By and by the Goodman came in from his work, and the soup was dished up; and he, and his wife, and his little daughter, Golden-Tresses, sat down to sup it.
"Where's Curly-Locks?" asked the Goodman. "It's a pity he is not here as long as the soup is hot."
"How should I ken?" answered his wife crossly. "I have other work to do than to run about after a mischievous laddie all the morning."
The Goodman went on supping his soup in silence for some minutes; then he lifted up a little foot in his spoon.
"This is Curly-Locks' foot," he cried in horror. "There hath been ill work here."
"Hoots, havers," answered his wife, laughing, pretending to be very much amused. "What should Curly-Locks' foot be doing in the soup? 'Tis the hare's forefoot, which is very like that of a bairn."
But presently the Goodman took something else up in his spoon.
"This is Curly-Locks' hand," he said shrilly. "I ken it by the crook in its little finger."