The Gingerbread Man

A little old woman had some dough left over, so she cut out a little man, gave him currants for eyes and buttons and a strip of peel for a mouth, and put him in the oven.

Then she forgot about the time, the way you do.

When she opened the oven he sat up, looked at her, and ran. He went out through the door she had propped open because of the heat, calling that nobody could catch him.

Nobody could. Not the old woman, not the old man, not a cow who got over a fence in a heap, not a horse who woke up properly for the first time in a fortnight, not the threshers who joined in without knowing why. There was a procession all the way down the lane, and he stayed in front of all of it and never looked tired.

Then he came to the river, which was wide, and moving, and he was made of gingerbread.

A fox was sitting on the bank, very still, and offered to carry him across. Move up onto my back. Move up onto my shoulder. The safest place of all would be the end of my nose.

He was never caught by anybody who chased him. He was caught by somebody who sat still and offered him a lift.