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There are mythical spirits known as hobs, in the singular, referred to as a hob. They’re okay with nesting in one of your outbuildings, smaller sheds and such, won’t abode in your home ever and will never set a booted foot in a yard with any cat house or barn. But if the hob is left a small token of a cooked treat in food, you may well go out to the garden, it now being entirely weeded, watered and nary a bug on a plant. Hobs are very appreciative and will show it.
If you forget the hob its delicacy you may see the same garden with all your plants rearranged, feed your hob well if you ever get one, or worse yet, the hob departs.
Once had a hob in my woodshed of all places, seemed he or she was smitten with birch bark shreds, and since the hob stacked it like sheets of paper for me, I fed the hob. Cooked carrots, buttered peas, and once a week a small slab of roasted pork I assumed no hob could ever finish in one setting. But cold roast pork, I mean who doesn’t enjoy it and when fall rolled around I’d slice an apple in half, set out a small spoonful of baked pumpkin. Absolutely gone the next morning.
I used to leave it feathers, small lengths of thick yarn, every chicken egg I ever cracked once my hob arrived, I never forgot to leave a half shell. A particular and most peculiarity of hobs wants or needs of using them for what I can’t imagine.
My hob moved on a few days ago best I can tell as I was out late in the night watching for shooting stars, heard an owl hooting suddenly, immortal enemies they’ve been for centuries. Something about Halloween started the endless fray but I was sure when I’d wake the hob would be gone, it most certainly was, but as far as hobs go, it was a great hob to have about.
- The Trout Whisperer
