The Three Billy Goats Gruff
Once there were three billy goats who lived in a valley where the grass had gone brown and prickly.
They were all called Gruff. There was Little Billy Goat Gruff, who was the smallest. There was Middle Billy Goat Gruff, who was the middlest. And there was Big Billy Goat Gruff, who was enormous, and had horns like two curled-up questions.
Across the river was a hillside covered in grass so green it looked freshly painted.
“We should go over there,” said Little Billy Goat Gruff.
“We should,” said Middle Billy Goat Gruff.
“Hmm,” said Big Billy Goat Gruff, because he had seen the bridge, and he had heard the stories.
The bridge was old and made of grey wood, and it went trip trap, trip trap when anybody crossed it. And underneath the bridge, in the cold shadow where the water ran fast, there lived a troll.
He was a lumpy sort of troll, with eyes like dinner plates and a nose like a potato, and he was always, always hungry.
Little Billy Goat Gruff
Little Billy Goat Gruff went first, because he was small and quick and did not think too hard about things.
Trip trap, trip trap, went his little hooves.
“WHO IS THAT TRIPPING OVER MY BRIDGE?”
The troll came up over the edge of the bridge like a bad idea.
“It’s only me,” said Little Billy Goat Gruff, in the smallest voice he had. “I’m going up the hill to eat the green grass.”
“Oh no you are not,” said the troll. “I am going to gobble you up.”
Little Billy Goat Gruff thought about this for a moment.
“You could,” he said. “But I’m very small. There’s hardly any of me at all. Wait for my brother — he’s much bigger.”
The troll looked at him. He was quite small. There really was hardly any of him.
“Go on, then,” said the troll, and sank back down under the bridge.
Middle Billy Goat Gruff
After a while, Middle Billy Goat Gruff started across.
TRIP TRAP, TRIP TRAP, went his middle-sized hooves.
“WHO IS THAT TRIPPING OVER MY BRIDGE?”
Up came the troll again, dripping and cross.
“It’s me,” said Middle Billy Goat Gruff. “I’m going up the hill to eat the green grass.”
“I am going to gobble you up,” said the troll.
“You could,” said Middle Billy Goat Gruff. “But you’d be much better off waiting. My brother is coming, and he’s enormous.”
The troll’s eyes went wide, the way eyes do when they are imagining dinner.
“Enormous?”
“Enormous,” said Middle Billy Goat Gruff, and trotted on before the troll could think about it too carefully.
Big Billy Goat Gruff
Then Big Billy Goat Gruff put one great hoof on the bridge.
TRIP TRAP. TRIP TRAP.
The whole bridge shook. Pebbles hopped off the edge and fell into the water.
“WHO IS THAT TRIPPING OVER MY —”
The troll stopped.
Big Billy Goat Gruff was standing in the middle of the bridge, taking up nearly all of it, with his horns curling up on either side of his head like two big question marks. He did not look worried in the least.
“It’s me,” said Big Billy Goat Gruff.
The troll opened his mouth. Then he closed it again.
“Well,” said the troll, after a long moment. “That’s — that’s fine. On you go.”
And he slid back down under the bridge and stayed there, thinking about how quiet it was, and how nobody had ever once thanked him for keeping the bridge tidy.
So the three billy goats went up the green hill and ate until their sides were round. And after that they crossed the bridge whenever they liked, saying good morning to the troll each time, until eventually he got used to it and started saying good morning back.
And if you go there now, you can still hear it: trip trap, trip trap, all day long.