Once upon a time,

      Though I can't say exactly when,

      There lived, away in the country,

      A Little Small Red Hen.

      She wore a nice little apron,

      And a little sunbonnet too,

      And she walked picketty pecketty,

      As little Hens always do.

      She had lived the whole of her little life,

      In the same little house; it stood

      All by itself, in a lonely spot,

      Just at the edge of a wood.

      It was very snug and cosy and warm,

      And the garden wasn't big,

      But just what a Little Small Red Hen

      Could nicely manage to dig.

      And once upon a time—

      Just the same time, of course,

      There also lived a Wicked Old Fox

      Among the heath and gorse.

      Silently, slyly, he crept round the fields,

      Stealing geese and ducks and cocks,

      Dressed in a hat and long great coat,

      This wicked, cunning old Fox.

      His house was perched on top of the hill,

      It was made of rock and stone;

      He and his wife, old Mother Fox,

      They lived there all alone.

      It was large and damp and draughty,

      Ugly and cold and bare;

      A tidy Little Small Red Hen

      Would never be happy there.

      Now, the Wicked Old Fox had often tried

      Over and over again,

      To catch by some sly trick or other

      The Little Small Red Hen.

      But she was far too clever for him,

      She never let him find her,

      And whenever she left her little house

      She would lock the door behind her.

      One morning, very early indeed,

      Before the sun was hot,

      The Wicked Old Fox said to Mother Fox,

      "Put on the big black pot.

      "I'm going to have another try,

      I shall soon be back, and then

      I promise you'll see at last I've caught

      The Little Small Red Hen."