“That is a sensible little pig,” replied his mother, looking fondly at him. “I will see that the three houses are made ready at once. And now one last piece of advice. You have heard me talk of our old enemy, the fox. When he hears that I am dead he is sure to try and get hold of you, to carry you off to his den. He is very sly, and will no doubt disguise himself and pretend to be a friend, but you must promise me not to let him enter your houses on any pretext whatever,” and the little pigs readily promised, for they had always had a great fear of the fox, of whom they had heard many terrible tales.
A short time afterward the old pig died, and the little pigs went to live in their own houses. Browny was quite delighted with his soft mud walls and with the clay floor, which soon looked like nothing but a big mud pie. But that was what Browny enjoyed, and he was as happy as possible, rolling about all day and making himself exceedingly dirty. One day, as he was lying half asleep in the mud, he heard a soft knock at his door and a gentle voice said:
“May I come in, Master Browny? I want to see your beautiful new house.”
“Who are you?” said Browny, starting up in great fright, for though the voice sounded gentle, he felt sure it was a feigned voice and he feared it was the fox.
“I am a friend come to call on you,” answered the voice.
“No, no,” replied Browny, “I don’t believe you are a friend. You are the wicked fox, against whom our mother warned us. I won’t let you in.”
“Oho! is that the way you answer me?” said the fox, speaking very roughly in his natural voice. “We shall soon see who is master here,” and with his paws he set to work and scraped a large hole in the soft mud walls. A moment later he had jumped through it, and catching Browny by the neck, flung him on his shoulders and trotted off with him to his den.
The next day, as Whity was munching a few leaves of cabbage out of the corner of her house, the fox stole up to her door, determined to carry her off to join her brother in his den. He began speaking to her in the same feigned, gentle voice in which he had spoken to Browny; but it frightened her very much when he said:
“I am a friend come to visit you and to have some of your good cabbage for my dinner.”
“Please don’t touch it,” cried Whity in great distress. “The cabbages are the walls of my house, and if you eat them you will make a hole, and the wind and rain will come in and give me a cold. Do go away. I am sure you are not a friend, but our wicked enemy the fox.” And poor Whity began to whine and to whimper, and to wish that she had not been such a greedy little pig and had chosen a more solid material than cabbages for her house. But it was too late now, and in another minute the fox had eaten his way through the cabbage walls and had caught the trembling, shivering Whity and carried her off to his den.