The Gypsy's Cup (Part 1) | A Soothing Bedtime Story

Welcome,

Dear listener,

To another soothing story time.

Tonight we'll step into the enchanting world of The Gypsy's Cup,

A tale by the brilliant Mary DeMorgan.

This story invites us to reflect on the power of choices and the ripple effects they create.

It's a tale filled with wonder and wisdom,

Perfect for drifting off into peaceful dreams.

Before we begin,

Let's take a moment to leave the day behind and settle into this tranquil space.

Close your eyes,

If you'd like,

And take a slow,

Deep breath in,

And then exhale gently,

Letting your body soften and relax.

Imagine yourself in a quiet,

Sun-dappled forest.

A soft path winds through the trees,

Leading to a small clearing.

The warm scent of earth and wildflowers fills the air,

And the sound of birdsong soothes your senses.

And so,

My friend,

With each breath,

Feel yourself drawn into this serene scene.

Let its gentle magic carry you away into rest and relaxation.

In a little village,

There lived a young potter who made his living by making all sorts of earthenware.

He took the clay and made it into shapes on the wheel,

And then baked his cups and jars in a kiln.

He made big jugs and little jugs,

And basins and cups and saucers,

And indeed every sort of pot or jar that could be wanted.

He was very fond of his work,

And was always thinking of how to make new shapes or color his jars with pretty colors.

It was a very tiny village he lived in,

And he worked at throwing his pots on his wheel by the roadside,

But people came from many other villages and towns to buy his ware.

Once a year,

There was a big fair held in the town near,

And just before it,

The potter was always very busy making new pots and jugs to sell there.

A few nights before the fair was to be held,

He was hard at work,

Trying to finish a number of little bowls,

So he sat at his wheel late in the evening after the sun was set.

All day long the road had been gay with folk coming to the fair.

Some were in carts,

And some were on foot,

And there were a number of gypsies and caravans bringing all sorts of goods to sell.

Most of them went through the village and on to a big common a little further on,

Where they got out of their carts and put up tents to sleep in while the fair went on.

The potter was so busy with his little basins on his turning wheel that he did not hear the sound of footsteps,

And when he looked up,

He was surprised to see a young gypsy girl standing near,

Watching him.

She was quite young,

And had big black eyes and rosy round cheeks,

And her black hair was twisted up in little red beads and chains.

She was dressed in very happy clothes,

And round her neck was a gold necklace,

And on her fingers and arms were rings and bracelets.

That should be a fine cup,

Said the girl,

Since you keep your eyes on it and can look at nothing else.

I keep my eyes for my work,

That I may do it well,

Said the potter,

For I live by my work,

And neither by stealing nor begging.

But I fancy many others can do your work as well,

Or better than you,

Answered the gypsy.

What can your cups do when they are finished?

I don't hear you say anything to them,

So I think they should be very stupid cups,

Only fit to drink out of.

And what else should they be for?

Asked the potter angrily.

What do you mean by saying that you don't hear me saying anything to my cups?

I don't think you know what you're talking about.

It is nonsense,

And you are talking nonsense.

My grandfather used to make pots on a wheel,

Said the gypsy,

And she laughed low,

And showed her white teeth in the moonlight.

Ah,

But he knew how to do them,

And he had charms to say to them when he threw them.

And one of his cups would make you wise if you drank out of it,

And another could give you your true love's heart if she drank from it,

And another would make you forget everything,

Yes,

Even your true love,

And all your mirth,

And all your sorrow.

And I think that was the best cup of all.

Then again the gypsy laughed in the moonlight,

And sang a little song to herself as she sat herself down before the potter.

Now this is real child's talk,

Said the potter very impatiently.

It is easy to say your grandfather knew how to do all this,

But why should I believe you?

And because your grandfather may have been able to throw a bowl upon the wheel,

That doesn't make you know anything about the craft,

Or how it's done.

Nay,

But he taught me too,

Said the gypsy.

Give me a piece of your clay,

And let me come to your wheel,

And you shall see.

At first the potter thought she was talking nonsense,

But to his great surprise,

She took hold of the clay in her little brown hands,

And molded and modeled it with the greatest skill.

Then she placed it on the wheel,

And threw a little jug,

And he wondered to see how deft she was.

