Once upon a time, in a sunny meadow surrounded by tall oak trees, lived three little pigs named Percy, Pippin, and Penny. They were the best of friends but as different as could be. Percy loved to nap in the shade, Pippin adored chasing butterflies, and Penny spent hours tinkering with tools and sketching plans. One day, their mother called them together. “My dears,” she said, “it’s time for you to build homes of your own. Remember—effort today keeps trouble away.” 
Percy, eager to get back to his nap, hurried to the nearest field. “Straw is light and easy!” he chirped. By afternoon, he’d piled golden stalks into a cozy hut. “Done!” he yawned, flopping onto a haystack for a long snooze.
Pippin, meanwhile, skipped to the forest’s edge. “Sticks are quick and fun!” she giggled, weaving branches into a cottage with a leaf roof. She hung a daisy wreath on the door and danced inside, humming a tune.
Penny, though, frowned at her siblings’ haste. She hauled a wagon to the riverbank, filling it with smooth stones and clay. “Bricks take time,” she muttered, mixing mortar and stacking walls under the hot sun. Days passed, but Penny kept working, her hands calloused and her face smudged with dirt.
One crisp evening, as shadows stretched across the meadow, a wolf named Walter crept into the valley. His belly growled, and his eyes glinted. Spotting Percy’s straw hut, he licked his chops. “Little pig, let me in!” he barked.
“Not by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin!” Percy squeaked.
“Then I’ll huff… and I’ll puff… and I’ll BLOW YOUR HOUSE IN!” Walter roared. With one mighty gust, the straw hut exploded into a golden whirlwind. Percy bolted to Pippin’s stick cottage, breathless.
The wolf followed, snarling. “Let me in, little pigs!”
“Never!” cried Pippin, clutching her daisy wreath.
Walter huffed and puffed until the stick house shattered like matchsticks. The two pigs sprinted to Penny’s brick house, Walter hot on their heels.
Penny barred the oak door as the wolf snarled, “OPEN UP!”
“Not a chance!” Penny shouted. Walter blew until his cheeks turned purple, but the bricks stood firm. Growling, he scrambled onto the roof, aiming to squeeze down the chimney.
Penny, however, had planned ahead. “Quick—stoke the fire!” she whispered. Percy and Pippin tossed logs into the hearth as Penny swung a cauldron of soup over the flames. With a yowl, Walter slid straight into the bubbling pot! He shot back up the chimney, howling, “I’ll never eat pork AGAIN!” and vanished into the night.
The three pigs hugged, their hearts pounding. Percy sighed, “I should’ve built stronger.” Pippin nodded. “Me too. But Penny’s house saved us!”
From then on, Percy traded naps for hammering practice, Pippin swapped dancing for gathering bricks, and Penny taught them both to build. Their new homes—sturdy, wolf-proof, and side by side—became the talk of the meadow.
And Walter? He retired to a cave, surviving on berry pies (store-bought, of course). Rumor has it he still mutters, “Bricks… wretched bricks…”
So remember, little ones: shortcuts may seem sweet, but patience and care make life complete. Sweet dreams!
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(Word count: 523)
