When the woodcutter was quite sure that every one was gone and
nobody could see where he had hidden the pitcher, he took it from the
hole in which it lay and carried it carefully to his home. You can
imagine how everybody rushed out to meet him when he came in sight,
and crowded round him, so that there was danger of the pitcher being
thrown to the ground and broken. Subha Datta however managed to get
into the cottage without any accident, and then he began to take
things out of the pitcher and fling them on the ground, shouting,
"Am I a robber? Am I a robber? Who dared to call me a robber?" Then,
getting more and more excited, he picked up the pitcher, and holding
it on his shoulder began to dance wildly about. His wife called out
to him, "Oh, take care, take care! You will drop it!" But he paid no
attention to her. Suddenly, however, he began to feel giddy and fell to
the ground, dropping the pitcher as he did so. It was broken to pieces,
and a great cry of sorrow went up from all who saw the accident. The
woodcutter himself was broken-hearted, for he knew that he had done
the mischief himself, and that if only he had resisted the temptation
to drink the wine he would still have his treasure.

He was going to pick up the pieces to see if they could be stuck
together, but to his very great surprise lie could not touch them. He
heard a silvery laugh, and what sounded like children clapping their
hands, and he thought he also heard the words, "Our pitcher is ours
again!" Could it all have been a dream? No: for there on the ground
were the fruits and cakes that had been in the pitcher, and there
were his wife, his children and his friends, all looking sadly and
angrily at him. One by one the friends went away, leaving Subha Datta
alone with his family.