Keloglan and the Magic Pot

Once upon a time, Keloglan and his mother lived in a village and were very poor. One winter day there was nothing left to eat in the house. Keloglan went to the forest to gather firewood. In the forest he met an old, hunchbacked granny shivering in the snow. "My child, I'm hungry and cold," she said. Keloglan had one last slice of bread in his saddlebag. Without a second thought he gave it to her, and he put his old woollen cloak around her shoulders.

The granny ate the bread, then smiled and took a small, blackened copper pot out of her bag. "Take this, my child. Put it on the fire and say, 'Cook, little pot, cook.' When there is enough, say, 'Stop, little pot, stop.' Never forget those words." Keloglan thanked her, and when he turned his head the granny had vanished. Only her footprints were left in the snow.

Keloglan ran home and put the pot on the fire: "Cook, little pot, cook!" The pot began to bubble, and it filled up with buttery, steaming rice. He and his mother ate until they were full. When Keloglan said, "Stop, little pot, stop," the pot went quiet. That winter Keloglan shared rice with the neighbours every day, and nobody in the village went hungry.

One day Keloglan went to town, to the market, and his mother was alone at home. Noon came, and she got hungry. "I'll cook too," she said, and put the pot on the fire: "Cook, little pot, cook!" The pot cooked the rice; the plate filled up, the tray filled up. His mother wanted to stop it, but she had forgotten the words! "That's enough, little pot!" she said, but it didn't work. "All right, little pot!" she said, but it didn't work. "Stop it now!" she said, but the pot kept on cooking.

The rice overflowed the pot, filled the hearth and filled the room. It flowed out of the door and covered the yard. It spread into the streets. The villagers came out of their houses and stared: a river of white, warm rice was flowing through the village! The children happily began eating it by the spoonful, the cats and dogs had a feast, and the hens climbed onto the hills of rice and clucked. But the rice did not stop; it kept on flowing until it nearly reached the door of the mosque.

Just then Keloglan was coming back from the market. At the entrance to the village he saw the river of rice and understood at once what had happened. He ran home, jumping over the hills of rice, reached the pot and shouted: "Stop, little pot, stop!" The pot went quiet at once.

The whole village was covered in rice. Keloglan and his mother were embarrassed, but the villagers were not angry. Laughing, the headman said, "What shall we do with all this rice?" "Let's share it with the neighbouring villages too," said Keloglan. The whole village gathered up the rice in cauldrons and baskets and took it to the poor in the villages round about. That day seven villages celebrated a rice festival.

In the evening his mother hugged Keloglan: "Son, I forgot the words and caused all this trouble." Keloglan laughed: "Mother, everything has its measure. But today seven villages were fed thanks to you. It seems even forgetting can be a blessing." From that day on his mother wrote "Stop, little pot, stop" on a piece of paper and hung it above the hearth.

This tale tells us: blessings come to the hand that does good, but even blessings need a measure. Three apples fell from the sky: one for the one who told this tale, one for the one who listened, and one for the children who ate from the river of rice.