Little Red Riding Hood - European

My mother’s warning still echoes in my ears, as clear as the little bell on our cottage door. 'Go straight to your grandmother’s house,' she said, tying the ribbons of my beautiful red cloak that my grandmother had made for me. 'Don’t dawdle in the woods, and don’t talk to strangers.' My story is told in many villages and lands, but you can call me Little Red Riding Hood. Long ago, on a sunny morning, my world was as bright as my cloak. I lived with my mother in a cozy cottage at the edge of a great, dark forest, a place filled with towering trees, secrets, and shadows. That day, my grandmother was feeling unwell, so Mother packed a basket with a loaf of fresh bread, sweet butter, and a little pot of honey for me to take to her. I promised to be as swift as an arrow and as quiet as a mouse. But the forest was a curious place, full of rustling leaves and intriguing sounds that seemed to be whispering my name, pulling me toward its mysteries. This simple journey, which was meant to be an act of kindness, turned into the very heart of the tale people now call Little Red Riding Hood.

The path into the woods was dappled with sunlight that danced on the ground, and colourful birds sang cheerful melodies from the branches high above. It was so beautiful, and for a moment, I almost forgot my mother’s words. Then, from behind a large oak tree, a wolf stepped out. He wasn’t snarling or scary like in the stories; instead, he was quite charming, with a polite smile and clever, shining eyes. 'Good morning, little miss,' he said with a little bow. 'And where might you be going on this fine day?' Forgetting all about my promise, I was so impressed by his polite manners that I told him everything about my dear grandmother being sick and how I was bringing her treats to make her feel better. He listened with great interest, his ears twitching. Then he pointed with his snout to a nearby meadow filled with wildflowers. 'What a lovely gift those would be for your grandmother!' he suggested smoothly. I knew I shouldn't leave the path, but the flowers were so pretty—a dazzling carpet of yellow, blue, and pink. Can you imagine it? I thought just one little bouquet wouldn't hurt. While I was busy picking the perfect flowers, the clever wolf grinned and raced ahead, taking a shortcut through the trees, his paws silent on the mossy ground. He was heading straight for my grandmother's cottage.

When I finally arrived at Grandmother’s little cottage, with its thatched roof and climbing roses, the front door was slightly ajar. That was strange. 'Grandmother?' I called out, but her voice sounded unusual and gruff when she answered, 'Come in, my dear!' Inside, the cottage was dim, with the curtains drawn, and my grandmother was tucked tightly into bed, her frilly bonnet pulled low over her face. Something felt very wrong. As I got closer, I couldn't help but notice how different she looked. 'Oh, Grandmother,' I said, my voice trembling just a little, 'what big ears you have!' 'The better to hear you with, my dear,' the strange voice croaked. I took another step. 'And Grandmother, what big eyes you have!' 'The better to see you with, my dear.' My heart began to beat like a drum against my ribs. 'But Grandmother, what big teeth you have!' 'The better to eat you with!' With a mighty roar, the wolf leaped from the bed, his disguise falling away! It wasn't my grandmother at all. Before I could even scream, he gobbled me up in one big gulp, and I tumbled into the warm darkness of his belly, where I found my poor grandmother waiting, scared but safe.

Just when we thought all hope was lost, a brave woodcutter who was passing by heard the wolf’s loud, satisfied snores coming from the cottage. He was a kind man who knew my grandmother well, and he thought her snoring sounded awfully strange. Peeking inside, he saw the big, lumpy wolf asleep on the bed and knew something was terribly wrong. With his quick thinking and his sharp axe, he rescued us, and we were safe and sound. I learned a powerful lesson that day about listening to those who love me and about being wary of charming strangers whose words are sweeter than honey. For hundreds of years, parents all across Europe told my story to their children around the fireplace, long before it was written down by famous storytellers like Charles Perrault in the 17th century or the Brothers Grimm on December 20th, 1812. It was a cautionary tale to teach them to be careful and wise. Today, my red cloak and the clever wolf are seen in movies, art, and books all over the world. My story reminds everyone that even when you make a mistake, there is always hope, and courage can be found in the most unexpected places. It inspires us to be brave, to trust our instincts, and to remember that the path of wisdom is always the safest one to walk.