Excerpt
Once upon a time,
Though I can't say exactly when,
There lived, away in the country,
A Little Small Red Hen.
She wore a nice little apron,
And a little sunbonnet too,
And she walked picketty pecketty,
As little Hens always do.
She had lived the whole of her little life,
In the same little house; it stood
All by itself, in a lonely spot,
Just at the edge of a wood.
It was very snug and cosy and warm,
And the garden wasn't big,
But just what a Little Small Red Hen
Could nicely manage to dig.
And once upon a time—
Just the same time, of course,
There also lived a Wicked Old Fox
Among the heath and gorse.
Silently, slyly, he crept round the fields,
Stealing geese and ducks and cocks,
Dressed in a hat and long great coat,
This wicked, cunning old Fox.
His house was perched on top of the hill,
It was made of rock and stone;
He and his wife, old Mother Fox,
They lived there all alone.
It was large and damp and draughty,
Ugly and cold and bare;
A tidy Little Small Red Hen
Would never be happy there.
Now, the Wicked Old Fox had often tried
Over and over again,
To catch by some sly trick or other
The Little Small Red Hen.
But she was far too clever for him,
She never let him find her,
And whenever she left her little house
She would lock the door behind her.
One morning, very early indeed,
Before the sun was hot,
The Wicked Old Fox said to Mother Fox,
"Put on the big black pot.
"I'm going to have another try,
I shall soon be back, and then
I promise you'll see at last I've caught
The Little Small Red Hen."
So he put on his cap and shouldered a sack,
And walked very sly and slow;
And after a while he came in sight
Of the snug little house below.
And he laid the sack very softly down
On the ground behind a tree,
And then lay down to wait and watch,
As quiet as quiet could be.
He was getting tired of waiting there,
When the house-door opened wide,
And the Little Small Red Hen came forth
To gather sticks outside;
Walking picketty-pecketty,
Exceedingly neat and prim;
And the Wicked Old Fox lay watching;
She never once thought of him!
While she was picking up the sticks
He slipped behind the door,
And laughed "Ho! Ho!" to himself, very low,
As he put the sack on the floor.
He stood there, hiding and chuckling,
And peeping through the crack,
And he saw the Little Small Red Hen,
In a minute or two, come back.
She stepped inside with her bundle of sticks,
As cheerful as one could be,
When the Wicked Old Fox sprang full at her throat.
"I've got you now!" cried he.
"What good are bolts and bars?" he said,
"How silly you must be
To think that they could ever keep out
A cunning old Fox like me!"
Of course the poor Little Small Red Hen
Was now in a terrible fright.
She gave a scream and dropped her sticks,
They tumbled left and right.
But she just had time to fly on a beam
That went across over head,
Quite out of reach of the Wicked Old Fox.
"But I'll have you yet," he said.
Then he began to run round and round,
And round and round beneath,
Looking up every now and then,
Laughing and showing his teeth.
...