(Overnight Music) #6 LITTLE RUDE RIDING HOOD - Jasons Bed Time Story Time

Hello and welcome to Jason's Storytime. Yes, my name's Jason Newland. Please only listen when you can safely close your eyes because this story is going to be a nice little sleepy session.

In the background, you may hear Andre the Ferret running around and being naughty, but that's all part of the atmosphere. So, Andre, shut up. Shush.

So, this is today's book. I'm going to read A Little Red Riding Hood. And it's from 1845 by F. W. N. Bailey, author of The New Tale of a Tub, etc.

And with illustrations, humours and numerous, numerous what? So, this was published in New York at Burgess, Stringer & Co. So, it's, I'm reading it from a website called tile.lok, no, tile.lok.gov. Andre, can you just quieten down just for two seconds? What do you want? What do you want? You've had your dinner, you've been for a walk. Go away.

Go away. So, here we go. So, Little Red Riding Hood.

As far as I can tell, this is the... For some reason, Andre wants to join me. Okay, you want to cuddle? Do you want to cuddle? I'll read you the story then. What? There you go.

Go inside my jacket then. Good boy. Okay, you ready, Andre? I'll read it to him.

This is an introduction. What do you want? What are you doing? You're not ready to go to buh-byes, are you? No, you're not. Oh dear, oh dear.

What, you want me to chuck you out the window? No, do you? If you're sure, okay. Right, now just behave and stay still. That's it.

No, the one thing a ferret doesn't do is stay still. Not when he's awake, when he's half asleep. What is it you want? He wants my attention, he's following me around.

But I don't know what he wants. Maybe he just wants a cuddle. So, Little Red Riding Hood.

Here we go. With Andre the ferret. All right then, son.

This is an introduction of the heroine to the reader. Have I actually read this book before? That's a weird sound. I'm not sure if I've read it.

Oh well, I'm gonna read it now anyway. I might have already read it. So, in a sweet little village, surrounded by tillage, two retired for rose and two peaceful for pillage, fit alike for fair youth, in rude health or for ill age, stood a sweet little cot, quite the gem of the spot.

No peasant near hand had a prettier got. A nicer was never to sir nor to ma'am let. In fact, you might call, with its chimney so tall, and its bedroom and kitchen and parlour and all, it nearly the neatest concern in the hamlet.

Or hamlet. I hope the whole thing isn't like this. That's gonna be hard work, isn't it, if it's all rhymes.

It's 63 pages. So here we go. Oh no, I think it is.

Oh, okay. There you go. There you go.

Good boy. Go away. So here we go.

This is the next bit. Which hamlet was neither, we whisper you plain. Hamlet the jeweler, nor Hamlet the dame.

Not Prince of the Danes, who sold gold-headed canes, nor Princess Strewt Hamlet, who spent his rhetoric in the... They just made that up, didn't they? They couldn't think of anything that rhymed with Hamlet, who spent his rhetoric. No, no, no, no, you're not fooling me. In the flower of youth on the skull of poor Yorick.

Butter Hamlet, the sweetest. Andre, can you eat a little bit quieter? He's showing off. He sounds like an elephant when he's walking around.

Now he's eating like a panther. Like he's never eaten before. Like literally, like he doesn't know how to eat.

Okay, here we go. In the flower of youth on the skull of poor Yorick. Butter Hamlet, the sweetest that ever was seen.

So soft, so serene, and so simple, I wean. That is war, not the guise of a knowing one's eyes. For about it you always could see something green.

I think the whole thing's rhymed. Damn. In this hamlet of houses, of grass and of glade, dwelt a rare little, very little, care little maid.

A beautiful relic of British rusticity, of very angelic, pure, tender simplicity, with a sweet pair of eyes that were blue as the skies, and a nose and a chin that knew nothing of sin. Nose and a chin that knew nothing of sin. The first bit, the sweet pair of eyes that were as blue as the skies.

And I reckon the bloke was really thinking, and a nose and a chin. Hmm. What's that gonna rhyme with? Nose and a chin that looks like a chicken? I don't know.

Oh, knew nothing of sin. A pearl row of teeth and a heart far beneath. Right, so she had teeth and a heart was in her chest.

