The Yule Lads

The story

They live in the mountains with their mother Grýla, a formidable figure of Icelandic folklore, and they come down to the farms one at a time over the thirteen nights before Christmas, each leaving on the thirteenth night after in the same order. Their names are their crimes: Spoon-Licker, Door-Slammer, Skyr-Gobbler, Sausage-Swiper, Window-Peeper, Doorway-Sniffer, Meat-Hook, Candle-Stealer, and the rest. A child who has behaved leaves the shoe and finds a small gift; a child who has not, traditionally, finds a raw potato.

Where it actually comes from

The Yule Lads are genuinely old and were genuinely frightening — early versions were child- stealing trolls, and in 1746 a Danish public decree actually forbade parents from terrifying their children with them. Their number and names varied by region for centuries before settling at thirteen, largely through the poet Jóhannes úr Kötlum’s 1932 verses, which remain the standard list. Over the twentieth century they softened into gift-givers and picked up red suits from international Santa imagery, though many Icelandic families keep them in traditional Icelandic wool.

What it does for a child

The thirteen-night structure is the cleverest thing about them. Waiting is genuinely hard at five, and a single distant date is close to unbearable; thirteen small marked mornings turn one enormous wait into a countable sequence. It is, in effect, a folk advent calendar with personality, and the fact that the Lads are naughty rather than judgmental takes the moral pressure off entirely.

The Thirteen Lads from the Mountain

A story to read aloud · about 4 minutes

Long ago in Iceland, people lived in snug farmhouses built of turf and stone, with green grass growing on the roofs. In the weeks before Christmas, the sun hardly rose at all, and the nights were long, dark and full of stars.

On a farm in the north lived a girl named Sigga. Every winter she listened for a sound coming down from the mountains: stomp, stomp, stomp. That was the sound of the Jólasveinar, the Yule Lads, coming to visit.

There were thirteen Yule Lads, and they were brothers. They lived in a cave high in the mountains with Grýla, a grumpy old troll-woman who stayed at home by her fire. The lads were not wicked, but they were full of mischief, and they were always, always hungry for the good things in a farm kitchen.

The first lad came down thirteen nights before Christmas. After that, one more came every night, until the very last one arrived on Christmas Eve.

First came Stekkjarstaur, Sheep-Pen Clod, who clumped about the sheep pen on his stiff legs, hoping for a sip of milk. Next came Giljagaur, Gully Gawk, who hid in the gully and then tiptoed into the cowshed after the foamy milk. Then came Stúfur, Stubby, the smallest of them all, who went looking for a frying pan to scrape.

After him came Þvörusleikir, Spoon-Licker, who licked the long wooden stirring spoon, and Pottasleikir, Pot-Licker, who licked the pots. Askasleikir, Bowl-Licker, hid under the beds, waiting for someone to set down a wooden bowl. Faldafeykir, Hem-Flapper, whooshed around corners and set the hems of skirts and scarves flapping. Skyrgámur, Skyr-Gobbler, gobbled up the thick, creamy skyr.

Then came Bjúgnakrækir, Sausage-Swiper, who reached down from the rafters for the smoked sausages. Gluggagægir, Window-Peeper, pressed his nose against the frosty glass and peeked in. Gáttaþefur, Doorway-Sniffer, poked his enormous nose through the door to smell the holiday baking. And Ketkrókur, Meat-Hook, dangled a hook down through the smoke hole, hoping to catch a bit of smoked lamb.

Every morning Sigga found some new sign of mischief. A spoon was licked clean. A pot was scraped bare. There was a smudge on the window where a big nose had pressed against it. Each time, Sigga laughed.

On Christmas Eve, candles were lit all through the farmhouse. In old Iceland, candles were a great treasure, and at Christmas every child had one of their very own. Sigga held hers carefully and watched the little flame dance.

That night the thirteenth lad came down the mountain. He was Kertasníkir, Candle-Beggar, and more than anything in the world, he loved candles. He crept up to the window and gazed at Sigga’s candle with shining eyes.

Sigga was not afraid. She thought of him walking all that long way through the cold and the dark, just to see a little light. So she found a small candle end and set it on the windowsill for him.

In the morning the candle end was gone. In the snow beneath the window there were big footsteps, and they went round and round in a circle, as if someone had been dancing for joy.

After Christmas, the lads went home the same way they had come, one each day. The last one tramped back up the mountain on the thirteenth day of Christmas, and all was quiet again until the next winter.

Today, children in Iceland set a shoe on the windowsill during the thirteen nights before Christmas, and each night a Yule Lad passing by leaves a little surprise inside. Mischief-makers they may be, but Christmas in Iceland would not be the same without its thirteen lads from the mountain.

Adapted from Jón Árnason, Íslenzkar þjóðsögur og æfintýri, vol. 1 (the jólasveinar entry, under Grýla’s family) (1862). Public domain. Read the original.

More from the story

A few more pictures to look at together.