Snuggle in close, little one, and let me tell you a story so old that even your grandparents' grandparents heard it at bedtime — the story of three little pigs, and one very hungry wolf.
Once upon a time, in a cozy cottage at the edge of a green, sunny meadow, there lived three little pig brothers with their mother and father. The eldest was strong and steady. The middle one was cheerful and a little bit hasty. And the youngest — the smallest of the three — was the most thoughtful of them all, always the one who stopped to think before he acted.
One morning, Mother Pig gathered all three of them by the door. "My darling piglets," she said, "you are big enough now. It is time each of you built a home of your very own."
"Aww, Ma!" said the middle pig. "Do we have to?"
"You do," said Father Pig, tapping his hoof. "Out in the world, little ones. Build well, build safely, and remember — a house is only as good as the work you put into it."
So off went the three brothers, trotting down the lane with the sun on their backs, each one a little nervous, and each one very excited.
The eldest pig — the one in the biggest hurry to finish and go play — met a farmer carrying a huge bundle of golden straw.
"Please, sir," said the pig, "may I have some straw to build my house?"
The farmer chuckled and handed him the whole bundle. In no time at all — snip, snap, tie, tuck — the pig had built himself a house. It looked lovely in the sunshine, all golden and glowing.
But little one, a straw house is what grown-ups call flimsy. Flimsy means weak and wobbly — the kind of thing that falls apart if so much as a strong wind blows past it. The eldest pig didn't think about that at all. He was too busy dancing outside his new front door, singing a silly little song about how clever he was.
His two brothers waved goodbye and kept walking, off to build houses of their own.
Now, deep in the dark woods nearby, something was watching. Something with sharp yellow eyes, sharp white teeth, and a stomach that had been rumbling all day. It was the Big Bad Wolf, and he had smelled a fresh, cozy pig-house from a mile away.
That evening, just as the eldest pig was tucking himself in for the night, there came a knock at his little straw door.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Little pig, little pig," growled a low voice, "let me come in!"
The pig's ears went straight up with fright. "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!" he squeaked, just as bravely as he could manage.
"Then," said the wolf, with a wicked grin nobody could see in the dark, "I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in!"
And he did exactly that. He took an enormous breath, filled his big wolfy cheeks — that's what huff and puff means, little one, taking two giant breaths, one in and one out, hard enough to move the whole world — and WHOOOOSH! The straw walls shivered, shook, and tumbled down in a golden heap.
The eldest pig didn't wait around to see what happened next. He squealed and bolted, little trotters pounding the dirt path, running as fast as he possibly could — all the way to his brother's house, built of sticks, just down the lane.
Sweet dreams, little one. Tomorrow night, we'll find out whether a house of sticks can stand any stronger than a house of straw — and whether the Big Bad Wolf is still hungry.