Mr Seguin's Goat, another big bad wolf story

Publié le par Christiane Valdy

Listen here, to the story of the goat of M. Seguin.

M. Seguin never had much luck with goats. He always lost them the same way. One fine morning, they chewed their cord, ran up into the mountains, and were eaten there by the big bad wolf. Neither their master's care, nor the fear of the wolf, nor anything else could hold them back. It seemed to him that the goats would pay any price to prance in the fresh air, free. M. Seguin, who couldn't understand this nature in his goats, was completely stumped. "I've had it!" - he cried, "Goats get restless on my farm, I'll never be able to keep them!"

This didn't stop him from trying, however. One after the next they disappeared the same way, and after losing six goats he got a seventh - only this time, he took the care to buy a really young one, in hopes that it would get used to him and his farm before it wanted to get away.

And oh what a beauty this kid was! With her beard like a petty officer, her eyes big and green, shiny black boot-like hooves, her striped horns and pretty white fur that curled up around the edges! Such a lovely little kid!

M. Seguin had a little patch surrounded by delicious hawthorn which is where he put his new goat. He attached her by a chord to a post, making sure to leave lots of rope to let her wander just so far, and from time to time, he checked on her to make sure she was alright. The little goat seemed so content to graze on the herbs in her little patch that M. Seguin was simply delighted. "At last!" he exclaimed, "I've got one that isn't bored here!" Unfortunately he was wrong, the goat was getting restless.

One day, the little goat, while gazing up to the mountain, said "Oh it must be so very nice up there in the mountains! How I long to have the chance to prance around freely in the fog without this scratchy rope so tight around my neck! It's fine for a cow or a donkey to be all closed up in a pen, but goats, they need to be free."

From that moment on, the goat was clutched with ennui. She lost interest in the herbs, she lost weight, she didn't give any milk. It was pitiful to see her all the day long laying as far as she could from the post, the rope stretched taut, her muzzle stretched out toward the mountain, sadly bleating.

M. Seguin noticed that something was wrong, but he couldn't say what. One morning, as he finished milking her, she turned towards him and said to him, in her own way: "Listen Monsieur Seguin. I am pining away here, let me go into the mountain.

"Oh my God!" cried M. Seguin. Not you as well!” screamed Monsieur Seguin, dropping his

Bowl. Then, sitting down in the grass beside his goat he added: "So, my Blanquette, you want to leave me!"

“Yes, M. Seguin" she replied.
"Are you missing certain greens, my dear?"
"Oh no, M. Seguin!"
" Perhaps your tether is too short, shall I lengthen it?”
"No, it's not that."
"Then what can I do? What do you want?"
"I want to go into the mountain, M. Seguin."
"But my poor dear, you don't know that there is a big bad wolf up there. What will you do when he comes?"
"I'll pierce him with my horns, Mr. Seguin."
"The wolf doesn't care about your horns, my Blanquette. He's devoured creatures with much bigger horns than yours, my dear. Do you remember poor old Renaude that was here last year? She was really strong and willful.

She battled with the wolf all night long, and in the morning, he ate her."
"Oh poor Renaude!" Blanquette paused. "That doesn't mean anything, M. Seguin. Please let me go up to the mountain!"

M. Seguin was at a loss for words. Yet another one of his cherished goats was going to be devoured by the wolf. He put some thought into the love he felt for his dear Blanquette and said - "Good, now I know and I am determined to save you, despite that terrible force that's pulling you to the mountain. I know you'll try and chew your chord, so I'm closing you up into a pen, so you will stay with me forever!"

With that, M. Seguin put the little goat into a pen in the dark stable, and locked the door with two turns of the key. Unfortunately, he forgot to shut the little window, through which the little goat squirmed through and escaped.

There was general delight when the white goat arrived on the mountain.

The old fir trees had never seen anything nearly so lovely. She was received like a queen. The chestnut trees bowed down to the ground to stroke her with the tips of their leaves. The brooms opened up the way for her and brushed against her as best they could. The whole mountainside celebrated her arrival.

Imagine how happy our goat was! No more tether ... no more stake ... nothing to prevent her from going where she wanted and nibbling at anything she liked. It's there that the herbs were growing right up to her horns. And what glorious herb it was! Delicious, fine, lacy and made from a thousand plants, so much better than that in the enclosure.

And then there were the flowers!... Huge bluebells; purple, long-stemmed foxgloves; a whole forest full of wild blooms brimming over with heady sap.

The white goat, half-drunk, wallowed in it, and with her legs flailing

in the air, rolled along the bank all over the place on the fallen leaves in amongst the chestnut trees.