Yeah. So, you know, human. So entirely void of all guile and untainted, that no heart could be better unless it were sainted.

Had you seen her, you then would have loved her by half. Oh, admired her far more than the serene, self-possessed little Sappho. So that rhymed.

They needed something to rhyme with Sappho. So I just put O. Who sang day and night at the Louther Bazaar, a smart little creature in form and in feature, with notes of an actress and not of a child. Now my beauty's carols were wood notes and wild.

She never thought of gain at their end or beginning. But Sappho keep varbling becase she is vinning. Don't really understand what Sappho is.

And did never, it's supposed to be true. All the love that this little girl's ma could afford her just amounted to this, that she fairly adored her. While her grand-ma-ma deemed it a pride and an honour to be everlastingly doting upon her.

Two shades of affection, without an objection, for which we this plausible reason have got, that grandma was in a dotage, but mother was not. So it says here, from home. So when absent, this proves beyond doubt, that a mother must always have known she was out.

She did not suck her thumbs, till she whitened their dibs. Um, I'm not understanding that bit. She was fond of plums, but she didn't tell fibs.

Now when off she went to her grandmother's scent, she trudged to her hut on her dear little legs, with many a purpose of kindness, eye-fegs, but never to teach her the way to suck eggs. It is hard to do that with your grand-ma-ma. Mind you, it is the only time in your life, you know, sucking eggs is much easier when you've got no teeth.

The child was so good that she had plenty of food. The good does not rhyme with food. It does if you're Scottish, good, food, but ultimately it's not.

Food and good, it's not the same, not the same sound, anyway. With cakes and with virtues, endowed and endued, and sweetmeats you might measure out by the rod. Oh, by the rude.

Now reader, this is in brackets, now reader, we both should put on a nightcap here and indulge in a visual while taking a nap here. They've rhymed here with here, for my muse has just hinted, or else I'll mistake her, that roads make us dream of the glories of Acre. Which glories, however, I honestly yield, were won on the ocean and not on the field, by fleet ships of war that were manned by our brave, and instead of the meadows kept ploughing the wave.

So that was in brackets. Yes, sweetmeats, that out by the road you might measure, which she used to suck with a vast deal of pleasure. At such childish delight, in these days we are a-railers, but she held it tight, did that dear little lass, and would not let it pass.

It doesn't really rhyme with last, does it? Pass. Okay, would not let it pass, but it's not, it should be pass. Away from her then, for the best glass of grog, the raciest morsel of maritime prog, or the finest tobacco that's chewed by the sailors.

That didn't all rhyme, but hey, it's pretty amazingly good, so mean to rhyme. Well, all through this little girl's being so good, her neighbours, were they boars, subscribed to procure her a little red hood. A hood that when going out, walking, she'd wear, and not indoors abiding.

Otherwise she didn't wear it inside, she just wore it when she was outside, like most coats. To shelter her shoulders and bind down her hair, by a lane or by a meadow, in hay or in clover, which accounts for their calling her little red riding hood, all the world over. What, even in China? Israel? Mexico? No, the whole world? There's no internet then, was there? No television?

How was she known all the way around the world? Just asking.

She was a lively little pet, so full of playfulness and honour. No, okay, that's the end of that. So this next one is the mother of the heroine, Doe versus Roe and the Peeler.

Little Red Riding Hood sat in a chair, all in her mother's cot, and she knew the little red fire that there was making the oven hot, and it rose in flame and burned in flakes, while Little Red Riding Hood's mother made cakes. This gentle lady's brows were here, environ, could rhyme with environ, I don't know what the environ means, with a few bays plucked by the news of Byron.

Her mother was a homely woman, famed for every branch of pastry making known.

By every Christian baker ever named, her pies were equaled by her tarts alone. She made the cleverest restaurant ashamed, and even the cooks with inward envy groan, finding themselves so much very extended in making crust by all the cakes that she did. That didn't rhyme.

Her memory was a mine, she knew by heart all glass and oud, and Kitchener that sweet book, so that if any cook had missed his part, she might have served him a big smelly fart, and she might have served him a new recipe book, for her confections were a kindling art. And she herself a sort of living treat book, sweets could so well be blended by no other, that is, in cakes, as by our heroine's mother.