Now I will make you a little bowl,

She said,

And then she made jugs and pots and jars far more quickly and skillfully than the potter could have done.

And now I will color them too,

She cried.

See,

I shall catch the color from the moon,

And tomorrow you can put them in your kiln and bake them,

And you may be sure that you have never had such pots there before.

Then she put her little brown hands out into the moonlight,

And they were covered with rings which glittered and shone,

But as she held up her palms to the moon rays,

It seemed to the potter as if they too were full of some strange glittering liquid.

And now,

She said,

See,

I will put it onto your pots,

And I should think I had taught you that I know more about your trade than you do yourself,

And she took the pots in her hands and rubbed her palms over them,

And she traced patterns on them with her fingers.

The potter looked at her and felt almost angry,

But she only laughed in his face.

And now,

One last thing,

She cried,

And that is,

That I will make you a cup that has a spell in it,

And it shall be a present for you to remember me by.

It will be very plain,

And there will be no colors in it,

But when you give it to your true love to drink from,

If once you have drunk from it yourself,

You will have all her heart.

But beware that she doesn't take a second draft,

For though the first draft that she drinks will be drunk to love,

The second draft will be drunk to hate,

And though she have loved you more than all else on earth,

All her love will turn to hate when she drinks again.

And as you are so ignorant how to make bowls and cups,

You will not know how to fashion one so as to win back her love again.

The potter stared in silence,

While the gypsy took another bit of clay and placed it upon the wheel,

And then she bent her head,

Which glittered with beads and coins,

Low over it,

And placing her rosy lips close to the mouth of the cup,

Saying some words into it while she molded it with her hands,

And turned the wheel with her foot.

It was in some strange language that the potter had never heard before.

Goodbye,

She said presently.

Now there,

That is for you,

And be sure you do not sell this little brown cup,

But keep it and give it to your true love to drink out of,

But only one draft,

For if there are two,

Maybe you will need the gypsy's help again.

Then she laughed,

And nodding her head over her shoulder,

Tripped lightly away in the moonlight while the potter stared after her.

At first he thought he had been asleep,

But there around him stood the little rows of jugs and pots which the gypsy had made,

And truly they were beautifully done.

He took them up and turned them over in his hand,

And wondered at their shape and workmanship.

Tomorrow,

He said,

I will put them in the kiln and see how they come out.

She certainly was a clever wench,

And knew her work,

But as for her talk about having colored them,

That was all nonsense,

And as for breathing spells and charms into the cups,

Why,

It is like babies talk.

But next day,

When the pots were baked,

The potter was even more surprised,

For they had the most wonderful colors that he had ever seen,

Silver,

Grey,

And yellow,

And all sorts of patterns,

All save the little brown cup which was the last the gypsy had made,

But when he looked at it,

The potter felt a little uncomfortable,

And began to wonder if it really did contain the charm as she had declared.

When the fair began,

The potter placed all the gypsy's wares on a stall with his own,

And marked them with very high prices,

But had he asked three times as much,

He could have got it,

For there were some rich folk from the big houses who came to the fair,

And they at once bought them all up,

Declaring that such pots and jugs they had never seen.

At this,

The potter was well pleased,

And found that he had made more money than he had earned in many a long month past,

But when people wanted him to make more,

He was obliged to shake his head and say that he was very sorry,

But he had had them colored from afar,

And he did not know where he could now have them done.

Of the gypsy,

He saw nothing more,

Though he looked for her everywhere during the three days in which the fair lasted,

But she was not to be seen,

And when the fair was over,

And the other people were packing their carts and vans to go on their way,

He saw very many gypsies,

And supposed that she had gone with some of them,

Without giving him the chance of speaking to her again.

Years went by,

And the potter never heard of anything more of the gypsy,

Indeed he would have thought it had all been a dream if it had not been for the little brown pot standing on the shelf.

Sometimes he took it up and looked at it,

And wondered when he saw how well and cleverly it was made.

He still laughed when he remembered what the gypsy had said about leaving a charm in it,

For though he himself had drunk out of it many times,

He never thought it had brought any spell on him.

One year,

When the fair was being held,

The potter was at his place as usual,

With his stall covered with pots,

And there came and placed herself beside him at the next stall,

A woman with some spinning wheels.

