I
Old Mother Hubbard trudged across the floor,
Her cupboard’s latch as rough as old pine bark.
She yanked it wide, though her old joints were sore,
To find it bare—no bone, no scrap, no spark.
The dog looked on with eyes as wide as moons,
And in his belly growled an empty tune.
“Fear not!” she cried, “I’ll find a feast by noon.”
Yet all her pantry held was dust and ruin.
Off to the markets, out in wind and rain,
She swore a vow, her heart a flint-struck spark:
Her dog would dine on choicest scraps again,
Would feast like kings despite the hunger’s mark.
So off she went, with pockets light as air—
Old Mother Hubbard, wandering everywhere.
II
Through alleys dim and shops of faded hue,
She combed each shelf and barrel high and low.
“Have you a crust, a biscuit, soup or stew?”
But merchants shook their heads with curt “No, no.”
Once plump, the village coffers lay worn thin;
No hands could spare a slice, not e’en a rind.
She left with naught but empty sack and skin,
The echoes of her hope pinned far behind.
Yet Hubbard pressed through mud, through bramble, thorn,
For one small, patient dog who wagged and stared—
And in the fields where tired crows were born,
She found a clue in tales the farmers shared:
Of mushrooms deep within the Wicker Woods,
Enough to feed a dog with precious goods.
III
Now Hubbard wades through dusk-lit, silent pines,
Where tangled roots twist slyly underfoot.
Her bones grow weary, but her spirit shines,
For she will not be stopped by rot or root.
The dog trots close, his nose upon the breeze,
Alert to scents both savory and strange.
They push ahead, though chilled by ghostly trees
That whisper low of things beyond their range.
She stumbles once, then twice, on nettled stones,
Yet up she stands, her heart as hard as oak—
For one dear dog whose ribs now jut like bones,
She’ll trek until the morning light has broke.
With each deep step, a vow within her wakes:
She’ll fill his bowl, whatever path it takes.
IV
The path grew twisted, roots alive and sly,
As branches loomed in patterns strange and grand.
The trees, with whispers keen as breath, conspired
To weave her in their dark, enchanted land.
Yet Hubbard, tired but steady, pressed along,
A sharpened stick her sole defense and guide.
The air grew thick; she hummed an ancient song—
The one her mother sang to bide the tide.
Around her crept the shadows\' hungry eyes,
The unseen watchers gauging fear and will.
Her dog, beside her, lifted nose to skies,
Alert to any threat, however still.
They walked on faith, their steps a careful call,
Through woods where silence deepened like a pall.
V
At nightfall, through the mist, a fox appeared,
Its eyes like rubies burning in the dusk.
It spoke, though voices in the dark were feared—
“A hungry heart should learn to hone its trust.”
She paused, unsure, as her brave dog did growl,
But curiosity took root and held.
The fox spoke riddles wrapped in bark and howl,
Then laughed, a sound both innocent and felled.
“Follow the path where mushrooms speak in verse,
But heed their words, lest hunger come to worse.”
And with a flick, he vanished into black,
A tale, a spell, a warning on his back.
Old Mother Hubbard shook her head and sighed;
Her journey held no end of tricks to bide.
VI
The brambles gathered close with nettles sharp,
But Hubbard, undeterred, hacked through the green.
Her dog beside, his paws on briars carved,
He whined, yet trusted her to keep them keen.
Beyond the thorns, a mushroom patch did spread,
Their caps like tiny parasols in bloom.
Each one a voice, a whisper in her head,
Their voices soft as spiders in a room.
“Pluck us if you dare, but know our price,”
One sang with notes of malice laced in jest.
“For hunger’s song comes cheap, but hunger’s vice
Will twist the heart and put the soul to test.”
She plucked a mushroom, bold and yet unsure,
And felt a twinge—of magic swift and pure.
VII
Emerging from the woods, she spied a town,
Its houses bowed like elders near their end.
No soul stirred in the dusk; no child or gown,
Just empty streets that seemed her steps to bend.
The dog, beside her, whimpered low and curled,
Instincts alive to something long decayed.
Yet Hubbard walked, determined, heart unfurled,
Drawn on by silent pleas the night betrayed.
At last, a door creaked open with a sigh,
And there, within, a hunched and hollowed face.
A woman whispered, “Traveler, drift by—
For hunger here is bound to leave no trace.”