Then, quite suddenly, she jumped confidently onto her feet. Off she went, heedlessly going forward through the clumps of boxwood and brooms; she went everywhere; up hill, and down dale. You would have thought that there were loads of Monsieur Seguin's goats on the mountain.

Clearly, Blanquette was not frightened of anything! She leapt over torrential currents spraying clouds of watery mist. Completely soaked, she spread out on a sunny rock to dry. At a certain moment she saw through a break in the rocks, the farm of M. Seguin far down below, with a faint image of the dark circle of trampled sorry ground surrounding the post that once imprisoned her. Tears streamed down her delicate muzzle as she laughed with joy. "but it's so small." she wondered. "How could that place have held me?"

Poor little thing, finding herself so high up, she believed herself to be on top of the world.

Overall, it was a grand day for our little Blanquette. In hopping from left to right, she ran across a herd of chamois deer chewing in a patch of wild vine, and made quite a sensation. She was given a place of honor among the vines to chew, and all of the males were gallant with her. It even seemed that one of the black coated young chamois caught Blanquette's eye. The two lovers got lost in the trees for an hour or two, and if you want to know what they said to one another, go and ask the babbling brooks who meander unseen in the moss.

Suddenly, the wind freshened; the mountain turned violet; and evening fell....

“Already!” said the little kid goat, and stopped in astonishment.

In the valley, the fields were shrouded in mist. Monsieur Seguin's enclosure was hidden in the fog, and nothing could be seen of the house except the roof and a faint trace of smoke. She heard the bells of a flock of sheep returning home and began to feel very melancholy. A returning falcon just missed her with his wings as he passed over. She winced.... Then there was a howl on the mountain.

Now, the silly nanny thought about the big bad wolf; having not once done it all day. At the same time, a horn sounded far away in the valley. It was Monsieur Seguin making one last effort.

The wolf howled again.

“Come home! Come home!” cried the horn.

Blanquette wanted to; but then, she remembered the stake, and the rope, and the hedged enclosure; and she thought that now she couldn't possibly get used to all that lot again, and it was better to stay put.

The horn went silent....

She heard a noise in the leaves behind her. She turned round and there in the shade she saw two short, pricked-up ears and two shining eyes.... It was the big, bad wolf.

Huge and motionless, there he was, sitting on his hindquarters, looking at the little white goat and licking his chops. He knew full well that he would eventually eat her, so he was in no hurry, and as she turned away, he laughed maliciously:

“Ha! Ha! It's Monsieur Seguin's little kid goat! and he licked his chops once again with his red tongue.

Blanquette felt all was lost. It only took a moment's thought about the story of old Renaude, who became the wolf's meal after bravely fighting all night, to convince her that perhaps it would have been better to get it over with, and to let herself be eaten there and then.

Afterwards, thinking better of it, she squared up to the big bad wolf, head down, horns ready, like the brave little kid goat of Monsieur Seguin that she was ... not that she expected to kill him─goats don't

kill wolves ─but just to see if she could last out as long as Renaude....

As the big bad wolf drew near, she with her little horns set to into the fray.

Oh! the brave little kid goat; how she went at it with such a great heart. A dozen times, I'll swear, Gringoire, she forced the wolf back to catch his breath. During these brief respites, she grabbed a blade or two of the grass that she loved so much; then, still munching, joined the battle again.... The whole night passed like this. Occasionally, Monsieur Seguin's kid goat looked up at the twinkling stars in the clear sky and said to herself “Oh dear, I hope I can last out till the morning...”

One by one the stars faded away. Blanquette intensified her charges, while the wolf replied with his teeth. The pale daylight appeared gradually over the horizon. A cockerel crowed hoarsely from a farm


“At last!” said the poor animal, who was only waiting for the morning to come so that she could die bravely, and she laid herself down on the ground, her beautiful white fur stained with blood.

It was then, at last, that the wolf fell on the little goat and devoured her.

The story you have heard is true. If you come to Provence, everyone will tell you the tale of M. Seguin's goat who battled all night with the evil wolf, who ate her at daybreak.

Les lettres de mon moulin, Alphonse Daudet

_To Pierre Gringoire, lyrical poet, Paris._

Publié dans Stories for children

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L'auteur peut choisir de laisser plusieurs narrateurs racontent l'histoire de différents points de vue. Ensuite, c'est au lecteur de décider qui narrateur semble la plus fiable pour chaque partie de l'histoire. Il peut faire référence au style de l'écrivain dans lequel il / elle exprime le paragraphe écrit.
Bien vu. Une autre fin ?
I had read this story in my school days. I think we learned this during high school. I like this story and this article brings back memories from my school. Thanks for sharing this with us and keep posting more updates in your blog.
good post