Mother's Nursery Tales
Copyright© 2024 by Katharine Pyle
The Wolf and the Five Little Goats
There was once a mother goat who had five little kids, and these kids were so dear to her that nothing could have been dearer.
One day the mother goat was going to the forest to gather some wood for her fire. “Now, my little kids,” said she, “you must be very careful while I am away. Bar the door behind me, and open it to nobody until I return. If the wicked wolf should get in he would certainly eat you.”
The little kids promised they would be careful, and then their mother started out, and as soon as she had gone they barred the door behind her.
Now it so happened the old wolf was on the watch that day. He saw the mother goat trotting away toward the forest, and as soon as she was out of sight, he crept down to the house and knocked at the door—rap-tap-tap!
“Who is there?” called the little kids within.
“It is I, your mother, my dears,” answered the wolf in his great rough voice. “Open the door and let me in.”
But the kids were very clever little kids. “No, no,” they cried. “You are not our mother. Our mother has a soft, sweet voice, and your voice is harsh and rough. You must be the wolf.”
When the wolf heard this he was very angry. He battered and battered at the door, but they would not let him in. Then he turned and galloped away as fast as he could until he came to a dairy. There he stuck his head in at the window, and the woman had just finished churning her butter.
“Woman, woman,” cried the wolf, “give me some butter. If you do not I will come in and upset your churn.”
The woman was frightened. At once she gave him a great deal of butter—all he could eat.
The wolf swallowed it down, and then he ran back to the goat’s house and knocked at the door—rat-tat-rat!
“Who is there?” asked the little goats within.
“Your mother, my dears,” answered the wolf, and now his voice was very soft and smooth because of the butter he had swallowed.
“It is our mother,” cried the little kids, and they were about to open the door, but the littlest kid of all, who was a very wise little kid, stopped them.
“Wait a bit,” said he. “It sounds like our mother’s voice, but before we open the door we had better be very, very sure it is not the wolf.” Then he called through the door, “Put your paws up on the windowsill.”
The wolf suspected nothing. He put his paws up on the windowsill, and as soon as the little kids saw them they knew at once that it was not their mother. “No, no,” they cried, “you are not our mother. Our mother has pretty white feet, and your feet are as black as soot. You must be the wolf.”
When the wolf heard this he was angrier than ever. He turned and galloped away again, and as he galloped he growled to himself and gnashed his teeth.
Presently he came to a baker’s shop, and there he stuck his head in at the window.
“Baker, baker, give me some dough,” he cried. “If you do not I will upset your pans and spoil your baking.”
The baker was frightened. At once he gave the wolf all the dough he wanted. The wolf seized it and ran away with it. He ran until he came to the goat’s house. There he sat down and covered his black feet all over with the white dough. Then he knocked at the door—rat-tat-tat!
“Who is there?” cried the little goats within.
“Your mother, my dears, come home again,” answered the wolf, in his smooth buttery voice.
“Put your paws up on the windowsill.”
The wolf put his paws up on the windowsill, and they looked quite white because of the dough. Then the little kids felt sure it was their mother, and they gladly opened the door.
“Woof!” In bounded the wicked wolf.
The little goats cried out and away they ran, some in one direction, and some in another. They hid themselves one behind the door, and one in the dough-trough, and one in the wash-tub, and one under the bed, and one (and he was the littlest one of all) hid in the tall clock-case. The wolf stood there glaring about him, and not as much as a tail of one of them could he see.
Then he began to hunt about for them, but he had to be in a hurry, because he was afraid the mother goat would come home again.
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