But Hubbard clasped the woman’s empty hand
And entered darkened streets, as if they’d planned.
VIII
She learned their plight, a curse of endless fast—
By day they gathered food, but come the night,
Their stores turned dust, their efforts faded past,
And hunger left them shadows without sight.
Each day they sowed, and reaped, and gathered all,
Yet by the hour of dusk, their larders bare,
They sat in silence, dreaming bread’s soft call,
But never breaking past their nightly snare.
Hubbard, kind yet stern, spoke plain and clear:
“I’ll find a way to free you from this bond,
For in my heart there lies no room for fear,
And hope, like fire, shines where light has waned.”
The villagers, with weary, hollow eyes,
Could only watch her plan—and feebly rise.
IX
Within the village square, a baker stood,
His oven cold, his flour long turned gray.
Yet Hubbard, bold, recalled the taste of good,
And asked the baker, “Teach me bread’s true way.”
He nodded slow, and beckoned her to kneel,
His hands as withered as the trees in frost.
“A loaf, if baked, must house a broken seal;
To free our hunger’s curse, there is a cost.”
The baker’s price was memory and voice—
To bake, she’d lose a tale from her own past.
She thought of all she’d lived, and made her choice,
Her dog close by, his loyalty steadfast.
And so she told a tale of love once true,
To bake the bread that gave the curse its due.
X
The bread, a single loaf, warm in her hands,
Held power not for flesh but for the heart.
Yet as the clock struck twelve, its warmth disbands—
She watched it fade, its magic pulled apart.
The villagers looked on with hollow hope,
And Hubbard’s heart grew heavy as the dust.
One night’s meal would not suffice for souls who cope
With hunger’s deep and all-consuming thrust.
“Keep on,” she said, though shadows crossed her brow.
“There’s more to this than bread or baker’s lore.
My journey here has only started now,
And I will seek the strength to give you more.”
With steps renewed, she left the cursed domain,
Her eyes on distant hills and skies of rain.
XI
Beyond the village, down a winding hill,
She found the mill, its wheel an ancient sound.
The water churned, as time itself stood still,
And starlit flour fell in gleaming mounds.
The miller, pale as dusk, no mortal man,
Stood tall, his gaze as empty as the sky.
“Your flour,” he rasped, “was ground before I began,
And each lost wish its ghostly hues supply.”
She offered up a coin, but he refused,
For currency here dealt in dreams and sleep.
Her dog barked once, then twice—he knew she’d lose
The rest she’d earned from years of labor deep.
Yet Hubbard bowed, and paid with weary dreams,
For flour finer than a moon’s own beams.
XII
Each step she took was heavier and slow,
As weariness crept deep into her bones.
Her dog, beside her, nudged to bid her know
That sleep would come with hunger, dark and lone.
She cradled flour fine as dust or light,
Its grains like stars now nestled in her hands.
“Rest not,” she thought, “my vow, my guiding sight
Is bread and broth for one who understands.”
She murmured soft to keep herself awake,
Though visions of her past began to creep.
Through dreams she stumbled, bound and wide-awake,
Until at last, in dawn’s cool arms, she’d sleep.
Yet dreams half-spoken left their cryptic trail—
Hints of the path and shadows to unveil.
XIII
The river gleamed beneath a sunless sky,
Its waters shifting, silver-blue and bright.
No bridge appeared, nor stone to cross or try—
The waves seemed bent on guarding endless night.
But as she searched, a figure cloaked in grey
Appeared—a fisherman with hollow eyes.
His voice like pebbles caught in darkened clay,
He spoke in whispers, wary and unwise:
“To cross, a toll,” he said, and held his net,
“A piece of what you seek—your journey’s prize.
And promises, like stones, hold more than debt.”
Old Hubbard met his gaze with steely eyes.
“For all that I have come to do,” she said,
“I’ll pay the price to see my promise fed.”
XIV
With heavy heart, she offered up her vow,
The fisherman’s cold hands received it whole.
“Be wary now,” he said, his voice like crows,
“Your debt to me remains beyond control.”
With that, he led her by his silent craft,
The silver waters swirling round their feet.
And as they crossed, she felt a memory draft—
A haunting loss that no words could repeat.
She left a piece of hope upon that shore,
Yet pressed ahead with steadfast strength and aim.
The dog beside her seemed to sense much more,
For he stood close, his gaze alive with flame.
