Same Little House
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.