One evening as the little fellow was frisking about the farm kitchen, a
shrill voice from the farmyard called three times, “Tolman Grig! Tolman
Grig! Tolman Grig!”
“Ho! ho! ho! My daddy is come,” cried the elf, springing up and speaking
for the first time.
With that, off he flew through the keyhole.
That was the last the farmer or his wife ever saw of him. But forever
after they were happy and prosperous.
—ANGELA M. KEYES