Three Pigs

The Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf

This is the story of the three little pigs and the big bad wolf. Once upon a time, there were three brother pigs who lived on three little hills. For a time, the pigs simply lay in the grass, slept under the starry sky, and ate apples and acorns that fell from the trees that grew thick in the little valleys. The pigs thought they had found paradise, and were content.

But one night, a wolf howl went up into the starry skies. The howl, like a gale of the North Wind, was so great that the clouds above seemed to part, and the stars shivered and blinked at the power and ferocity of the sound.

The pigs grew afraid. In the dark, they realized that they were out in the open, exposed, and alone. They did not sleep that night, but tried to hide among the grass, staring hard into the darkness with eyes that bulged with fear. Morning found them still hiding, still awake, still afraid.

And so they resolved not to spend another night huddled in open. They set to work early the very next day, working side by side to build a house together. They crafted a small hut out of dried grasses, for it was summer, and the golden stalks were tall upon the three little hills. The walls, and the door, and even the roof was made of grass, tightly bound into stiff, strong bundles.

Working together, they finished the house in a single day, and that night they slept upon the dirt floor, looking up not at the starry sky, but at a roof of straw. And when that great howl sang out again and made the night air shiver, the pigs trembled in their little house. They were still afraid.

So the next day, they gathered sticks and branches from the oaks and apple trees that grew in the little valleys. They hauled great piles of wood to the top of the second hill, grunting and sweating and working harder than they ever had before. At the end of the day, they had not even begun to build the second, stronger house. They retreated to the house of grass, and slept. The wolf did not howl that night, but they were still afraid.

The house of sticks and branches, they finished the next day, after toiling for hour after hour, from the first light of day until the rosy glow of sunset. And when it was finished, they admired their work. It was strong and well crafted, with no windows and a strong, strong door. They tested the house, kicking at it, pulling at it, pounding on the door. The house was strong.

But that night, they slept, and they were still afraid.

And so for a year, they toiled upon the third hill. Hauling stones from the fields and valleys for miles around, sweating and grunting, they strained every day to build a house that would finally make them safe. And after a year, the great stone house was finished. It would stand like a castle tower upon that hill unmoved for a century at least, a monument to the toil of the three brother pigs.

That night, they slept for the first time within those windowless walls, dreaming of stars.

And then the howl went up into the night like a great storm, and the ground seemed to buzz with the noise of it, and the wind seemed to blow and blow and blow.

And the pigs were afraid.