In the Dutch colonial town later known as Albany， New York， there lived a baker， Van Amsterdam， who was as honest as he could be. Each morning， he checked and balanced his scales， and he took great care to give his customers exactly what they paid for—not more and not less.

Van Amsterdams shop was always busy， because people trusted him， and because he was a good baker as well. And never was the shop busier than in the days before December 6th， when the Dutch celebrate Saint Nicholas Day.

At that time of year， people flocked to the bakers shop to buy his fine Saint Nicholas cookies. Made of gingerbread， iced in red and white， they looked just like Saint Nicholas as the Dutch know him—tall and thin， with a high， red bishops cap， and a long， red bishops cloak.

One Saint Nicholas Day morning， the baker was just ready for business， when the door of his shop flew open. In walked an old woman， wrapped in a long black shawl. “I have come for a dozen of your Saint Nicholas cookies.”

Taking a tray， Van Amsterdam counted out twelve cookies. He started to wrap them， but the woman reached out and stopped him.

“I asked for a dozen. You have given me only twelve.”

“Madam，” said the baker， “everyone knows that a dozen is twelve.”

“But I say a dozen is thirteen，” said the woman. “Give me one more.”

Van Amsterdam was not a man to bear foolishness.“Madam， my customers get exactly what they pay for—not more and not less.”

“Then you may keep the cookies.”

The woman turned to go， but stopped at the door.

“Van Amsterdam！ However honest you may be， your heart is small and your fist is tight. Fall again， mount again， learn how to count again！”

Then she was gone.

From that day， everything went wrong in Van Amsterdams bakery. His bread rose too high or not at all. His pies were sour or too sweet. His cakes crumbled or were chewy. His cookies were burnt or doughy.

His customers soon noticed the difference. Before long， most of them were going to other bakers.

“That old woman has bewitched me，” said the baker to himself. “Is this how my honesty is rewarded？”

A year passed. The baker grew poorer and poorer. Since he sold little， he baked little， and his shelves were nearly bare. His last few customers slipped away.

Finally， on the day before Saint Nicholas Day， not one customer came to Van Amsterdams shop. At days end， the baker sat alone， staring at his unsold Saint Nicholas cookies.

“I wish Saint Nicholas could help me now，” he said. Then he closed his shop and went sadly to bed.

That night， the baker had a dream. He was a boy again， one in a crowd of happy children. And there in the midst of them was Saint Nicholas himself.

The bishops white horse stood beside him， its baskets filled with gifts. Nicholas pulled out one gift after another， and handed them to the children. But Van Amsterdam noticed something strange. No matter how many presents Nicholas passed out， there were always more to give. In fact， the more he took from the baskets， the more they seemed to hold.

Then Nicholas handed a gift to Van Amsterdam. It was one of the bakers own Saint Nicholas cookies！ Van Amsterdam looked up to thank him， but it was no longer Saint Nicholas standing there. Smiling down at him was the old woman with the long black shawl.

Van Amsterdam awoke with a start. Moonlight shone through the half-closed shutters as he lay there， thinking.

“I always give my customers exactly what they pay for，”he said， “not more and not less. But why not give more？”

The next morning， Saint Nicholas Day， the baker rose early. He mixed his gingerbread dough and rolled it out. He molded the shapes and baked them. He iced them in red and white to look just like Saint Nicholas. And the cookies were as fine as any he had made.

Van Amsterdam had just finished， when the door flew open. In walked the old woman with the long black shawl.

“I have come for a dozen of your Saint Nicholas cookies.”

In great excitement， Van Amsterdam counted out twelve cookies—and one more.

“In this shop，” he said， “from now on， a dozen is thirteen.”

“You have learned to count well，” said the woman. “You will surely be rewarded.”

She paid for the cookies and started out. But as the door swung shut， the bakers eyes seemed to play a trick on him. He thought he glimpsed the tail end of a long red cloak.

As the old woman foretold， Van Amsterdam was rewarded. When people heard he counted thirteen as a dozen， he had more customers than ever.

In fact， Van Amsterdam grew so wealthy that the other bakers in town began doing the same. From there， the practice spread to other towns， and at last through all the American colonies.

And this， they say， is how thirteen became the “bakers dozen”—a custom common for over a century， and alive in some places to this day.