Her favourite place of pleasure was her oven, her noblest virtue was her way of heating it, the sphere for her, for she, too, had her sphere, she'd move in, and she made quite fragrant with her way of tweeting it.

Her paste had all the elements of love in, pure cupboard love, in fact, there was no beating it, and she was a sort of priestess, though a sloven, at pastry's burning shrine, to wit, the oven. The queen of hearts, she made some farts, it looks like farts, tarts, she made some tarts, on which canning's knees did one day choose, to have some critical fun done.

But little Red Riding Hood's dear mama was working up different things by far, and as yet her cakes were undone, she ducked and she dabbled her hands in dough, though she didn't care, two pence for Richard Rowe, as some bucks do in London, I don't know you, Richard Doe, that's the problem when you reference someone that's famous or well known, 200 years later they might not, you know, want to know who they are.

When the bailiff touches his shoulder and jeers, it's the only tap that the drunkard fears. Ah, that's clever. And when John Doe comes in the manner of bums, yeah, when he comes in the manner of bums, for the various sums that he owed for liquor, so free did, there's a very natural shout of, oh, upon my soul, you're the only Doe, I won't let you know.

I'll do a voice now, that he owed for liquor, so he did, there's a very natural shout of, oh, upon my soul, you're the only Doe, that I never could have needed. See, she makes bread, but she didn't want him, so she didn't need him. So, yeah, Little Red Riding Hood's ma, in a trice, though we've called her a sloven, made up a bundle of cakes, very nice, lovely one, and crammed them into the oven.

So she filled her oven full to the brim, till they should be done as brown, you know, as any cake that is done by Doe. What was the picture of her mum? It's Red Riding Hood's mother baking cakes. It's, yeah, it's a different type of oven to probably what we're used to.

Little Red Riding Hood, okay, what are these cakes for? Riding Hood said, mother dear, that you have been making, and Evan is baking here. Riding Hood's mother smiled rudely, ask your grandmother, child, said she. But as her grandmother was not there, she thought such an answer was hardly fair, so she laughingly tossed up her dear little head, and went to look into the oven instead.

What fun! The cakes are done, mother dear, will you give me one? If you're good, miss, perhaps I may. Meanwhile, do me the favour to stay, as they're burning in, till I get them out, and then we'll see what it's all about. Okey dokey dokey dokey, okey dokey dokey dokey, Riding Hood's mother, a peeler, got, and crammed it in where the cakes were hot.

So now she's sticking a peeler in the oven, in the cake oven, which she ladled out so remarkably soon, you soon discovered that she was no spoon, no spoon, but only a woman of metal, spreading out cakes so cool and subtle. What about, but what is a peeler, by way of a feeler, for mundane knowledge, not good, not got at college, the reader cries, but that's us asking, so I'll open his eyes, unless to the phrase of a Lady de Meurs, and then by the powers I'll open hers.

A peeler is one of those, a peeler is one whose political mission, s, to vote for Peel, a startling fact, which the opposition can't choose but feel.

Peeler, I think, to call the gemine, Tronomysnoma, which is making punch, and Peel is the lemon, to get the aroma. How many more pages is there? Wow, not even a third through yet. This is the most parthing, or paring off than peeling.

This is more paring off than peeling. A peeler's one who's, I may say, mixed up with punch another way, Whore, all my brains I bother, when two men fight by day or night. Upon the floor, the peel before, they punch each other.

What punch, I may, I pray, may you best take. Mark, lemon punch, and no mistake. Peeler, I don't remember all this stuff with Little Red Riding Hood, all I remember in the story is a mum gave her some cakes to take to her grandmother, that was it.

What's all this? I mean, you know, it's nice to have a little bit of a build up, and a nice, you know, a nice introduction, but come on. What punch, I pray, may you best take. Mark, lemon punch, and no mistake.

Peelers, is lemon punch a cake? I think it is. Peelers, our thieves and rogues who fleece men, I'll want to dub our new policeman. O'Connell too, or I'm a dunce, Has proved a peeler more than once, but Dan's the man, Who shouted in the heart of strife, I'm a repealer, or my knife.

