This is the whole tale, the same ten pages it runs in Pillowbook on the phone. Read it here tonight if that is easier. Nothing is cut, nothing asks you to sign up, and every picture was painted for this book.
Reading time is about five minutes at an unhurried pace, one page every thirty seconds or so. The wolf huffs and fails. No pig comes to harm in this retelling.
The three brothers left the old barn on a bright morning, each with a bundle over one shoulder. Pim wore dungarees the colour of straw, and he walked fastest. Tom wore brown, and stopped to look at things. Bram wore red like a new brick, and came last, because he was thinking. At the top of the hill the road split three ways, and they stood a moment, looking at one another.Pim went left, because he had seen a field where the straw lay in gold heaps, still warm from the cutting. He gathered armfuls and pressed them flat with his hands, and by mid-afternoon he had four walls and a roof. Then he lay on his back inside. The light came through in thin gold lines and lay across him in stripes, the bees worked in the clover, and he fell asleep.Tom walked as far as the hazel wood, because hazel grows straight and a straight stick is a good thing. He laid the sticks in piles by length, tied the corners with twine, and pulled every knot twice. By evening the house stood in the long grass with a crooked chimney and a door that creaked pleasantly, and he sat on his step and watched the light go out of the field.Bram kept walking until he found clay in the bank of a stream, grey and cold and heavy. He shaped the bricks one at a time in a wooden frame and set them in rows in the sun. His brothers came by on the second day. "You are making mud pies," said Pim. "Very tidy mud pies," said Tom, kindly. Bram laid the next brick, and the next, for seven days.The wolf came down the road on a Tuesday, long and grey and very neat, in a brown corduroy waistcoat with all the buttons done up, whistling. At the straw house he stopped and looked at it a while, the way you look at a cake in a window. Then he knocked, politely, with one knuckle. "Little pig," he called, in a voice as sweet as syrup, "let me in.""No," said Pim, through the wall. The wolf gave the sigh of someone the world has disappointed many times. Then he set his feet apart and drew a breath so enormous that his waistcoat buttons strained and one turned sideways, and he blew. The straw went up all at once, like a flock of birds startled off a field. Pim did not even watch it go. Pim was already running.He ran the whole way to the hazel wood with his ears flat and hammered on his brother's door, and Tom pulled him in and dropped the latch, and the two of them stood getting their breath back. Then they heard whistling on the path. "Little pigs," said the sweet voice, closer now, "let me in." Tom looked at his door, and knew exactly how well he had tied it.The wolf filled himself with air again and blew, and the stick house came apart with a long clatter, like a box of spoons going over, and lay flat in the grass. Both brothers ran — past the stream, past the drying frames, up the last slope. Bram had the door open before they reached it, and shoved it shut with his back.By now the brick walls stood taller than Bram did, and the corners were square. The wolf arrived a moment later, straightened his waistcoat, did up the button that had gone sideways, and blew. Nothing happened. He blew again, harder, until his cheeks went round and his ears pink and his eyes watered — and still nothing, not a creak, not a shiver. He sat down in the road.He sat a long while, looking at the bricks. Then he stood, brushed his knees, tugged his waistcoat straight, and walked away down the road without looking back. Inside, Bram put the kettle on. The three brothers sat by the fire with their mugs and said nothing, because there was nothing that needed saying. Outside the window the field turned blue, and then darker.
The end.
Read any of the 12 tonight, free
12 classic fairy tales, ten painted pages each, one story an evening. No sign-up before you can read.
Yes. All ten pages of The Three Little Pigs are on this page, each with the illustration that belongs to it. Nothing is held back for the app.
Is it suitable for a three year old?
It is written for children between three and eight. The wolf huffs and fails. No pig comes to harm in this retelling.
How long does it take to read aloud?
About five minutes at an unhurried pace, which is roughly one page every thirty seconds.
Where do the pictures come from?
They were painted for Pillowbook, one plate per page, in a single visual voice shared across all 12 tales. They are not stock illustrations.
Can I read the other tales here?
Yes. All 12 are on this site in full, free and without an account. The app is for reading them at bedtime — offline, no advertising, one page to a screen — and for the tale it writes about your own child.
