Long, long ago on the shores of a lake called Semerwater near Wensleydale in Yorkshire, there stood a small town. The people who lived there had money and land but they were selfish and greedy.
One day a poor man came walking through the town. It was October and the lake was gray and ruffled by the cold wind. It would soon be night, for the end of the day comes early in the dales.
The traveler had a pack on his back. He shivered in his thin clothes. He knew he must find shelter for the night, but he was sure someone would take him in.
A man was standing at his open door, the firelight glowing behind him. “Could I have a bed for the night, friend?” asked the traveler.
“We want no strangers here,” growled the man.
A few cottages farther on, a woman was watching for her husband to come home from work. The traveler was about to ask if he might shelter there but the woman shut the door in his face.
It was the same everywhere; no one welcomed him. At one house the dogs were let loose and he had to run; at another the wife called for her husband to set about him with a stick. In the street a horseman crowded him off the road so that he was spattered with mud. Even the children gathered at the street corner, jeered at him, and threw stones.
Tired and and hungry, the traveler walked on until he had left the town of unkind folk behind him. He came to a small, gray stone cottage standing by itself. It was so small that it seemed to be tucked into the hillside for shelter. A twisted hawthorn tree hung its scarlet berries over the steep roof.
“Perhaps I shall have better luck here,” thought the traveler, and he knocked at the door.
It was opened by a cheerful-looking little woman wearing a spotless white apron. “Come you in,” she said at once. “You look cold and tired.”
“Thank you,” said the traveler gratefully. By the hearth sat an old man. A kettle steamed on the hob, and a black cat lay asleep on the mat.
“Sit you down,” said the old man. “You’re welcome to anything we have. “It’s good to have a visitor. Folk round here are not friendly.”
The traveler shared their supper of oat cakes and milk, and when it was done he lay down near the fire, for there was only one room. The wind howled outside, but within the little cottage all was peaceful and warm.
In the morning, the traveler said farewell and thanked the old man and his wife for the shelter and food they had given him.
The old couple stood at the door and watched him climb the steep path. After a while he paused on the hillside and looked out over the town. It was almost hidden in the rising mist from the gray lake.
Then they saw him stretch out his arms and his long staff until he looked almost a giant, and they heard him cry in a ringing voice:
“Semerwater rise, Semerwater sink!
Swallow all this town, save the house that
gave me food and drink!”
Before the old people’s eyes, the lake rose up in great waves, mountain high. Then with a terrible crash the water fell upon the town and hid it from sight. The waves ran hissing up the hillside and stopped just short of the old couple as they stood trembling with terror.
When they looked round for the traveler, he had disappeared. So had the town with all its wicked people. In its place lay a peaceful, unrippled lake, which is there to this day.