The Wolf and the Seven Little Goats

Once upon a time, in a little house at the edge of the forest, lived Mother Goat and her seven kids. Six were fidgety little rascals, but the seventh, the smallest, was quiet and watchful.

One day Mother Goat got ready to go into the forest for fresh grass.

“Children,” she said, “don’t open the door to anyone. A Wolf prowls around here. His voice is gruff and his paws are black. That’s how you’ll know him.”

“We won’t open, Mama!” bleated the kids.

Mama had barely stepped over the threshold when—knock-knock at the door.

“Open up, my dears, it’s your mama, I’ve brought you treats!”

But the voice was hoarse as an old gate.

“We won’t open!” the kids cried. “Our mama speaks in a thin, gentle voice, and you growl. You’re the Wolf!”

The Wolf grew angry. He found a big piece of chalk and ate it—crunch-crunch. His voice became thin, so very thin.

Knock-knock again.

“Open up, my dears, it’s your mama!”

The little voice really was thin. But the Wolf leaned his paw on the windowsill, and the kids saw that the paw was black.

“We won’t open! Our mama has white feet. You’re the Wolf!”

The Wolf ran to the mill.

“Miller, sprinkle my paw with flour!”

The miller thought, “The gray fellow is up to no good.” But the Wolf snapped his teeth so loudly that the miller hurried to do it.

The third time, knock-knock.

“Open up, my dears, it’s your mama!”

The little voice was thin, and on the windowsill lay a white paw.

“Mama’s home!” cried the kids happily, and they slid back the bolt.

And in came the Wolf! The kids scattered: one under the table, another into the bed, a third into the stove, a fourth behind the cupboard, a fifth under the bowl, a sixth under the bench, and the smallest into the tall clock. The Wolf found six of them and—gulp, gulp—swallowed them whole, without chewing. Only the smallest one in the clock he never noticed. Full to bursting, he went out to the meadow, lay down under a tree and began to snore.

Mother Goat came home—the door wide open, the bench knocked over, the pillows on the floor. She called her children—silence. Then, from the clock, a tiny voice:

“Mama, I’m here!”

Out crept the smallest and told her everything. Oh, how Mother Goat cried! Then she wiped her tears.

“Come along, little one.”

In the meadow under the tree the Wolf lay sleeping, so loudly that the leaves trembled. And in his big belly something was stirring.

“They’re alive!” whispered Mother Goat.

Quietly, ever so quietly, so as not to wake him, she let her children out: one, two, three… six. Out they jumped, all safe and sound, because the greedy Wolf had swallowed them without chewing.

“Shh,” said Mama. “Bring stones.”

The kids dragged over stones, Mama put the stones in the Wolf’s belly and sewed it up with a needle and thread. He never woke.

The Wolf woke up thirsty. He went to the well, and in his belly—rumble-rumble, knock-knock.

“What on earth is rumbling in there?” he grumbled. “I swallowed kids, but it feels like I’ve eaten stones.”

He leaned over the well—and the stones pulled him down. Splash! And nobody ever saw that Wolf again.

From then on, the kids opened the door only when they could see Mama through the window, all of her, from her little horns to her little hooves. Because a thin little voice and a white paw are not yet Mama.