Her stall was covered with fine linen cloths,

Woven in pretty patterns,

And so fine and well wrought were they that many people wanted to buy them.

With her were her two daughters,

And one sat at the spinning wheel and spun the flax,

And the other had a handloom and wove it when it was spun to show the good folk how the clothes were made.

Both were pretty girls,

But the girl who had the handloom had the sweetest face the potter had ever seen.

Her eyes were very blue,

And her hair was like golden corn,

And when she smiled it was as if the sun shone.

The potter watched her as she sat weaving,

And could not keep his eyes from her,

Or attend properly to his own pots,

Or to the people who wanted to buy them.

Every day he watched the young girl at her work,

For the fair lasted for a week,

And the more he looked at her,

The more he wanted to look,

Till at last he said to himself that somehow or other he must get her for his wife.

So when the fair was done,

He begged her to marry him,

And to remain with him,

And he said he would always work for her,

And she should not want for nothing.

The mother was a poor widow,

And she and her daughters made their bread by going about the country spinning and weaving,

And she would have been quite willing that the potter should marry her daughter,

But the girl only laughed,

And said that she scarcely knew the potter,

But when she came back again the next year to the fair,

She would give him his answer.

So the widow and her two daughters went away,

And no sign of them was left with the potter save a lock of golden hair which she had begged from the daughter.

The year passed away,

But to the potter it seemed the longest year he had ever lived.

He pined for the time to come when the fair should be held,

And the widow and her daughters should return.

As the time drew near,

He got down the brown cup,

And looked at it again and again.

Nay,

He said,

What harm could it do?

The gypsy said it would give me my true love's heart if she drank out of it after I had drunk,

And I have drunk out of it many a time.

I don't believe it,

But all the same,

It would be no harm for her to drink from it.

And so when the fair was opened,

He took the brown cup down with him,

And stood upon the stall with his other ware.

The spinning woman and her daughters came back with their fine clothes,

And their wheel and their loom,

And when he saw the golden-haired girl,

He loved her still more than before,

For he thought her eyes were bluer and her smile was brighter.

He watched her all the time as she sat weaving,

But said nothing.

And when the fair was over,

And they were packing their goods to go on their way,

He pressed the maid for her answer.

Still she hesitated,

And then the potter took the little brown cup off his stall,

And poured into it some choice wine,

And said to her,

If then you wish to go away and never see me again,

I pray you drink one draught in remembrance of the happy days we have had together.

The young girl took the cup,

But no sooner had she tasted it,

Than she put it down and turned her eyes on the potter,

And said in a low voice,

I will stay with you always if you want me,

And will be a true wife to you,

And love you better than anything on earth.

So the potter married her,

And she went to live in his little pottage.

Time passed,

And the potter and his young wife lived together very happily,

And every day he thought her fairer and sweeter,

And they had a little baby girl with blue eyes like its mother's,

And the potter thought himself the happiest man on earth.

And the little brown pot stood on the shelf,

And the potter looked at it,

And still he would not believe about the charm,

For he said to himself,

My wife loved me for my own sake,

And not for any silly charm or nonsense.

So for a time all things went well,

But there came a day when the potter had to go to a neighboring town and leave his wife at home alone all day.

When he was gone,

She sat by the window with her little child,

And presently there came up outside a dark,

Rough-looking man with a wicked face,

And he looked at her as she sat rocking the cradle,

And thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen on earth.

When he looked at her,

The potter's wife was frightened,

But when he told her he was very hungry,

And begged her for food and drink,

She rose,

For her heart was tender,

And she fetched him bread and meat,

And spread them on the table before him.

So the rough man came into the cottage and sat at the table,

And ate the potter's bread and meat,

And drank his wine.

And who is your husband,

And where is he?

He said.

I am sure he is a lucky man,

To have such a wife in such a home.

Yes,

Truly,

Said the potter's wife.

We are very happy,

And we love each other dearly,

And we really have nothing else to wish for.

Then the gypsy man said,

But your dress is plain,

And your rooms are bare.

Now were you the wife of some wealthy man,

He would give you pearls and diamonds for your neck,

And beautiful silks and satins.

No,

But I don't want them,

Said the potter's wife,

Smiling.

My husband works very hard,

And he gives me all he can,

And I am quite content with it.

And you say he is a potter.

Then what sort of things does he make?

