"Bread and cake and barley sugar. But wouldn't you like to see it closer? You might eat some of it, too, if you like, for no one ever visits it now except the wind and rain."
Ellen walked over toward the house, while the wolf stopped a moment to bite out a burr that had stuck between his toes. "I'll be with you in a moment," he called after her.
"Mistress," said the gander stretching up its neck to whisper in Ellen's ear, "that old Gray-coat means no good to us."
"He frightens me," Ellen whispered back, "but what can I do?"
"He isn't looking now. Let's slip inside the house and lock the door."
Ellen glanced back over her shoulder. The wolf was still busy over the burr, but it was some distance to the house. "Do you think we can get there before him?" she asked.
"We can but try."
"Come, then," and Ellen began to run toward the house; while the gander ran beside her, helping himself along with his wings.
At the noise they made, the wolf looked up, and then with a howl of rage came tearing after them with long swift bounds. By the time Ellen and the gander were on the threshold of the house he was at the foot of the steps, but, turning, the little girl slammed the door and shot the bolt into place.