Through sacrifice her journey had a cost,
But onward she would move, whatever lost.
XV
Beyond the shore, a raven black as pitch
Perched high upon a twisted, ancient pine.
Its eyes a glint, a shadowed, silver stitch,
It croaked, a voice like fate, and none too kind.
“You seek the Stone of Salt, old woman wise,
A prize that none but pure of heart may hold.
To find it, heed the hunger in your eyes—
For only need may bridge its distant cold.”
Old Hubbard paused, the dog beside her still,
The raven’s gaze a weight upon her soul.
“For food, I’ll barter; for life, I’ll climb the hill,
But tell me where to find the stone I owe.”
The raven nodded, then spread wings of night,
And flew beyond the wood, just out of sight.
XVI
She climbed, though feet were worn and hands were sore,
Each step a tether pulling toward her goal.
Above, the winds grew fierce and cold as war,
The sky a blanket torn, a storm-sworn scroll.
The dog kept pace, his loyalty a balm,
Though now his eyes held wisdom fierce and sharp.
Through ice and snow, she labored, warm yet calm,
Her heart a beacon, her will a harp.
At last, atop the jagged, frost-bit ledge,
She found a stone encrusted pure with salt.
It gleamed with magic, humming soft its pledge—
A power none but purest hands exalt.
With careful palms, she raised it from the ground,
Her spirit lifted, fierce, and hunger-bound.
XVII
Stone in her grasp, she journeyed down once more,
Each step a promise made to light and dark.
The raven’s shadow danced along the floor,
Its wings a warning deep as sorrow’s mark.
She clutched the Stone of Salt, her final prize,
Her hands now raw from frost and bitter cold,
Yet in her heart, a steady fire did rise—
A warmth, a strength, a certainty bold.
The dog beside her wagged his tail in cheer,
For though her path was fraught with trial and loss,
She’d earned her right to end their nightly fear,
To carry forth her dog’s reward across.
Down through the woods she strode, the stone aglow,
Her steps assured, her heart’s fierce promise whole.
XVIII
At dusk, she found the village waiting still,
Its people lost in hunger’s nightly claim.
They turned to her with eyes of winter’s chill,
Their hope a spark, their trust a fragile flame.
She placed the flour, the mushrooms, and the stone
Upon the baker’s table bare and cold,
And spoke her purpose clear in even tone,
“The meal we make will break this binding hold.”
The baker nodded, weary yet revived,
And stoked the fire with wood long left untouched.
They worked as one, each villager deprived,
Yet yearning now for warmth they’d long since clutched.
With hands like prayer, they formed a dough of light,
And set the bread to rise before the night.
XIX
The oven’s warmth spread thick throughout the square,
Its golden scent a balm to hollowed hearts.
The dough began to bake, the village’s prayer—
A rising gift that hunger’s spell departs.
As dawn’s first light crept soft along the street,
They gathered close, their hopes now freshly spun.
The bread emerged, a crust both warm and sweet,
A victory of hunger overcome.
Old Mother Hubbard sliced the loaf with grace,
Each crumb a piece of all she’d fought to claim.
They ate with tears and joy upon each face,
Relieved at last of hunger’s nightly game.
And as they ate, the village found rebirth,
Their lives restored to feast, to warmth, to mirth.
XX
Beside her feet, her dog took in his share,
Each bite a part of all they’d dared to find.
Yet as he ate, a glow replaced his fur,
A gleam that rose like starlight in his mind.
He lifted eyes to hers, now wise and deep,
And spoke with voice like wind through ancient trees:
“For all you’ve given, none will ever keep
A kinder heart than you, with strength like seas.”
Old Hubbard gasped, for never had he spoke,
Yet in his gaze, a magic soft and wild.
He thanked her once, his words as light as smoke,
Then nestled close, as gentle as a child.
Through courage, hunger, trials rough and long,
Her dog became her guide in wisdom’s song.
XXI
The dog now raised his head, his gaze intent,
A voice of prophecy upon his tongue:
“Your journey’s end is more than hunger spent—
For kindness feeds where stories have begun.”
His words unraveled truths she’d yet to see,
Each line a thread that wove her journey’s cost.
Through every sacrifice and mystery,
She’d found the strength to gather what was lost.
And so, her quest was more than simply food;
It bore the weight of love and fearless will.
The village thrived; the curse was now subdued,
Yet Hubbard’s heart had deeper hunger still.
