Hood bedtime stories

Little Red Riding Hood | Fairy Tales

Story Reads: 177,367

This is a vintage fairy tale, and may contain violence. We would encourage parents to read beforehand if your child is sensitive to such themes. If you prefer to read the feel good fairy tale version, click here.

Once upon a time there lived on the borders of a great forest a woodman and his wife who had one little daughter, a sweet, kind child, whom every one loved. She was the joy of her mother’s heart, and to please her, the good woman made her a little scarlet cloak and hood, and the child looked so pretty in it that everybody called her Little Red Riding-Hood.

One day her mother told her she meant to send her to her grandmother—a very old woman who lived in the heart of the wood—to take her some fresh butter and new-laid eggs and a nice cake. Little Red Riding-Hood was very pleased to be sent on this errand, for she liked to do kind things, and it was so very long since she had seen her grandmother that she had almost forgotten what the dame looked like.

The sun was shining brightly, but it was not too warm under the shade of the old trees, and Red Riding-Hood sang with glee as she gathered a great bunch of wild flowers to give to her grandmother. She sang so sweetly that a cushat dove flew down from a tree and followed her.

Now, it happened that a wolf, a very cruel, greedy creature, heard her song also, and longed to eat her for his breakfast, but he knew Hugh, the woodman, was at work very near, with his great dog, and he feared they might hear Red Riding-Hood cry out, if he frightened her, and then they would kill him. So he came up to her very gently and said:

“Good day, Little Red Riding-Hood; where are you going?”

“To see my grandmother,” said the child, “and take her a present from mother of eggs and butter and cake.”

“Where does your grandmamma live?” asked the wolf.

“Quite in the middle of the wood,” she replied.

“Oh! I think I know the house. Good day, Red Riding-Hood.” And the wolf ran off as fast as he could

Little Red Riding-Hood was not in a hurry, and there were many things to amuse her in the wood. She ran after the white and yellow butterflies that danced before her, and sometimes she caught one, but she always let it go again, for she never liked to hurt any creature.

And then there were the merry, cunning little squirrels to watch, cracking nuts on the branches of the old trees, and every now and then a rabbit would hurry away through the tall ferns, or a great bee come buzzing near her, and she would stop to watch it gathering honey from the flowers, and wild thyme. So she went on very slowly.

By-and-by she saw Hugh, the woodman.

“Where are you going, Little Red Riding-Hood,” said he, “all alone?”

“I am going to my grandmamma’s,” said the child. “Good day; I must make haste now, for it grows late.”

While Little Red Riding-Hood was at play in the wood, the great wolf galloped on as fast as he could to the old woman’s house. Grandmother lived all by herself, but once or twice a-day a neighbour’s child came to tidy her house and get her food.

Now, grandmother was very feeble, and often kept her bed; and it happened that she was in bed the day Little Red Riding-Hood went to see her. When the wolf reached the cottage door he tapped.

“Who is there?” asked the old dame.

“Little Red Riding-Hood, granny,” said the wolf, trying to speak like the child.

“Come in, my dear,” said the old lady, who was a little deaf. “Pull the string and the latch will come up.”

The wolf did as she told him, went in, and you may think how frightened poor grandmother was when she saw him standing by her bed instead of Little Red Riding-Hood.

Very soon the wolf, who was quite hungry after his run, ate up poor grandmother.

Indeed, she was not enough for his breakfast, and so he thought he would like to eat sweet Red Riding-Hood also. Therefore he dressed himself in granny’s nightcap and got into bed, and waited for the child to knock at the door. But he waited a long time.

By and by Little Red Riding-Hood reached her grandmother’s house, and tapped at the door.

“Come in,” said the wolf, in a squeaking voice. “Pull the string, and the latch will come up.”

Red Riding-Hood thought grandmother must have a cold, she spoke so hoarsely; but she went in at once, and there lay her granny, as she thought, in bed.

“If you please, grandmamma, mother sends you some butter and eggs,” she said.

“Come here, dear,” said the wicked wolf, “and let me kiss you,” and Red Riding-Hood obeyed.

But when Red Riding-Hood saw the wolf she felt frightened. She had nearly forgotten grandmother, but she did not think she had been so ugly.

