“Who is there?” asked the little goats within.
“Your mother, my dears,” answered the wolf, and now his voice was very soft and smooth because of the butter he had swallowed.
“It is our mother,” cried the little kids, and they were about to open the door, but the littlest kid of all, who was a very wise little kid, stopped them.
“Wait a bit,” said he. “It sounds like our mother’s voice, but before we open the door we had better be very, very sure it is not the wolf.” Then he called through the door, “Put your paws up on the windowsill.”
The wolf suspected nothing. He put his paws up on the windowsill, and as soon as the little kids saw them they knew at once that it was not their mother. “No, no,” they cried, “you are not our mother. Our mother has pretty white feet, and your feet are as black as soot. You must be the wolf.”
When the wolf heard this he was angrier than ever. He turned and galloped away again, and as he galloped he growled to himself and gnashed his teeth.
Presently he came to a baker’s shop, and there he stuck his head in at the window.
“Baker, baker, give me some dough,” he cried. “If you do not I will upset your pans and spoil your baking.”
The baker was frightened. At once he gave the wolf all the dough he wanted. The wolf seized it and ran away with it. He ran until he came to the goat’s house. There he sat down and covered his black feet all over with the white dough. Then he knocked at the door—rat-tat-tat!
“Who is there?” cried the little goats within.