在荷兰殖民地城镇，后来的纽约州奥尔巴尼市，住着一位面包师范·阿姆斯特丹，他为人十分诚实。每天早上，他都会检查、调整秤，客人买多少，他就仔细地称出准确的重量——不多也不少。

范·阿姆斯特丹的店总是很繁忙，因为人们信任他，也因为他是一个出色的面包师。每年的12月6日是荷兰的圣尼古拉斯节，临近节日的几天是面包店最忙碌的时候。

每年的那个时候，人们都会涌进面包店买他那些美味的圣尼古拉斯饼干。这种饼干由姜饼加上红色和白色的糖霜做成，看起来就像荷兰人熟悉的圣尼古拉斯那样——高高瘦瘦，戴着高高的主教红帽子，披着长长的主教红斗篷。

一个圣尼古拉斯节的早上，面包师刚做好准备，门突然被打开了。一个披着长长黑色披肩的老太太走了进来，“我要买一打你做的圣尼古拉斯饼干。”

范·阿姆斯特丹拿出托盘，数了十二个饼干。正当他开始把饼干裝起来时，那位老太太过来打断了他。

“我要一打，你只给了我12个。”

“夫人，”面包师说，“所有人都知道一打就是12个啊。”

“但我说的一打是13个，”老太太说。“再给我一个。”

范·阿姆斯特丹不能容忍这样的蠢事。“夫人，我的顾客买多少我就给多少，不多也不少。”

“那你留着这些饼干吧。”

老太太转身离开，但在门口处停住了。

“范·阿姆斯特丹！你虽然诚实，但你的心很小，你的手握得太紧。吃一堑，长一智，重新学学如何数数吧！”

然后，她就离开了。

那天以后，范·阿姆斯特丹的面包店遇到了麻烦。他的面包要么膨胀得太厉害，要么完全不膨胀。他的馅饼要么酸了要么太甜了。他的蛋糕要么太松要么太韧。他的饼干要么焦了要么不熟。

他的顾客很快就发现了其中的问题。不久，大部分顾客都去光顾别的面包店了。

“那个老太太诅咒了我，”面包师自言自语道。“这就是我诚实的报应吗？”

一年过去了，面包师越来越穷。他卖得少，也就做得少，他的架子几乎是空的。他最后的顾客也不来了。

最后，在圣尼古拉斯节的前一天，范·阿姆斯特丹的面包店一个顾客都没有了。这天晚上，面包师独自坐在那儿，盯着那些卖不出去的圣尼古拉斯饼干。

“希望圣尼古拉斯现在可以帮帮我，”他说。他关门后伤心地上床睡觉了。

那天晚上，面包师做了个梦。他变成了一个小男孩，和一群快乐的小孩子在一起，而圣尼古拉斯本人就在他们中间。

主教的白马就站在他旁边，马背上的篮子装满了礼物。尼古拉斯一件一件地拿出礼物送给小孩子。但范·阿姆斯特丹发现了一件奇怪的事情——不管尼古拉斯拿出多少份礼物，篮子里总会有更多的礼物。事实上，他从篮子里拿出的越多，里面的礼物似乎也越多。

然后，尼古拉斯递给范·阿姆斯特丹一份礼物。那是面包师自己的圣尼古拉斯饼干！范·阿姆斯特丹抬起头来感谢他，但站在那儿的不再是圣尼古拉斯，而是那位披着长长黑色披肩的老太太，正向他低头微笑。

范·阿姆斯特丹猛地惊醒过来。他边躺着，边思考，月光从半关着的窗户中照进来。

“我总是给顾客准确的量，”他说，“不多不少。但为何不多给一些呢？”

第二天早上就是圣尼古拉斯节，面包师早早起来了。他把姜饼面粉和好，压平，拿模具做出形状，放进烤箱，最后再加上红色和白色的霜糖，看起来就像圣尼古拉斯一样。这些饼干跟他以前做的一样好。

范·阿姆斯特丹刚做好，门就被打开了。那个披着长长黑色披肩的老太太走了进来。

“我要一打圣尼古拉斯饼干。”

范·阿姆斯特丹非常激动，他数了12个饼干——加一个。

“在这家店里，”他说，“从此一打就是13。”

“你学会数数了，”老太太说。“你肯定会得到回报的。”

她付钱后就出去了。但在门关上时，面包师的眼睛好像看到了什么特别的东西。他似乎看到了一件红色长斗篷的下摆。

正如那位老太太预言的那样，范·阿姆斯特丹得到了回报。人们听说他以13为一打后，更多人光顾他的店了。

事实上，范·阿姆斯特丹变得很富有，其他面包师也开始仿效他的做法。这个做法从这个镇传到其他镇上，最后传遍了整个美洲殖民地。

人们说，这就是“面包师的一打”等于13的由来——这个习俗流行了一个多世纪，在如今的一些地方仍然如此。