The Three Billy Goats Gruff a personalized book with your child as the hero

Long ago, in the high hill country of Norway, three billy goats lived on a dry hillside. All three were named Gruff. The smallest had a bell-clear bleat and neat little hooves. The middle one had curling horns and a steady, sensible walk. The biggest was as broad as a barrel, with great horns and hooves like hammers.

A young guide looked after the goats, a child in a butter-yellow tunic, brown leggings and sturdy boots. That summer the hillside grew bare and brown, and the goats nibbled the last stubble down to the roots. Their tummies rumbled in three different sizes of rumble.

One morning the child climbed a tall grey rock and looked across the valley. There, on the far side of a bubbling brook, lay a meadow as green as new peas, dotted with clover and buttercups. "That is where we are going," the child called down. The goats lifted their heads, and the smallest one gave a hungry little skip.

But between the hillside and the meadow ran the brook, and over the brook arched a wooden bridge. The child led the goats down to the water and pointed. "There is the way across."

Just then, from underneath the bridge, came a long, rumbling grumble. "Mumble, grumble, who's been walking on my roof?" The goats froze. The child crouched and peeked over the bank. Under the arch sat a troll with a nose like a turnip, hair like a haystack full of moss, eyes as round as saucers and a waistcoat with every button in the wrong hole.

The smallest goat went first. Trip, trap, trip, trap went his little hooves on the planks. The troll popped his head out. "Who's that tripping over my bridge?"

"Only me," said the smallest Billy Goat Gruff, in a very small voice. "I'm going up to the meadow to get fat."

"Well, I'm going to gobble you up!" said the troll, though his tummy was rumbling louder than his threat.

"Oh, please don't," said the smallest goat. "I'm hardly a mouthful. Wait for my brother, the middle Billy Goat Gruff. He is much bigger than I am."

The troll scratched his haystack hair and thought about it. "Hmm. Well, be off with you, then." The little goat skipped over the last planks and onto the grass. The child, waiting on the near bank, let out a breath and grinned.

Next came the middle goat. Clip, clop, clip, clop went his hooves, and the bridge creaked a little louder. "Who's that clopping over my bridge?" grumbled the troll.

"Only me, the middle Billy Goat Gruff. I'm going up to the meadow to get fat."

"I'm going to gobble you up!"

"You would do much better to wait for my brother, the biggest Billy Goat Gruff," said the middle goat politely. "He is far bigger than I."

The troll twiddled his turnip nose. "Very well, but he had better be worth the wait." The middle goat crossed to the green side and stood beside his little brother.

Now the child walked with the biggest goat to the foot of the bridge. "You don't need to fight anyone," the child whispered, giving his shaggy neck a pat. "You only need to cross." The big goat nodded slowly. Then the child stepped back beside a willow tree, a good way from the water, to watch.

TRIP, TRAP, TRIP, TRAP! The planks boomed like a drum under the biggest goat's hooves. The troll's head shot out from under the arch. "WHO'S THAT stomping over my bridge?"

"It is I, the biggest Billy Goat Gruff," said the goat, in a voice as deep as a barrel.

"I'm going to gobble you up!" roared the troll, though he did not sound quite as sure as before.

"Come along, then," said the big goat calmly. "I have two strong horns and four hard hooves, and I am not afraid of a grumble."

The big goat lowered his horns and stamped, once, twice, three times. The whole bridge hummed. The troll's hat jumped off his head, and his waistcoat buttons popped. He wobbled, he flapped his arms, and he tumbled over the edge, down, down, and plop! He landed on a thick green bank of moss beside the brook, as soft as a feather bed.

He sat up with moss on his nose, blinking in great surprise. He was not hurt at all.

The child hurried to the edge of the bank. "Are you all right?"

"Only my pride is bumped," muttered the troll, brushing off his waistcoat. He looked at the big goat standing tall and calm on his bridge, and then at the child. "All that grumbling and no dinner," he sighed. "I think I shall go and look for mushrooms in the hills. Quiet ones." He picked up his hat, put it on crooked, and trudged away up the slope.

The child waved the big goat on. Across the bridge he went, trip, trap, trip, trap, and the child followed, and the three Gruffs stood together at last on the green side of the brook.

"This way," laughed the child, and led them up into the pasture, where the grass was sweet and tall and the wildflowers nodded in the breeze. The smallest goat kicked up his heels. The middle goat sniffed the clover. The biggest goat gave a sigh of pure happiness.

Soon all three were grazing in the sunshine, munching and chewing, and growing fatter by the day. The child sat among them for a while, then stood and waved goodbye, and the goats looked up and bleated, each in his own voice, small, middle and large.

Far away on a hilltop, the troll sat on a boulder with a plate of mushrooms and waved a mossy hand. He never went back to live under the bridge, and the goats crossed it whenever they pleased.

Snip, snap, snout, this tale's told out.