When Blanche tells the wolf stories they play “scared.” It is fun to play “scared.” They shriek and run and hide.
One rainy day they had been playing Mother Hubbard.
“Now,” said Blanche, “I will tell a b-eautiful wolf story. It will make us awful scared. See if it doesn’t!”
So she climbed up into a big chair and began. But right in the middle of the story they heard something go scratch, scratch, very loudly.
“Oh, what is that, Dotty?” whispered Blanche, clutching Dorothy’s arm.
Scratch, scratch, it went again, and then there was a great rattling.
“Oh, it’s a wolf!” cried Dotty; and down the attic stairs they flew pell-mell; through the kitchen chamber and the great unfinished chamber, and down the back stairs; through the kitchen and the dining-room, and burst into grandma’s room all out of breath.
“What is the matter, children?” asked grandma.
“Oh, there’s a wolf in the attic,” they both cried out.
“Nonsense! we don’t have wolves in Massachusetts,” said grandma.