She saw her path, a road unknown but clear,
A journey shaped by tales and freed from fear.
XXII
Now Hubbard stayed, her work not quite complete;
She baked for all the village, free and bold.
She filled their cupboards, fed them loaves of wheat,
And told her tales by hearth and fire’s gold.
For in her heart, a story left untold
Had blossomed wild as all her journey’s bloom.
Through giving, she was given love tenfold—
A harvest rich, a lifetime’s brightened room.
And as her dog, now wise, lay by her side,
She felt the gift that kindness could impart.
The village filled with joy both far and wide,
And Hubbard lived a tale for every heart.
Her cupboards full, her journey’s tale now sung,
The legend grew—of old and wise and young.
XXIII
The village thrived, its people free of curse,
And Hubbard walked the streets, her spirit light.
Through her, they saw that hunger’s dark converse
Was hope, the flame that led them through the night.
Her dog beside, the wise and watchful friend,
Remained her guide as seasons turned anew.
Her tales grew roots; they found a second end,
In every child who listened, dreamed, and grew.
For Hubbard’s gift was more than bread and cheer—
It was a path, a map of grit and grace.
She showed them all how courage conquers fear,
And kindness sows what nothing can erase.
With every loaf she shared, her spirit shone,
A spark of legend bound in flesh and bone.
XXIV
Though settled in the village, warm and fed,
Old Hubbard found her feet still sought the road.
The journey had become her daily bread,
Each tale a mark that told of strength bestowed.
Her dog, now wise and speaking true of heart,
Barked softly as he sensed her yearning rise.
“For paths unseen,” he said, “you’ve gained your start;
Now seek the worlds that wait beyond these skies.”
With packs prepared, they set out once again,
To lands where stories waited to unfold.
Through mountains high and valleys deep with rain,
Their journey lit by courage calm and bold.
No cupboard bare could ever halt her quest,
For now her heart, not hunger, was her guest.
XXV
Back in the village, children spoke her name,
Their voices high with wonder, hushed with awe.
They played at quests of magic, beast, and flame,
In her grand tale, they saw the world’s great law:
That kindness feeds as deeply as the bread,
And hunger, met with courage, heals the soul.
Her tale endured, in stories softly read,
Each word a memory made fresh and whole.
The baker shared his flour as a gift,
The townsfolk broke their bread as friends and kin.
With every loaf, her spirit seemed to lift,
As if her heart had settled deep within.
Old Mother Hubbard’s tale lived on in song,
A lullaby for those both weak and strong.
XXVI
As seasons passed, the village thrived and grew,
Each spring a bloom of all she’d left behind.
Her wisdom lived in deeds both old and new,
In kindred acts that shaped a noble mind.
For each who baked a loaf, who shared their meal,
Who lent a hand where need had bared its teeth,
A little spark of Hubbard’s quiet zeal
Endured, a star within the village’s wreath.
The children’s children played where she had walked,
And in their laughter, echoes of her song
Spread hope that none would hunger, none be blocked
From kindness rich, from courage proud and strong.
Her dog, a figure wise, still roamed the fields,
A guardian of all her journey healed.
XXVII
One day, she came back home, her spirit bright,
Her face well-lined with laughter, sun, and snow.
The villagers rejoiced in pure delight—
Their tale-touched wanderer, returned to show
That journeys end in places yet unseen,
Where memories live like roots within the ground.
She smiled at all she’d left, and all she’d gleaned,
In stories shared, her voice a gentle sound.
They welcomed her with tables richly set,
With feasts that sang of all her bread had taught.
And as she laughed, her eyes with mirth still wet,
She knew her story’s end was one well-fought.
Old Mother Hubbard, back in hearth and heart,
Had left her legacy—a life, an art.
XXVIII
And so, her story traveled far and wide,
A tale of hunger met with strength and song.
From village hearths to distant mountainside,
Old Mother Hubbard’s name would echo long.
For she had shown that emptiness may heal,
That courage, love, and kindness fill the soul.
In every home where bread made rough hands kneel,
Her spirit fed the world and made it whole.
Her dog lay close, as faithful hearts will do,
His eyes a spark of wisdom’s deepest gold.
Together they had wandered worlds anew,
And built a tale for every heart to hold.
Old Mother Hubbard, fierce and full and free,
Had left a legend, bright as any sea.
THE END