“Grandmamma,” she said, “what a great nose you have.”

“All the better to smell with, my dear,” said the wolf.

“And, grandmamma, what large ears you have.”

“All the better to hear with, my dear.”

“Ah! grandmamma, and what large eyes you have.”

“All the better to see with, my dear,” said the wolf, showing his teeth, for he longed to eat the child up.

“Oh, grandmamma, and what great teeth you have!” said Red Riding-Hood.

“All the better to eat you up with,” growled the wolf, and, jumping out of bed, he rushed at Red Riding-Hood and would have eaten her up, but just at that minute the door flew open and a great dog tore him down. The wolf and the dog were still fighting when Hugh, the woodman, came in and killed the wicked wolf with his axe.

Little Red Riding-Hood threw her arms round the woodman Hugh’s neck and kissed him, and thanked him again and again.

“Oh, you good, kind Hugh,” she said, “how did you know the wolf was here, in time to save me?”

“Well,” said Hugh, “when you were gone by, I remembered that a wolf had been seen about the wood lately, and I thought I would just come after you and see if you were safe. When we came near grandmother’s house my dog Trim sniffed and ran to the door and whined, and then he pushed it open—you had not shut it close—and rushed in, and I followed him, and between us we have killed the wolf.”

Then Hugh took the child home, and her mother and father could not thank him enough for saving Little Red Riding-Hood.

Short story by a vintage author, originally by Charles Perrault

Illustration thanks to Pixabay

Let’s Chat About The Stories ~ Ideas for Talking With Kids

Stranger Danger

1. Little Red Riding-Hood told the Wolf where she was going and what she was doing when she met him on the path. Do you think this was a good idea? Why or why not?

2. If Little Red Riding-Hood did not want to tell the Wolf where she was going and what she was doing, what are some good things she might have said to him instead?

3. Can you think of some other questions that strangers might sometimes ask, that could be dangerous for children?

4. When might it be okay to tell a stranger your name, your address or where you are going?

5. Does a stranger always look hairy, with big arms, and big teeth, and big eyes, like the Wolf?

6. Likewise, if a person is hairy, with big arms, and big teeth, and big eyes, should you be scared of them?

7. How do you think you might be able to tell if a person is a nice stranger or a not-nice stranger?

Kindness

8. Little Red Riding-Hood and her mother wanted to take a cake to Little Red Riding-Hood’s grandmother because she’d been sick. Have you ever looked after someone when they were sick? What did you do to help make them feel better?

Book Information!

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The Hood: Bedtime Stories, Emmett Till and FDR | by J. Khadijah Abdurahman

The first horror story of White supremacy I ever heard was not Get Out, it was Little Red Riding Hood. Nubile fair skinned Lolita straight outta Kansas, birthed into a forest by a benevolent narrator. Treading through a darkened forest, the red hooded virgin is blissfully unaware of the danger a big bad wolf brings. We tell this story to children, emphasizing the sound of leaves ominously crushed by a lurking wolf.

Swinging a picnic basket filled with wine and cake for her sick grandmother she greets the menacing beast when he approaches. He asks her to pick some flowers and she gracefully complies, ignoring her mother’s command to go straight to grandma without dallying. Her naïveté heightens the readers fear of the darkened trees crouching over, arms extended as if to embrace her so tightly until the breath and the warmness of her living would be laid right alongside those flowers. Like the ghost town Comala, in Juan Rulfo’s novel Pedro Paramo, the forest is no mere set for the action to take place, it is a character to be contended with. The story instructs us to be as afraid of the woods as the wolf himself.

Red riding hood, a clitoris spiriting through the thicket eventually makes it to her grandmother’s house. She’s uneasy but enters through the narrow doorway. Finding the wolf laid in her grandmother’s bed, she takes only brief assurance in the clothes laid upon his body like the clothes on Adam and Eve, covering the shame of their sex.

Grimm sets up a story about a girl whose grandmother is consumed by a dangerous wolf. On the surface, the dialogue that follows is her slow realization that she will be eaten by this creature laying before her with her grandmother in the womb of his stomach.

