By Jon Scieszka
The wolf says he's been slandered for years: he wasn't huffing and puffing, he had a terrible cold, and he only knocked on those doors because he'd run out of sugar for his granny's cake.
The wolf's name is Alexander T. Wolf, and he'd like a word. The way he tells it, he had a rotten cold, he was baking a cake for his granny, and he was one cup of sugar short, so he went next door to borrow some. How was he supposed to know the neighbors built their houses out of straw and sticks? And a sneeze is a sneeze. One enormous 'A-A-A-CHOOO' and the flimsy little house came right down. He's telling you all of this from a jail cell, and he's certain he was framed.
In about ten minutes it shows your child that a story can flip completely depending on who's holding the microphone, and it never once stops to point that out. The wolf just keeps making his sweet, reasonable case while admitting to worse and worse things. Lane Smith's smoky, dim pictures give him a wounded dignity that makes every excuse funnier. A child who already knows the real three pigs gets to feel clever catching him out, and it's short enough to win over a reader who has decided fairy tales are beneath them.