Once upon a time, at the edge of a great forest, there lived a poor woodcutter with his two children, Hansel and Gretel, and their stepmother. Times were hard — harder than they had ever been — and some nights there was barely a crust of bread to share between the four of them.
One night, the children lay awake and heard their parents talking through the thin wall.
"There isn't enough food," the stepmother was saying. "Tomorrow we'll take the children deep into the forest and leave them there. They'll manage. And we'll manage without them."
"Leave the children? Never," said their father — but he was a tired, worn-down man, and the stepmother argued and argued until, miserably, he gave in.
Gretel began to cry, but Hansel squeezed her hand. "Don't cry," he whispered. "I've got an idea." And when the house was silent, he crept outside, where the moonlight was shining on the little white pebbles in the garden, making them gleam like silver coins. He filled his pockets right up.
Sure enough, in the morning, the whole family walked deep into the forest to "gather wood." And every few steps, quietly, Hansel dropped a white pebble behind him. Deep among the trees, their father built the children a fire, and then he and the stepmother slipped away, and did not come back.
Night fell. The forest grew dark and full of noises. Gretel shivered — but Hansel took her hand and waited, watching the sky. And when the moon rose, there they were: a trail of little white pebbles, glowing in the moonlight, one after another, all the way home. Their father wept with relief when they walked in the door. The stepmother said all the right words, but her eyes stayed cold.
Hard times got harder. Before long the children heard the same talk through the wall — only this time, deeper into the forest, further than any pebble trail. Hansel went to fill his pockets again, but the door was locked tight. All he had was his small piece of breakfast bread.
Crumbs will have to do, he thought, and the next morning he dropped a trail of breadcrumbs, bit by tiny bit, as they walked.
But breadcrumbs are not pebbles. When the moon rose that night and the children looked for their trail — it was gone. The birds of the forest had eaten every single crumb.
For three days Hansel and Gretel wandered, holding hands, sleeping under trees, growing hungrier and hungrier. And then, on the third afternoon, they smelled something impossible: warm gingerbread.
They followed the smell into a clearing — and there stood a little house unlike any house in the world. Its walls were gingerbread. Its roof was iced like a birthday cake. Its windows were clear spun sugar, and the fence posts were candy canes.
The children were far too hungry to be sensible. Hansel broke off a piece of the roof; Gretel nibbled a corner of the window. And a voice from inside sang out, creaky-sweet:
"Nibble, nibble, little mouse — who's that nibbling at my house?"
Out came an old woman leaning on a stick, smiling ever so kindly. "Dear little children! Come in, come in — I've soup, and pancakes, and soft warm beds."
Oh, but children — the house was made of cake for a reason. She was a witch, and her kindness lasted exactly one night. In the morning she locked Hansel in a cage by the stove and pointed her stick at Gretel. "Cook! Clean! Fatten your brother up," she cackled, "for when he's plump enough — I mean to have him for dinner!"
Now, the witch's eyes were weak, though her ears were sharp. Every morning she'd rattle the cage and croak, "Hansel! Stick out your finger, so I can feel how fat you're getting!" And clever Hansel would poke an old chicken bone through the bars instead. Day after day the witch pinched it, and day after day she muttered, "Still bony! Bah!" — while Gretel, sweeping nearby, hid her smile.
But a witch's patience runs short. "Bony or not," she snapped one morning, "today's the day! Gretel! Light the oven!" She hunched down in front of the great iron oven and pulled open the door. "Creep inside, girl, and tell me if it's hot enough."
Gretel — who could see exactly where that was heading — made her eyes very wide. "Creep inside? But how? I don't know the way of it. Won't you show me?"
"Foolish girl," snapped the witch, "it's perfectly simple, you just—" and she stuck her own head into the oven to demonstrate.
Well. Gretel gave her one good push, slammed the iron door — CLANG! — and bolted it fast. And that was the end of the witch.
Gretel flew across the room and set Hansel free, and the two of them danced round the kitchen like it was midsummer. And when they searched the strange little house before leaving, they found the witch's treasure — chests of pearls and precious stones in every corner. They filled their pockets (Hansel's still held one old chicken bone, which he kept for luck) and set off for home.
The way was long, but kinder than before. A great white duck ferried them over the wide river, one at a time, and on the far bank the woods began to look familiar — until at last, through the trees, they saw their own little cottage.
Their father burst through the door before they'd even knocked. He'd searched for them every day since that terrible morning; the stepmother, he told them, was long gone and would never come back. And when the children emptied their pockets onto the table — pearls and precious stones bouncing everywhere — the family's hard times were over for good.
So the woodcutter and his two clever children lived on together, happy and warm and never hungry again. And if you ask what became of the gingerbread house, standing empty in the deep woods — well, the birds are eating it still. Which seems fair, all things considered. They were owed some crumbs.