Asked the gypsy man,

As he cast his eyes about the room,

And they lit upon the little brown jug,

Standing upon the shelf.

And did he make the little bowl there?

I don't know,

Said his wife,

And she took it down,

And turned it about her hand.

I suppose so,

But he has told me it was very old.

The gypsy man seized it eagerly,

And poured wine in it,

And looked inside it,

And then he laughed,

And stooping his head over it,

Said a few words,

And then laughed again.

I have seen cups like this before,

He said,

And they are worth a mint of money,

Though you would not think it.

And have you never drunk out of it?

Has it not been used?

I don't drink from it,

Said the potter's wife,

But I believe I did so once,

And that was on the day when I promised my husband I would be his wife.

Then the gypsy laughed again and again.

See,

He said,

I am going a long way off,

Perhaps to die by cold and hunger by the roadside,

While you and your husband are cozy and warm.

You set small store by this cup,

But it may be that in foreign countries I could sell it for what could keep me for many a long day.

Give it to me,

I pray you,

That I may take it with me.

The potter's wife hesitated and trembled.

She was afraid of the man,

And she thought he had a hard,

Bad face,

But she did not want to seem unkind.

Well,

Take it,

She said,

But why should you want it?

Then the gypsy man came and caught her by the arm.

Now,

He said,

You are the fairest woman I have ever seen,

And I am going away and shall never see you again.

So I beg you,

Wish me Godspeed,

And drink my health out of the little brown cup you have given me,

And if your lips have touched it,

It will be the dearest thing I have on earth.

Then the potter's wife was still more frightened and trembled more than before,

But the man looked so dark and threatening that she did not like to refuse him,

And she took the cup in her hand.

And then will you go on your way,

She said?

And then I shall go on my way,

Cried the gypsy,

And you will wait here till your husband comes,

Whom you love more than anything else on this earth.

Then the potter's wife bent her head and tasted the wine out of the cup and wished the gypsy happiness.

And when she had done so,

He laughed again,

Long and low,

Till her heart sank with fear,

And he picked up the cup and put it into his bundle and went his way.

Then the potter's wife sat down by the cradle and almost cried.

She knew not why,

And the whole room seemed cold,

And when she looked out at the sunshine it looked dark,

And she bent over the baby in the cradle with her tears falling.

Alack,

She cried,

Why doesn't my husband come home?

Where is he gone?

How cruel it is to leave me all alone here,

So that any rough man may come into the house.

In truth,

I don't think he can love me much,

Since all he thinks of is to go away and leave me,

And as for me,

Surely I could have had many a better husband,

And one who should have loved me more.

How foolish I was to marry him.

Thus she sat and lamented all day,

And in the evening when the potter drove up to his door and cried out,

Wife,

Wife,

She wouldn't go out to receive him.

And when he came into their little sitting room,

He found her with tears in her eyes,

Sitting lamenting and complaining.

When he went up to her to take her in his arms and kiss her,

She turned away from him and would not let him touch her,

And the potter,

Who had never seen his wife cross her angry,

Knew that there must be something wrong.

She must be ill,

He thought.

Tomorrow or the next day she will be well again.

So he urged her to rest well,

And took no notice of her angry words.

But the next day and the next,

There was no change,

And things were growing from bad to worse.

For now,

The wife wouldn't speak to him at all,

And when she came nigh him,

She looked at him with anger and would not even suffer him to touch the hem of her dress.

Then the potter began to think of the little brown cup,

And he looked up at the shelf and saw that it was not there,

And he began to feel very much alarmed.

Why,

He said,

What has become of my little old brown cup that used to stand up on the shelf?

I gave it to a gypsy man,

She answered scornfully.

He seemed to like it,

And I didn't see that I was obliged to keep all the rubbish that you had in the house.

Then the potter groaned within himself and said,

But did you just take it off the shelf and give it to him,

And did he ask you for it?

Why did he want it?

Of course he asked for it,

Said the wife angrily,

And I just gave it to him when I had drunk his health out of it,

As he wished me to.

Then the potter was stricken with deadly fear,

And remembered the words of the gypsy.

The first draught she will drink to your love,

And the second draught she will drink to your hate,

And he knew in his heart that the words were true,

And the cup carried with it a charm.

Sweet dreams my friend,

Sleep well.