The cat and the cradle

The cat and the cradle

A long time ago, when wide meadows still stretched between the villages in the Netherlands and the rivers often overflowed their banks, there lived a young family.

They had recently had a baby daughter. They named her Honigje, meaning Little Honey, because she loved warm milk with a drop of honey and smiled so sweetly that everyone around her smiled back.

Her father made a wooden cradle for her with his own hands. It was strong, with high sides and smooth runners. When the cradle was gently rocked, it creaked softly:

Creak, creak… creak, creak…

As if whispering:

“Sleep, little one. I am holding you.”

A striped cat named Dubbeltje lived in the house too. Her name meant something like “twice as gentle,” and it suited her perfectly.

Dubbeltje had kittens of her own, but she treated Honigje almost as tenderly. When the baby slept, the cat lay beside the cradle. When she woke, Dubbeltje came closer and purred:

Purr-r-r… purr-r-r…

Honigje would stretch out her little arms to her and laugh.

“You see?” her mother said. “You already have the fluffiest friend.”

Green meadows surrounded the house, cows grazed nearby, and people in wooden shoes walked along the road to the next village. Embankments and dykes rose across the land, for water was treated with respect here. It nourished the grass, turned mills, and carried boats, but in a storm it could become immensely powerful.

One day the sky darkened before evening.

A wind blew in from the sea.

At first, it only bent the grass.

Then the trees rustled.

And then the downpour began.

The water in the canals rose higher and higher.

The adults quickly gathered the animals, carried the sacks of grain to the attics and helped the neighbors to strengthen the doors.

Honigje’s mother was nearby with other women, while her father helped at the dyke. The baby, Dubbeltje, and the now nearly grown kittens were still in the house.

Honigje slept peacefully.

But suddenly a dull roar was heard somewhere far away.

Water broke through a low place and rushed between the houses.

The floor shuddered. The doors burst open. Cold water surged into the room.

The kittens quickly climbed onto a high shelf. And Dubbeltje rushed to the cradle.

The water rose to her paws.

Then higher.

The wooden cradle rocked… and rose afloat.

With one leap, Dubbeltje landed on its rim.

The current carried the cradle out of the house.

It spun like a small boat. Twigs, wooden bowls, buckets, and even a lone wooden shoe floated around.

Honigje woke up and cried.

The cat leaned over her.

“Meow,” Dubbeltje said as softly as she could.

The girl heard a familiar voice and calmed down a little.

“Meow,” the cat repeated.

The cradle floated on.

Towards evening the rain had abated, but the river still carried water swiftly and noisily. Ahead, the lights of another village appeared.

The cradle spun near the shore.

Dubbeltje knew she must call for help.

She raised her head and shouted:

“MEEEOOOW!”

No one answered.

“MEEEOOOW!”

A light flashed in the nearest house.

But the wind blew again, and the sound was lost.

Then Dubbeltje took a deep breath and gave a loud cat concert, the likes of which the village had never heard before:

“MEOW! MEOW! MEEEOOOOW!”

A boy named Dirk was the first to hear her.

“Mum, there’s a cat!” he said. “Somewhere near the water.”

He opened the door and listened.

“Meow!”

“I hear her!”

Dirk ran to the shore. In the darkness he saw something small, spinning in the water.

“There’s a cradle!”

The adults hurried after him with a rope and a long pole. One man secured the rope, another handed Dirk the pole, and two others stood beside him so that no one would have to face the danger alone.

“Hold on tight!” they shouted.

The cradle was pulled closer.

A little more.

One more pull.

And now it touched the bank.

Dubbeltje was the first to jump to the ground, but she immediately turned and stood in front of the cradle, as if to say:

“The baby first.”

When the people saw Honigje, they all spoke together.

“She’s safe!”

“Let’s carry her somewhere warm!”

“Quick, a blanket!”

In the house, the child was wrapped up, warmed, and fed with warm milk. Dubbeltje was given dry straw by the fire and a bowl of food.

But the cat did not eat until she was sure that Honigje was no longer crying.

Only then did she curl up in a ball and fall asleep.

The next morning, the baby’s parents arrived in the village. They had spent the whole night searching along the flooded road and asking everyone they met for news of their daughter.

When her mother saw the cradle by the stove, she rushed to Honigje.

The father could not say anything for a long time. And then he sat down next to Dubbeltje and carefully scratched her behind the ear.

“Little guardian,” he whispered. “You never left our baby.”

Everyone thanked Dirk, too.

“I only heard the cat,” the boy answered.

“And that is why you saved her,” Honigje’s mother said. “You heard her and did not walk past.”

After the great flood, people spent a long time repairing their homes, strengthening the banks, and building better protective embankments together. They knew they could not undo that flood, but they could prepare better for the next one.

And the story of the cradle was told to children for many years.

It was said that sometimes a hero does not have a sword, a crown or magical powers.

Sometimes a hero has only four paws, wet whiskers, and a very loud meow.

And sometimes a hero is simply someone who hears that voice and answers it.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