When the girl arrives, she notices that her grandmother looks very strange. Little Red then says, “What a deep voice you have!” (“The better to greet you with”, responds the wolf), “Goodness, what big eyes you have!” (“The better to see you with”, responds the wolf), “And what big hands you have!” (“The better to hug/grab you with”, responds the wolf), and lastly, “What a big mouth you have” (“The better to eat you with!”, responds the wolf), at which point the wolf jumps out of bed and eats her up too.

Little Red Riding Hood killed Emmett Till. We the wolves can see the grandmother’s bed strewn in disarray like his open casket but the conquerors write the history books so we get an allegory about the rape of an innocent white girl by a big bad wolf with dark hair and sharpened teeth. We get Carolyn Donham admitting 64 years later that her statement leading to the lethal and brutal beating of Emmett Till by her husband Roy Bryant and his brother J. W. Millam was a lie.

“Mrs. Bryant claimed Emmett bragged about dating white women up north. She said he grabbed her and asked her, “How about a date, baby?” Simeon Wright, his cousin, heard none of this. But there is no doubt about what he heard when they left the store, he told the AP in 2005.

Standing on the front porch, Emmett let out a wolf whistle

(Chicago Tribune January 28, 2017)

The tragedy is not even that the story of the Central Park 5 is told by the president who put out a full page ad in the Times calling for their execution. It’s that the wolf is your grandmother. Little Red is not traveling from the safety of her paved village through the wild for the first time. She is returning through the world decolonized, hears the sound of birds chirping; the crackling of the leaves and is terrified by the immediacy of an ecosystem she’s always been a part of. She’s coming back to a home left a millennia ago and doesn’t recognize her ancestor or her motherland.

A critical read of Grimm’s fairy tale reveals how the true ontological concerns of whiteness are obscured zooming in to capture the image of violence against a subhuman brown body. Lisa Whittington thoughtfully explores Dana Schutz’s “Open Casket” in her NBC piece #MuseumsSoWhite: Black Pain and Why Painting Emmett Till Matters “I saw a peaceful looking boy laying in a casket with some scars painted in an abstract way. It’s painted well. Consistent with her style. But her painting does not move me. I did not feel the horror of his ordeal. I did not feel the anger of Mamie Till in exposing racism when she declared an open casket….Dana Schutz created a metanarrative that downplayed what truly happened in history…Where is the artwork that interprets the lies that got Emmett Till killed? Where are the portraits of the men who lynched Emmett? What was in their eyes during the act of murder? What color is remorse? Does she have nothing to say there?”

Apathetic murder is procedurally neat, a blade swiped across a carotid artery or a gunshot to the head. Till was brutally beaten until his facial features were rewritten. The intimacy of that extrajudicial homicide is a signifier of reptilian panic emerging when the story of whiteness encounters that it’s prologue is Black. America is comfortable keeping souvenirs of the lynchings from postcards to the taxidermied genitals sliced off the victims. What does the widescreen shot tell us about the nature and depth of complicity?

This image features JW Millam and family during his 1955 trial for the murder of 14 year old Emmett Till. His son Harvey Millam on the right is one of the 36 Americans named in the Panama Papers. The International Consortium of Investigative Journalists, “together with the German newspaper Suddeutsche Zeitung and more than 100 other media partners, spent a year sifting through 11.5 million leaked files to expose the offshore holdings of world political leaders, links to global scandals, and details of the hidden financial dealings of fraudsters, drug traffickers, billionaires, celebrities, sports stars and more. ”

A lot of time is spent on how racism is unethical but far less on how it is inaccurate. In a 2016 revised obituary of Emmett Till, The New York Times explains how “Till’s mother, Mamie Till Mobley, turned to the federal government to no avail. She tried to meet with President Dwight D. Eisenhower, but he refused. J. Edgar Hoover, the director of the F.B.I. at the time, declined to make the killing a federal case.” Eisenhower’s refusal is unsurprising given his conversation with Supreme Court Justice Earl Davis after the appointee spent the day presiding over the oral arguments for Brown vs. Board of Education. Michael O’Donnel writes in the Atlantic “Over coffee, Eisenhower took Warren by the arm and asked him to consider the perspective of white parents in the Deep South. “These are not bad people,” the president said. “All they are concerned about is to see that their sweet little girls are not required to sit in school alongside some big black bucks. ”

