The Tomte Children

Deep in the deep, green forest, under the roots of a tall pine tree, lived the Tomte family: Tomte Mother, Tomte Father, and four small children with bright red caps. Their house had a tiny bark door, soft moss beds, and a warm, flickering fire.

When spring came, the forest woke up. The Tomte children peeped outside. “Are you a friend?” they asked the creatures they met. Squirrel flicked his tail. “Friend!” Hare thumped softly. “Friend!” But Tomte Father said, “Remember, little ones: the adder, the fox, and the owl are not our friends. Watch with careful eyes.” The children nodded and skipped away among the ferns.

They helped Mother with chores. They carried water in nutshells and dried tiny shirts on sun-warmed stones. They visited the ant hill and watched the ants march in neat lines. “We won’t step on your roads,” they promised. The bees hummed over flowers, and the children listened, still and quiet, so as not to startle them.

One warm day, the children picked blueberries in the mossy shade. A striped adder lifted its head and hissed. The children jumped onto a stump, just as Father had taught them. “Stay still!” he called, running over the roots. With one strong strike of his axe, he drove the adder away so it could not harm anyone again. “There,” he said gently. “The forest is kind, but it asks us to be careful.”

Summer came with bright days. The children slid down smooth rocks and played hide-and-seek behind tree trunks. They wore leaf aprons and flower crowns. Squirrel shared a nut; thrush sang a bubbling song. “We will be good neighbors,” the children told them, and they always were.

One afternoon a red fox crept through the ferns, eyes shining and nose twitching. The children hushed and slipped into a hollow stump. Tomte Father stood tall for such a small person and cracked his stick on a stone. “Off with you!” he said. The fox slunk away between the birch trees, tail low.

At dusk the forest turned silver and blue. “Hoo-hoo,” called the owls. Mother whispered, “Night is not a safe time for little ones.” Father kept watch at the door with his bow. When a great owl swooped silently through the branches, Father sent an arrow whistling past. The owl turned, beat its wide wings, and melted back into the dark.

When autumn arrived, the leaves turned gold and red. The Tomte children picked bright lingonberries and gathered mushrooms in tiny baskets. Mother sewed new coats from soft moss and birch-bark cloth, and Father stacked wood under the roots so the house would be warm.

The children learned many forest lessons. They learned which berries were sweet, which mushrooms to leave, and how to read the little footprints in the mud—hare, squirrel, fox. “Every track tells a story,” said Father. The children listened and remembered.

Then the first snow fell, soft and white, and covered their little house like a cap. The children skied on pine-needle skis and slid down snowy hills. They hung crumbs on twigs for the birds and left nuts on a stump for Squirrel. “Thank you, winter friends,” they said.

On the longest night, the Tomte family lit a small candle. The tiny flame glowed on the bark walls and made the pine roots shine. Mother told stories, and Father smiled. Outside, the forest slept under its blanket of snow.

When spring returned at last, the Tomte children opened their door again. The brook sang, the birds called, and the pine tree whispered overhead. “Are you a friend?” they asked, and the forest answered with gentle sounds. The children laughed and ran out to greet their old friends, remembering to be kind, to be careful, and to love their deep, green home.