One time there was a very fine house in the country and a very rich gravio called
Hoght and he lived there with his wife and family and all his household. He was not only very rich, but he was also very proud. So proud indeed was Hoght that when he came to the City, he went around with his nose in the air as if he could scarcely deign to breathe the same air as the people in the street around him.This pride of the gravio’s was terribly infectious. Not only was the gravio proud, but
so too were his wife and his children. His wife flat out refused to spin aught but cloth of gold and his children refused to wipe their snotty noses with aught but silken kerchiefs of Syansyan. And not only was his family proud, but so too were his servants and household. The gravio’s footmen regularly pushed their way though a crowd and bossed merchants and citizens alike as if they themselves were mighty lords; and in the house, the gravio’s kitchen staff were terribly proud. The maids would regularly brag about all the gold they had to polish and Cook always shoved everyone else out of the way at market, even if she wasn’t buying. She always took the best quality vegetables and meat available. Even the cook of the poor old bishop was left to make do with second rate victuals. And in that same gravio’s Kitchen there lived a brass teapot and a broad copper stew
kettle. The broad kettle was always busy, taking care of the many stews and soups that Cook made in a day. He was a humble sort of kettle, always black on the outside from the scorching fires merrily blazing away in the heart of the roaring great masonry stove; but he was justifiably proud of the delicious stews he helped cook and he always kept his inside scrubbed and shiny as any bronze mirror the gravio’s wife might care to look in. Now, the brass tea pot was terribly vain and always kept herself scrubbed, shiny and
bright, like the golden samovar that she so envied and who served out at Table. She only had to work hard maybe an hour a day, whenever her ladyship desired to take a cup of tea, and so she had much time to daydream about life outside the Kitchen. One day, the wooden spoons, ever the garrulous lot, got into an argument over the
merits of serving at Table out in the Hall, like the shiny golden table spoons. The stock spoon and the ladle thought twould be ever so dandy, having a white-gloved footman buff and shine one up, but the long handled soup spoon, who often worked with the copper kettle, felt sure that life in the Kitchen was good enough for any wooden spoon and was content with her lot. The stock spoon and the ladle laughed at that: “Ho ho! Will yez hark at that gennle
fowks! Good enough, eh? Well friend, zòme of uz iz lookin to move up in this yer world and make zummet more of uz zelvez and wadn’t mind a-tall goin out to Table!” At this point, the brass tea pot, who was merrily bubbling away on one of the back
burners, piped up and said: “Oh will ye list at them two old splinters of wood! The two of ye serve at Table? What rot! Now, Ae make the Tea for our distinguished Ladyship, as ye well know all, while the two of ye do what?” Here she paused for what she was sure would be called dramatic effect: “Oh yes, ye stir up that sludgy gravy Cook makes for the meat. Coo, what drudge! Now Ae thinks Ae knows just a lìtlle bit more about the refaened aspects of life outsaede these doors than ever ye will! The cheek!, thinking that two old cracked wood spoons could serve in the place of shiny utensils like the golden table spoons! Or even not at all unlike maeself! Huh. Ye two are ever as mucky as yon old stew kettle!” “Bull feathers!” burbled the usually taciturn water cistern, a great glass and copper
affair that skulked about in the corner of the Kitchen upon his three mighty bronze legs, from which he could see and hear everything that went on in the place. “Thee should look to thyself, old brass tea bucket!” (She hissed and spluttered angrily, recoiling at being called a “bucket” as if that were the worst thing one could be called, and immediately started whistling indignantly.) “Whistle away, mistress Pot! Thou’s no different as any of us here in Kitchen. Ain’t no shame in that, but none o us is ever goin to serve at Table, we being nowt but umble beins o copper and brass and wood. And here’s the proud brass Pot callin the Kettle black, puttin on airs when she should look at her own black bottom some time!” Everyone in Kitchen from the butter tuns to the ancient iron frying pan hanging from
his pin on the wall had a laugh at the haughty tea pot’s expense, for indeed it is as the Wise say: the fool puts on airs and seeks to condemn his neighbor for the speck on his face all the while neglecting the broad smudge on his own face. For indeed when the pot calls the kettle black, she is seeking to convince others of her own superiority even when the facts themselves speak contrarywise. 
