Once upon a time, there was a hard-working student who lived in an attic and owned nothing. On the first floor lived a hard-working grocer who owned the whole house. A Goblin belonged to the grocer, for every Christmas Eve he received a dish of jam with a large lump of butter in the middle. The grocer could afford this, so the Goblin stayed.
One evening, the student came to buy a candle and cheese. After paying, he noticed the paper wrapping his cheese was a page torn from an old poetry book. The grocer offered him the rest of the book for twopence.
"Yes," said the student, "give me the book instead of the cheese. It would be a shame to leave it to be torn up. You are a clever and practical man, but about poetry you understand as much as that old tub over there!"
The grocer laughed, but the Goblin was angry that anyone would insult the grocer who owned the house and sold the best butter.
That night, while everyone slept, the Goblin took the grocer's wife's tongue. He placed it on the tub of old newspapers. "Is it true you know nothing about poetry?" he asked.
"Certainly not!" answered the tub. "Poetry is in the papers and is frequently cut out. I have more in me than the student, yet I am only a small tub."
The Goblin put the tongue on the coffee-mill, the butter-cask, and the till. All agreed with the tub. "One must believe the majority," thought the Goblin. "Now I will tell the student!"
He crept to the student's attic and peered through the keyhole. The student was reading the torn book. A streak of light shot from it, growing into a large tree above him. Every leaf was alive, every flower a beautiful girl's head, every fruit a glittering star, and marvelous music filled the room.
The Goblin had never dreamt of such a sight. He stood listening until the student blew out the candle and went to bed, the music now a soft lullaby.
"I have never seen anything like this!" said the Goblin. "I must stay with the student." He thought it over, then sighed, "But the student has no jam!" So he returned downstairs.
It was good he did, for the tub had nearly worn out the tongue. From that night, the whole shop looked up to the tub, believing it was the source of the art critiques the grocer read.
But the Goblin could no longer sit listening to the wisdom downstairs. When the attic light shone each evening, its beams felt like ropes dragging him up to peek through the keyhole. There, he felt as one does looking at a stormy sea and burst into tears, yet felt happy. How beautiful to sit under that tree with the student! But he had to content himself with the keyhole.
He stood on the cold landing, the autumn wind blowing through the floor cracks. It was very cold, but he only felt it when the attic light went out and the music died. Then he crept back to his warm, cosy corner.
When Christmas came with its jam and butter, the grocer was first with him again.
But one night, the Goblin awoke to great noise—a fire had broken out in the town! The grocer's wife saved her gold earrings, the grocer his account books, the maid her silk dress. Everyone sought their most valuable possession.
The Goblin leapt upstairs to the student's room. The student stood by the window, watching the fire opposite. The Goblin seized the book from the table, put it in his red cap, and clasped it tightly. He climbed onto the roof, sitting on the chimney, lit by the flames, holding his cap with the treasure. Now he knew what his heart valued most.
When the fire was put out, the Goblin thought it over. "I will divide myself between the two," he said. "I cannot quite give up the grocer, because of the jam!"
And it is just the same with us. We also cannot quite give up the grocer—because of the jam.