The irony of bipartisan consensus around bigoted, white supremacist views historically espoused by the executive branch is how the image of Black predation (typically tied to sexual deviance like in the 1936 film Reefer Madness) is such an effective tool to redirect a fearful populous away from the people that actually drive profound income inequality. Economist Gabriel Zuckman historically contextualizes the Panama Papers, “Wealth was very concentrated in Europe in the 19th century, when there was very little wealth taxation, and was very concentrated in the US in the early 20th century, when there was no federal income tax.” His research reveals the top 0.1 percent of Americans now hold 22 percent of the nation’s wealth, nearly the same level as in 1929. Milam’s inclusion in the offshore tax shelters of the Panama Papers is representative of an ideological transition from the isolationist nationalism of southern racists (who demurred Nazi overtures) to 21st century neoliberal technocrats of international finance transcending regulation by the nation state.

“This global system of tax avoidance is sucking the life out of welfare states in the rich world,” Oxfam wrote. “It also denies poor countries the resources they need to tackle poverty, put children in school and prevent their citizens dying from easily curable diseases.”

I was asked where do we locate hope in the process of unearthing injustice. I think about Virginia Commonwealth University operating a parking lot for over a decade on an African Burial Ground. This is America; sealing in the black bodies of former slaves with the industrial aesthetic of a blacktop stage. The mundanity of parking says more about our process of historic amnesia than the statues of Confederate soldiers littering Richmond’s main streets. Community protests succeeded, the asphalt parking lot was ceremonially removed in 2011 but this raises the question, how do we battle erasure without being consumed by despair?

My neighbor stopped me on the street a week after I organized a public screening of Jordan Peele’s Get Out! “I am your grandmother you know. ” We are not blood related but she was defining our relationship as a member of the African diaspora and her role in the community as someone two generations older than myself. “Think of your mother” she continued. I grew up in a close knit Ethiopian community but was primarily raised by my Irish-Catholic white mother. “We cannot imagine a more inclusive future through hatred of white people. Part of our duty as African people is to bring the arc of time to the conversation about racial justice. Do not allow this country to define that mission by beginning the story at our victimhood in the middle passages. We are the keepers of genesis and have to remind people through love that all human beings came from Africa.

You are digging up a lot of historical wounds when you have to move forward. Think about the strong smell of the recently dead. When you exhume the ancestors, the smell of putrid flesh is magnified. Consider how the energy changes the spirit of the gravediggers and the people who live on that land. ” She shared her experience as a Biafra baby who escaped to Mali only to have to run again, this time with two children when the country began a civil war. “We know the conversation on racial justice is a long road, think about how you will sustain your ability to be an agent of change when you allow despair of the past to enter.”

Fifty years after Emmett Till’s swollen, battered body was pulled from the muck of the Tallahatchie River in Mississippi, it was removed from the ground once more on Wednesday, carried away from a quiet cemetery in south suburban Chicago for an autopsy at last. (New York Times June 2, 2005)

An all white jury acquitted Roy Bryant and J.W. Millam for the murder of Emmett Till in 1955. Protected by double jeopardy once acquitted, the men confessed their crimes to Look magazine a year later in exchange for $4000. Keith Beauchamp’s 2004 documentary The Untold Story of Emmett Louis Till is what prompted the DOJ to reopen an investigation into Till’s murder. Beauchamp’s documentary is an example of how storytelling can disrupt kitsch versions of a post-racial American dream repressing grief through omission. However, the film doesn’t show us how to sustain grieving without being consumed by it.

The New York City architects of forgetting, gentrify graveyards with glass condominiums, exposed brick and chalkboards ironically advertising fair trade pastries. Real estate developers carefully curate any acknowledgements of the land they build on. Jerry Wolkoff’s G&M Realty included street art in the lobby of condominiums built where 5 Pointz once stood. This was not an apology to the artists whose work was whitewashed before the graffiti mecca was demolished. In his verdict [awarding $6.2 million to the 21 artists that sued], the judge reportedly said that the owner of the site showed no remorse in destroying the work of the graffiti artists. The inclusion of street art in the lobby was an advertisement to rich hipsters in the outer-boroughs who want the culture but not the wolves.