But neither Dan, who will not cease, Repealing, nor the new police, Nor they who punch each other's eyes, Nor lemon peeler punch bowl-wise, Nor peeler who for peelers voting, Nor peel himself will bear the quoting, Like the same peeler made of oak, Which Little Red Riding Hood, Little Riding Hood's old mother, Did into the hot oven poke. Still having a poke at her oven, still. To draw her cakes one after to other, That was a peeler that was dead, A peeler which they use for bread.

Had she a living peeler, Put in any oven in her hut, Put in any oven in her hut, Granted he could get more into it, And more, supposing she could do it, It's clearly my opinion that, oh! Ne'er have baked another gateau, The French for cake and no mistake, Gateau's nice, isn't it? But rather have beans tried, Condemned and hung, Caught by the people's most inspired tongue.

Oh, I think I've just seen something that's a bit dodgy, so I've already that bit out. Okay, so the next bit is the dismissal, the journey and the adventures on the road, which is what we really want, isn't it? The cake's cold, the hour grows old, And Little Red Riding Hood's mother makes bold to say, Here child, take this one little cake and eat it yourself for your grandmother's sake.

And then mama with a look, Come, come, don't know what that means, says, Little Red Riding Hood, rise, my dear, I have something for your good grandmother here. It's a pot of fresh butter, her mother said, Which you will carry atop of your head. And a cake, the sweetest that ever she got, And that you'll put beneath the fresh butter pot.

And last of all, because you're good, You shall cover your head with your Little Red Hood. You'll go, I know, and not very slow, By the dingy wood where all the tall trees grow, In the dark green water, whose rivulets glow, Where no pretty sunbeams glisten or glow. But you'll not be afraid, for an innocent maid Has little to tremble at, whether or no.

And when you get to your grandmother's door, Who's easily found, for she lives on the ground floor, Yeah, you'll go quietly in, for no noise you must make, And put down the butter, and put down the cake, And say, Grandmother, Mother sent me these for your sake. Then courteously, sweetly, and neatly, and feetly, As you would to a bee who would want to marry you, You'll take a new tack, and come suddenly back, As far as your dear little legs love will carry you.

The pretty little child, with her winglets wild, And her eyes of blue that beam so mild, Mouth the sweetest that ever smiled, And her heart more free in its mirthful glee, That man's happiest moment of revelry, Trod lightly along with her natural song, That was sung to the woodbirds, and not to the thongs a-throng, In a voice that seemed like a voice of love, Which the wings of the angels were wafting above.

And this is her singing.

It was no disaster, to hear Madame Pasta, It isn't so easy, to outfeed the greasy, Ruby-dee charms men, Oh, I don't know his tenor, And might he the bach, Doesn't seem common and ratch, Which means, in plain English, he doesn't know how to astonish the natives, Even Adelaide Campbell, now Madame Cartoris, Will voice not disamble, Unless her throat sore is, About singing her best, To the ears of the blessed, About whether she in the height of her glory, Or were there those who before her named, Could sing like the beauty of my pleasant story, Or

be half so gentle, half so far-famed, In the sense that I could, Must, might, can, will, and would, Declare that there's none of them ever so good, As my fair little red riding hood.

I'm not sure if I was supposed to read that or sing it, but she had a beautiful voice.

She skipped along, not fearing, With blithesome heels and hips, And all down wood-paths careering, With music on her lips, She tripped among the flowers, She skimmed along the grass, And laughed at the young hours, As lightly they did pass. I like laughing, I do. Yeah, you'd have been there, I laughed at the hours going by.

I can't, I love laughing at time. You need to be there. Her heart was glad within her, As childhood's heart is glad.

If too young, you be a singer, a sinner, Then too sinless to be sad. Still fate would not exempt her, From this unhappy list, For there came to her a tempter, Whom she could not resist. A grisly wolf, whose jump Cleared the forest's thistles, Came before her plump, With all his hairs and bristles.

Who taught wolves to speak? Aesop, in his fable, With voice of roar and squeak, As if escaped from Babel. Which he mouthed and minced, While his eyes shone brightness, Under which she winced, That is our pet. Not being quite convinced as yet, That wolf intended nothing but politeness.

