At the edge of a meadow stood a neat white house with a red roof and an iron latch, where a mother goat lived with her seven little goats. They were not at all alike. One liked to stand on a stool and look at the bread shelf, while another polished acorns on the floor with his hoof. A third hummed while folding dishcloths, but the smallest simply loved to curl up inside the tall clock case and listen to the pendulum say tick, tick.
One morning, the mother goat tied on her basket and said, “I must go into the forest to bring back food for supper. Bolt the door after me, and do not open it for anyone else. “You will know me by my voice, which is clear and light, and by my feet, which are white.” The seven little goats stood in a row by the table and promised to be careful. Then she touched each head with her nose, stepped out the door, and went down the path between the hazel bushes.
The latch had hardly settled when a heavy knock came at the door. “Open, dear children,” said a rough voice. “Your mother has come home and brought something for each of you.” The seven little goats looked at one another. “That is not our mother,” said the one who hummed. “Her voice is thin as a silver bell, but yours is thick like a drum.” So they kept the door shut, and the …
6 chapters
