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Now the time came when the mother pig felt old and feeble and near her end. One day she called the three little pigs round her and said:
‘My children, I feel that I am growing old and weak, and that I shall not live long. Before I die I should like to build a house for each of you, as this dear old sty in which we have lived so happily will be given to a new family of pigs, and you will have to move out. Now, Browny, what sort of a house would you like to have?’
‘A house of mud,’ replied Browny, looking longingly at a wet puddle in the corner of the yard.
‘And you, Whitey?’ said the mother pig in rather a sad voice, for she was disappointed that Browny had made so foolish a choice.
‘A house of cabbage,’ answered Whitey, with a mouth full, and scarcely raising her snout out of the trough in which she was grubbing for some potato-bits.
‘Foolish, foolish child!’ said the mother pig, looking quite distressed. ‘And you, Blacky?’ turning to her youngest son, ‘what sort of a house shall I order for you?’
‘A house of brick, please mother, as it will be warm in winter, and cool in summer, and safe all the year round.’
‘That is a sensible little pig,’ replied his mother, looking fondly at him. ‘I will see that the three houses are built 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 with any of his lying skins.’
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 afterwards the old pig died, and the little pigs went to live in their own houses.
