Campfire Story: The True Father of the House   

By Dan Yashinsky

In the August 2007 issue of Cottage Life magazine, we told you how to plan a sizzling cottage campfire, including tips from renowned Canadian storyteller, Dan Yashinsky. The following story, written by Yashinsky and exclusive to cottagelife.com is the perfect tale to tell the next time you're huddled around the fire at the lake.

On the fourth night the father told the little boy the story of “The True Father of the House.”

Once there was a traveller who was walking down a lonely road. He didn’t know where he could stay the night, and it was getting darker and darker as he walked. Luckily, there was a big farmhouse down the road; and huge it was, looming like a castle out of the darkness. The traveler hastened towards it thinking he’d find room there, and hospitality for the night.

When he came up to the front door, he saw an old man chopping wood. “Good evening, Father,” said the traveller. “I’m out on the road tonight and I’m in need of shelter. Have you room in your house for a traveller?”

The old fellow put down his axe and answered, “I’m not the father of this house. You’ll have to go inside and ask my father. Go into the kitchen. You’ll find him sitting by the fire.”

The traveller opened the massive farmhouse door and walked into the kitchen. In the kitchen was a great stone fireplace, and in front of it on his hands and knees was a very old man trying to blow on the embers of the fire. The traveller came near him and said, “Good evening, Father. Can you put me up for the night?”

The old man looked up from the sparks and ashes and replied, “I’m not the father of the house. Go into the parlour and ask my father. He is reading at the table.”

When the traveller came to the parlour he saw a very, very old man sitting at a table and reading a book. He barely had the strength to turn a page, and each page that he turned raised a cloud of dust. The traveller spoke up: “Good evening, Father. Can you give me shelter in your house tonight?”

The old man raised his eyes from the ancient volume. “I am not the father of the house,” he said. “You had better ask my father. He’s sitting on the sofa smoking his pipe.”

The traveller noticed a shape bundled up in blankets and sweaters. Two thin hands poked out of the blankets, one holding a pipe and the other a match. The hands shook so that the pipe could not be lit. The traveler walked over and held the match steady. The old man on
the sofa lit his pipe. The traveller said, “Good evening, Father. Is it possible for me to stay in your house tonight?”

In a voice as thin as the blue pipesmoke the old man answered, “I am not the father of the house. Go ask my father. He is resting in bed.”

The traveller passed into the bedroom of the house. There was a bed, and in the middle of the bed was a small bump. When the traveller bent over he could see that the bump was a very, very old man. He was so old and wizened that only his eyes seemed to have any life in them. They were open and luminous. The traveller looked at those eyes and repeated his request: “Good evening, Father. Can you put me up for the night?”

“I’m not the father of the house,” came the reply. “You’d best go ask my father. He’s lying in his cradle.”

There was a cradle in the bedroom. The traveler stepped over to it and looked inside. A man lay there. He was so old that he was no bigger than a baby. His beard curled around him like a wispy blanket. Except for a wheeze that rattled up from time to time there was no
way to tell if he was alive or dead. “Good evening, Father,” said the traveller, “and have you room in your house for a lonely traveller this night?”

It took a long time to get an answer and the answer, when it came, took a long time coming. “I,” the old man wheezed, “am not”—the voice was a dry as a leaf in autumn—“the father of the house. Go ask my father. He is hanging in the horn upon the wall.”

The traveller now saw a great hunting horn hanging upon the wall. Slowly, very slowly he approached it. He peered within and saw something there. It was white as ash and tiny: a human face. The traveller now cried out, “GOOD EVENING, FATHER. CAN YOU PUT ME
UP FOR THE NIGHT?”

The voice that came from within the horn was as light as a tomtit chirping. The traveller strained to hear what it said, and what it said was this: “Yes, my child, and you are welcome.”

Then a table appeared, laden with delicacies and fine wines; and when the traveller had eaten, in came a bed all covered with soft reindeer-hide blankets. The traveler curled up to sleep, and just before he closed his eyes he thought to himself: it is good to find the true father of the house.

Extracted from Suddenly They Heard Footsteps by Dan Yashinsky. Copyright © 2004 Dan Yashinsky. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf Canada.

Click here for tips on how to find a great campfire story.

Want s'more? Click here for a great adult twist on the campfire classic treat.