t day, when the mud in the farmyard got
soft, and thick, and slab. Then he would steal away from his mother's
side, and finding the muddiest place in the yard, would roll about in it
and thoroughly enjoy himself. His mother often found fault with him for
this, and would shake her head sadly and say: 'Ah, Browny! some day you
will be sorry that you did not obey your old mother.' But no words of
advice or warning could cure Browny of his bad habits.

Whitey was quite a clever little pig, but she was greedy. She was always
thinking of her food, and looking forward to her dinner; and when the
farm girl was seen carrying the pails across the yard, she would rise
up on her hind legs and dance and caper with excitement. As soon as the
food was poured into the trough she jostled Blacky and Browny out of the
way in her eagerness to get the best and biggest bits for herself. Her
mother often scolded her for her selfishness, and told her that some day
she would suffer for being so greedy and grabbing.

Blacky was a good, nice little pig, neither dirty nor greedy. He had
nice dainty ways (for a pig), and his skin was always as smooth and
shining as black satin. He was much cleverer than Browny and Whitey, and
his mother's heart used to swell with pride when she heard the farmer's
friends say to each other that some day the little black fellow would be
a prize pig.

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 odd 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 turn 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-parings.

'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