Where are you going, my dear, said he. I'm going to your grandmother's, sir, she said. And pray, where may your grandmother live? Why, the best direction that I can give, said this merry little young lady of Knaus, of Knaus, they mostly call her stupid, Is that my grandmother lives in her house.

Sounds a bit like my postman. I've got no idea where he's put in the post. With which the wolf gave a sniff in his nose and said, So it's there, dear, you're going, I suppose.

I am, she said, says the wolf. Adieu, for some reason. And then he did mutter, With that cake and butter.

Unless uncommonly fast you run, The odds are more than fifty to one, That I see your grandmother sooner than you. He runs, he flies, he's a flying wolf, He runs, he flies, he leaps, he bolts, Not the frisky limbs of a thousand colts. Over the ground could more rapidly whizz, He's an animal steam engine, that he is.

With all the steam in the boiler's whizz, Oh, that tap at the door of the child's grandmother, And the husky voice that he tries to smother, I know, I know other than his. Wolf's cottage economy, his arrangements of furniture, His disposal of inmates, remorse unmoral. Oh, really? Well, tap, tap, said the door, went the nine-old chap, Tap, tap, and he put on the good.

Soft little voice of the sweet riding hood, And when Granny coughed up, Who's there? said he. Why, if you please, grandmother, it's me. I brought you butter, I brought you cake, The best that ever my mother could make.

And I've always brought it uncommonly quick, Because my mother observed you were sick. I know by the smell, it'll make you well. And how shall I open a door? Play, tell? Loud grandmother cries with joy in her eyes.

The string, just catch, and you lift up the latch, And then you are ready to pull the door a bit back, And, child, you'll be into my room, into a crack. The wolf, with his eyes of appetite full, Has given the bobbin a jolly good pull, And the string, in the words of final catch, Has given a jolly good pull to the latch.

He opened the door, actually that's what they're saying, he opened the door, but they're taking a long time to say it, and the latch is up in a crack from the door, with such leap as never made latch before, and wolf, who's alert as a shark for one, is pottage.

Did you make a new grind, that with cottage? Oh yeah, gets fairly inside of old grandma's cottage. She is not asleep, but he is wide awake, So he comes, he gives her no butter, he gives her no cake, it's a bit rude, but allows her at once to find out her mistake, By seizing her quick, as she coughs with surprise, And rapidly eating her, just as she lies, Or rather by stopping her, gronky or fits, And supping up her, then just as she sits.

He ate her, said poor grandmother, crying, This is horrible, what a torture than dying, it's supposed to be for kids, And pouring out groans, that she couldn't well smother, Oh this is too hard, much too hard.

Yes, and so growled the cannibal wolf, Woe, I think more am I you, as he eats his grandmother. How many pages have we got left? Man, this is a much longer story than I remember. Ah, he finished her quite, with his sharp appetite, But alas, there his spite didn't end where it could have done, For there's nobody knows, when he'd settle her woes, How he put on her clothes, Kingy, and looked just the reverse of the chap that he should have done, When he turned into bed in poor grandmother's stead.

You see, all this writing, but then there's a picture, And he says all that in the picture, he says, After reading up the red riding hood's grandmother, The wolf takes a comfortable nap, Just like, shows that he can speak like plainly, It's all put on, this old fashioned, er, not so old fashioned, With her old fashioned nightcap surrounding his head, And the bed gown, et cetera, of she who was dead, Encasing his body beneath the patch quilt, As he lay there, brimful of grandmother and guilt.

Yeah, but now his sin soon worked within, Remorse did make him weep, With sorrow and with supper crammed, His head between the sheets he rammed, And then he fell asleep. He fell asleep, but soon did dream, His tears they poured out in a stream, His groans out in a snore, And as digestion grew more hard, A thousand fiends did gallop hard, Before his sight galore.

Greatly his vision did extend, He saw grandmothers without end, Whose moans did daunt and dim him, Until, repenting of his sup, He almost wished he could bring up The one he had within him, And as he dreamt, Oh, well a day, One supper on his conscious lay. More heavy than ten dinners, He leaped and kicked, but couldn't wake, He suffered pangs and no mistake, So ever may grandmother rake The wolfish sides of a sinner.

