The Girl Who Trod on a Loaf

There once was a poor girl named Inger. She had bright eyes and a pretty face, and people often said she was the loveliest child in the village. But Inger was proud. She liked the way fine ribbons and neat shoes made her feel more important than others. She did not thank those who helped her, and she looked down on anyone with patched clothes or muddy boots.

A kind lady in town took Inger into her home as a servant. Inger was well fed there and wore clean dresses. The more comfortable her life became, the prouder she grew. She forgot the cottage where her parents lived. She forgot what it felt like to be hungry, or to wish for a warm shawl. She forgot to be kind.

One day her mistress said, “Inger, visit your parents and bring them this big loaf of bread.” Inger put on her best shoes and the ribbon she liked best. She held the loaf carefully, not because it was precious, but because she did not want flour on her dress. The sky was gray, and the path across the fields was soft and wet from rain. Between the lane and the cottages lay a wide, marshy place with stepping-stones across it. Water swirled around the stones that day.

When Inger reached the edge of the marsh, she stopped. The stepping-stones were slippery, and the mud was deep. She looked at her shoes—so new, so shiny—and she thought only of keeping them clean. Inger glanced at the loaf in her arms. “The bread is big and firm,” she told herself. “It will make a fine stepping-stone. I can wipe it off afterward. No one will know.” In her heart she knew it was wrong. Bread was a gift meant to feed hungry mouths. But pride is a heavy thing.

She set the loaf down on the muddy water and put her foot on it. The loaf sank a little. She stepped with the other foot—and sank deeper. The water pulled at her ankles and then her knees. She cried out, but there was no one nearby to hear. The bread went down, and with it went Inger—down beyond the reeds and black water, down where the sun could not reach.

Below the marsh was a cold, dim place. Frogs croaked and midges hummed. In a shadowy hall, the Marsh Woman sat at her bubbling brew. She is the one who catches the things people throw away—good things treated badly—and she keeps them as lessons. “Ah,” said the Marsh Woman, peering at Inger. “A girl who trod on a loaf so she would not soil her shoes. Your heart is harder than clay.” She set Inger on a rock like a statue. Inger could not move a finger. She could not wipe her eyes, though they stung. She could only hear and think.

Time passed, though Inger did not know how much. Up in the world above, people told the story. “Do not be like the girl who trod on a loaf,” some scolded. Others laughed and made jokes. But a few children pressed their hands together and whispered, “Poor Inger.” Their gentle words traveled like warm drops through earth and water. They fell near where Inger sat, and she felt them like tiny sparks against the cold.

Birds sometimes flew low over the marsh, and their quick wings brought news. Swallows, resting for a breath, spoke softly of a small cottage and two old people. “They still say your name,” the swallows told her. “They are ashamed, but they are sad, too.” Each word hurt, and for the first time, the hurt was not pride but sorrow. If only she could take back one step—if only she could give the bread that was meant to be given.

Frogs and midges buzzed around her. Some mocked her. “Bread is for eating,” they croaked. “You made it a stone.” It was true. Inger had no answer. She tried to cry, but the tears would not come. Her heart felt like a hard, dry crust. Then a child’s voice, far away, said a prayer for her—only a few simple words. A warm drop touched Inger’s cheek. At last a real tear followed it. The Marsh Woman tried to catch the tear for her brew, but it fell and vanished into the dark earth like a pearl.

That one tear softened something inside Inger. She thought, “If I could do one kind thing—only one.” The Marsh Woman squinted at her. “You are learning,” she said, almost surprised. “You shall be light as the thought you just had.” And in a blink, the statue was gone. Inger was a small, brownish-gray bird, plain as a twig. Her voice could not sing a fancy song. It could only make a thin, eager sound—“Tweet, tweet.” But she had wings.

Inger rose through weeds and reeds and came at last into the open air. Sunshine warmed her feathers. The world looked new and wide, but her new heart felt steady and small. She did not fly to boast of her freedom. She flew to windowsills and cottage steps. She picked up crumbs that people left behind. She carried them to hungry nestlings. She dropped them into the hands of poor children who sat outside doorways. She found her parents’ cottage and left crumbs at the threshold. She would return, crumb by crumb, the loaf she had wasted.

People noticed the busy little bird. “It never eats before it gives,” they said. “What a strange bird.” Some called it the bread-bird, for it always seemed to be delivering tiny pieces of bread. It did not sing like a lark or a nightingale. But when it made its thin call, it sounded like a message: “Remember the hungry. Be kind.”

Many seasons went by. Snow fell and melted; flowers opened and faded; children grew taller. The small bird kept working. Each crumb given felt like a feather of light added to its wings. Each kind thought from a child who heard the old story and said, “Poor Inger,” felt like a warm wind.

At last, one bright morning, when she had carried so many crumbs that, together, they would weigh as much as a whole loaf, a soft breeze lifted the little bird higher than before. Up she rose, past the tops of the tallest trees, into a gentle, golden light. A voice like springtime seemed to say, “You have learned humility. You have learned to give.”

And so the girl who once trod on a loaf to save her shoes was forgiven and lifted to joy. People still tell her story—not to frighten, but to remind us that pride can sink us fast, and that kindness and gratitude can carry us back to the light.