as a snowman!”

Bethany’s dad ran the largest marshmallow factory in Virginia, churning out marshmallows for nearly half a century. Mrs. Buttercup tried to stay out of business dealings. In fact, she had eaten one too many marshmallows in her lifetime.

“Marshmallows go from cooking into a bag in less than a half-an-hour, made from corn syrup, water, dextrose, and air,” Mrs. Buttercup said to the neighbors when they asked. “Our marshmallows travel to almost a hundred countries worldwide. Marshmallows were first made in ancient Egypt mixed with honey. Here’s a bag,” she would say, giving them the latest batch fresh out of the factory. “We are up to our eyes, ears, and nose in marshmallows!”

Later that night, Bethany crept through the window into her father’s factory with a flashlight and turned on the machine.

“By morning, I’ll have a new best friend,” she said, positioning the tube in an open area of the factory floor. 

Then, she left the machine to churn and slipped out the window, closing it tight as if she was never there. Air blew the marshmallow bigger and bigger until it was larger than human size, almost busting out of its own skin.

In the morning, she heard her dad slam the telephone on the wall, saying: “Bethany! Were you in the factory last night?”

Her mother ignored Bethany’s father, who often overreacted. “Darling, eat something with less sugar,” her mom said to Mr. Buttercup. 

For breakfast, Bethany’s father poured a sugary, marshmallow cereal into a large bowl with chocolate milk. Bethany tried to play dumb, acting like she knew nothing about the possible breaking and entering into the factory.

“Uh, I don’t remember. Well, maybe. Why?” Bethany said to her dad, grabbing a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. 

“Let me help you remember,” her father said. “The security guard said you are on a video, sneaking into the factory. Now, I told you that I am running a business, and you can’t just sneak into the factory any old time,” he said.

“Okay, Dad, let me just come to work with you today,” Bethany said. “No one will miss me at school!”

“Fine, at least we can get this straightened out!” her father said, finishing his cereal with marshmallows. “Get dressed!”

Upon arriving at the Dunberry Marshmallow Factory, Bethany jumped out of her father’s car and ran inside. The security guard had a grimaced look on his face as he opened the front door of the factory for Bethany. She took her jar of peanut butter with her, ready to paint a personality on her new marshmallow comrade. 

“Wow!” she said, throwing open the factory door and looking at her marshmallow-cotton ball friend. 

“What in the world is going on?” her father said, staring at the marshmallow blob, nearly bigger than two people.

“This is what I was trying to explain on the phone, sir,” the security guard said. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

The larger-than-life marshmallow seemed iconic at the factory. Anyone would want to hug him; except he was too sticky.

“I just needed a friend, Dad. You have to understand,” Bethany said, swirling the peanut butter with her index finger. 

Then, she pulled out a ladder from the closet, climbed up it, and created a face of peanut butter on the marshmallow. As she finished making a smile in peanut butter, her father unrolled the water hose from the wall and turned it on high. 

“Wait! Dad! Don’t spray him! He’ll melt! I spent all night making him!” Bethany said. “Now he has a face! And he has a name: Peanut Butter Marshmallow. You can’t spray someone who has a face and a name! It’s just not right.”

“Fine! Well, what are you going to do with him? Just have him sit there all day and look at him?” her dad said. 

“Mr. Buttercup, pleased to meet you. I’d like to accompany your daughter, Bethany, as her pal,” the Marshmallow said suddenly.

“What? How did you become real?” Mr. Buttercup said, trying to figure out how the white creature was talking to him. 

“Your daughter willed me into existence with her precious imagination,” Bethany’s sweet friend said in a kind voice. 

“If you ever cause me any problems, I am spraying you, or roasting you at a campfire, or doing whatever I have to do to get rid of you,” her father said, poking him in the side. “I’m running a business! You’ve already cost me too much!”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Peanut Butter Marshmallow said. “I will do everything in my power to help your business.”

As time went on, Mr. Buttercup got so used to Peanut Butter Marshmallow. Every night, the sugary goodness set an extra chair at the dinner table for himself. Every morning, he made his own bed in the guest room with extra pillows. He even had a toothbrush in the bathroom to prevent cavities. Of course, he flossed to prevent gum disease as well. 

Mrs. Buttercup was just glad that she could support a marshmallow that would not cause someone to have a root canal. 

“I love you so much, Peanut Butter,” Bethany said, even forgetting that he was indeed a marshmallow.

Sometimes, her sidekick found himself in awkward positions, like when he couldn’t fit through a doorway, or when he was too large for an armchair, or when people tried to eat more than a bit of him for a snack.

“He’s my best friend,” Bethany said, quickly, so no one could make fun of him. “We have the best time together.”

Any time anyone bullied Bethany, the Marshmallow was quick to roll those people right out of the way. 

“The world has no room for meanies,” P.B. said, bopping nasty children in the head with his marshmallow hand.

Peanut Butter Marshmallow and Bethany did everything that a child should do with her best friend: read books together about chocolate, shared secrets about school, sang songs off-key about candy, ate too many sugary desserts, built snowmen in the winter, rolled down green hills in the spring, and didn’t tell anyone when either of them made a mistake. 

Of course, Peanut Butter Marshmallow came with her to school on Best Friend Day, and he made Bethany so many new friends that she was the most popular girl in her grade. All the boys and girls gathered round her to meet her best friend.

“I’m so glad that my dad didn’t spray you with the hose,” Bethany said. “Look what I would have missed!”

“Every now and then, I still consider roasting him between graham crackers with a chocolate bar!” Mr. Buttercup said.

“We know that you don’t mean that,” Mrs. Buttercup said. “Please add more protein to your diet and less empty calories.”

Despite all, Mr. Buttercup came to love Peanut Butter Marshmallow. In fact, he created a line of marshmallows with peanut butter filling, which were some of his most popular treats in years. 

“Yes, I’m the first, the real, the only Peanut Butter Marshmallow,” the Marshmallow said, posing for pictures.

“He’s not at all sticky when I hug him,” Bethany said for the cameras. “I just love him too much!”

 

Copyright 2019 Jennifer Waters

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