I leave wolf's spirit down at zero, Read as mine, May you or I have not to fear, oh, Sup we heartily all dine, Meanwhile let's see where is our heroine.

Pretty maid, she idly lingers, As young thoughtless children will, By the wood-wild path of flowers, Through the valley o'er the hill, Now a little playful triller Of some carol music fraught, Now a light and laughing lisper Of some glad and happy thought. Careless of her very errand, From all fear of chiding far, With the dauntless heart of childhood, Playing with her cake and jar. Look, they are in air above her, The up-throws them one and all, They are falling, no lord love her, She will never let them fall, Her blithe spirit, who'll control it, Who'll dim its joy with wrath.

Ha! the cake is round, She'll roll it like a hoop under her path. There, the changel creature's tyres, Cake and jars are both laid by, And a whirring top is spinning, Underneath her merry eye, Chasing every supportive vision That before her fancy stirs. What world heart is so Elysian In its happiness as hers? Stay, a cloud comes o'er her spirit, One grey little tiny cloud, That with just a feather's ruffle, Not more roughly, nor more loud, Moves into her staid reflection.

Of her gladness dims the sky, Hinting, Why this gamesome loitering? What a careless child am I? Soon no more of a playful frolic, Childhood's honey does she sip, But with a sweet demureness wending. What's wending? And a gravely pouting lip, She refines the path she quitted, Pauses there to ponder fame, Like a butterfly backed flitting, Resting on its rose again. Thought and breath they came together, And she scattered all her woes, In one moment and now briskly, Smiling on her ways she goes.

Her young steps have made the journey, Skipping on more fast than far, And she gains her granny's cottage, Safely with her cake and jar. Little Red Riding Hood There you are at your grandmother's old abode, But the wolf has travelled too fast by far, For you who stopped on the road, He has eaten your grandmother bone and shin, He has eaten your grandmother's nose and chin, He has eaten your grandmother's hair and skin, You're of your grandmother's quite bereft, And terrible woe betide.

For there isn't a bit of your grandmother left, Except in the wolf's behind or inside, And there's before her door you tread, Without the slightest idea that she's dead.

She, why yes, she certainly is in her bed, But then it is also sure, no doubt of it, That she won't be there when the wolf jumps out of it. Depend upon it. I can't be in fun, When I say she's entirely swollen and done.

Wolf, wolf is awakened from his dream, For he sleeps no more, By Riding Hood's tap at her grandmother's door. Molested, but he doesn't start with a groan or scream, Like a sinner that fears, he'll be kicking the beam, By conscience driven he doth not seem, For grandmother's all digested. Here's a picture of Red Riding Hood Arise at her grandmother's door and knocks.

Not sure if that was really read necessary. Um, there was other events that might have required pictures, But that didn't really. She knocked at the door.

Yeah, let's put a picture of that in there. He sits up in bed with the knowingness head That listens so sharp to Red Riding Hood's tread, And for fear of mishap, the knowing old chap Puts the grandmother's voice on at Riding Hood's tap, Just as hasty rogue, on occasion, the other, Who used Riding Hood's voice to get at her grandmother. Who's there? The voice seemed rough and old.

I see. Poor grandmother has got a cold, unnoticed that was. I see.

Poor grandmother's got a cold, said Riding Hood, As she made bold to mildly answer. Me, it's me. Who's me? The little grandchild.

You, oh, sorry. Who's me? Your little grandchild. Good, with whom people call Red Riding Hood.

Red Riding Hood. My mother sent me here. Come in.

But how come in, I pray? I wish you'd tell me first the way, my kindly granny dear. Oh, pull the string. Bless the sweetest eyes.

Yes, pull the string, the wolf replies. The string will lift the latch and then the monster, And then the monster turns his head and unto his own heart, he said. You'll find it is no catch.

The string is pulled, the maid is in. The wolf sits there in all his sin and fame would still dissemble. The little maid, who not a wit suspects, Goes by his side to sit and doesn't even tremble.

She didn't sit upon a chair because she didn't see one there. Why mention that? She didn't sit at the table because there wasn't none there either. She didn't jump into the swimming pool because there wasn't a swimming pool there.

Why mention something that wasn't there? Oh, now, now, she did. She didn't sit at a table. There was none.

She wasn't able. She didn't. But you may as well.

The truth and the mistake here tell. There was one circumstance before when the first owl wolf began to dwell within the cot. And now if you discern it, you're a cleverer person.

It is this much. That wolf's great appetite was such. Not only grandmother and crutch he ate.

Really? Not only grandmother and crutch he ate, but all the furniture. I was really, I was really with the story until then. It's, you know, it was realistic.

It was, it was just something that just seemed so natural. Everything that happened. Eating the furniture.

Come on. So this is the upshot. When all was done and said, that little red riding hood sat on the bed.

And was very soon puzzled to know, I declare, what kind of a grandmother she had got there. The wolf who surveyed her began with a kiss. And the short conversation followed was this.

Oh, come to bed, red riding hood. Oh, come to bed with me. So away she fakes.

And off she takes her little red hood in a brace of shakes. And sporting her nightgown. Then I wean in the bedpost twinkle.

She slides between two sheets. They're not especially clean. And she thinks with her granny, old.

Now little red riding hood, though beyond doubt, she hadn't yet found a particular out. Yet twigging the wolf, who was really a rummin', thought her granny a very astonishing woman. Most ugly.

Ungainly. Uncombed and uncommon. What marvel, then, that at first glimpse of her charms, she cried.

Granny, you've got most remarkable arms. To which the wolf replied with his ugly mug. It's a bit rude, isn't it? The better, my darling, to give you a hug.

But, granny, your ears, they're just so hairy and wild. The better it strikes me to hear you, my child. But then, granny.

Yeah, what, what, what now? You just, what, what? No, no, just granny, this is my turn to talk. Okay, go on. Granny, your eyes.

Oh, what terrible eyes. Not full of compliments, is she, this little girl? Just imagine visiting your grandmother and saying, girl, your eyes are horrible. No, your ears are, it's very hairy.

No, you'd soon go, you wouldn't say that. And, granny, your eyes. Oh, what terrible eyes.

If I don't see you with them, it will give me a surprise. And your teeth. Here, the wolf.

No, sorry. And your teeth. Here, the wolf, who saw Riding Hood shrink, cried.

The sooner I eat you, the better, I think. Yes, that's the wolf. Whereupon, he laid hold of the poor little soul, And his ravenous spirit, too mad to control, He gave her a bite and a crunch and a roll, And the gulping old vagabond swallowed her whole.

Then when he was sure she was thoroughly dead, He leapt out of bed, and the neighbourhood fled, Taking with him the curses of bad and of good, And also his poor little victim's red hood. Furthermore, it is said that he died in a wood. A sort of wolf sage, at a much advanced age, With no one in wolfdom knowing the name of him, No young posterity full of the fame of him, And nobody caring a dump what became of him.

I don't care a dump. With our amusement, he would blend some good, And having in a new fashion told The story old of Little Red Riding Hood. We by no means wish to have it said, For want of a moral, that Riding Hood, We had written and published, Deserved to be in reality, Little Red.

First, to little girls with grandmothers and others, We would seriously say, Don't loiter on the way to rifle or to play, But always answer, nay, to anyone, By night or day, would your footsteps stay. Ne'er talk to strangers that you meet In field, in forest, or in street, For by the young, a flattering tongue Is thought of a good heart, the token, And even wolves are sometimes civil-spoken.

Secondly, it would be quite as well As a general rule to lay it down To idle inquiries in country or town, Your plans and intentions are never to tell, Lest ere your business is completed, Your object is defeated.

If Little Red Riding Hood only had thought, Of these little matters as much as she ought, In the trap of the wolf she would never Have been caught, Nor her grandmother killed in so cruel a sort, Nor Riding Hood's tale should we have to bewail, And that of our morals, the long and the short. The end. That's not how it went, in my memory.

Wasn't there an axman that came and saved her? A huntsman or something? A woodsman? Just goes to show, this is the original version. This is the original... Oh... It wasn't quite the Disney version, was it? Well, anyway, that's the end of this. Remember to be kind to yourself, Because you deserve to be happy.

Lots of love. Bye.