Becker + Becker Associates shares its luxury rental development, The Octagon “opened [in 1841] as a beautifully designed island retreat by Alexander Jackson Davis” but omits this retreat was actually the New York City Lunatic Asylum. They cite Charles Dickens as having ‘praised the building as “remarkable,” its flying spiral staircase “spacious and elegant”’ omitting the remainder of what he wrote in his American Notes of 1842, “Everything had a lounging, listless, madhouse air, which was very painful. The moping idiot, cowering down with long disheveled hair; the gibbering maniac, with his hideous laugh and pointed finger; the vacant eye, the fierce wild face, the gloomy picking of the hands and lips, and munching of the nails.” Dickens would write. “There they were all, without disguise, in naked ugliness and horror.”

Similar to the Whitney Museum’s decision to feature Schutz’s “Open Casket” without the critical context needed to engage with the historical event depicted in the scene, the Franklin D. Roosevelt Four Freedoms Park Conservancy ends at the southernmost tip of Roosevelt Island without any context for visitors to understand his 1941 State of the Union address was a justification for war. The park’s website does state “In his address, Roosevelt called for the immediate increase in American arms production, and asked Americans to support his “Lend-Lease” program, which gave Allies cash-free access to US munitions.” but there’s no mention in the physical space. The brief web overview declares “Roosevelt’s call for human rights has created a lasting legacy worldwide. These freedoms became symbols of hope during World War II, adopted by the Allies as the basic tenets needed to create a lasting peace. Following the end of the war, the Four Freedoms formed the basis for the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.”

Is this the FDR Memorial that would have been built by Japanese internment camp survivors? Where is the engraving of Executive Order 8066 declaring over 120,000 Japanese men, women and children be forcibly relocated by the military into remote western areas behind barbed wire? Where is the monument to their reparations?

How do we understand Japanese survivors of internment camps being provided reparations by Reagan in the crack era but not African Americans despite Roosevelt’s New Deal concessions to a Southern Democrat majority in congress? David Shriberman’s review of Ira Katznelson’s book Fear Itself in the Boston Globe succinctly captures the Columbia University professor’s thesis:

“Because of the region’s influence in Congress and in the Democratic Party — twin phenomena that persisted through the years of Lyndon Johnson, himself the personification of that power — the South held a virtual veto over the New Deal and thus shaped it as intimately as did FDR. The South gave the New Deal running room — as long as it ran from issues of race. It assured that the New Deal would produce no legislation that would alter the social or racial hierarchy of the region.

‘The New Deal permitted, or at least turned a blind eye toward, an organized system of racial cruelty,’ writes Katznelson

‘This alliance was a crucial part of its supportive structure. The New Deal thus collaborated with the South’s racial hegemony as it advanced liberal democracy at home and campaigned to promote liberal democracy abroad.’’’

FDR refused to support a federal Anti-Lynching bill stating, “If I come out for the anti-lynching bill now, they will block every bill I ask Congress to pass the keep America from collapsing. I just can’t take the risk.” He refused to endorse the bill even after the October 1934 lynching of Claude Neal “Neal was then tortured and subjected to castration, forced auto-cannibalism of his genitalia. He was repeatedly stabbed, burned with hot irons, and had his toes and fingers removed.” A mob consisting of thousands of people from eleven southern states then converged on the property and kicked Neal’s body and ran him over with their cars. Photographs were taken of Neal’s mutilated corpse and sold to spectators. A few people were said to have kept Neal’s fingers and toes as souvenirs, which they preserved in jars filled with alcohol.

There have been 4,742 recorded lynchings in American history but the US Department of Justice didn’t issue a formal apology until 2005 (long after lynching stopped being the preferred form of racial terrorism). Of the 100 senators, 80 were co-sponsors of the resolution, and because it passed by voice vote, senators escaped putting themselves on record. “It’s a statement in itself that there aren’t 100 co-sponsors,” Senator John Kerry, Democrat of Massachusetts, said. “It’s a statement in itself that there’s not an up-or-down vote."

“Four freedoms are a testament to our nation’s unmatched aspirations,” Hilary Clinton began her 2015 rally at Four Freedoms Park Conservancy while campaigning for president against Donald Trump. The mostly white crowd appeared enthusiastic about the first female presidential candidate. Allida Black, a George Washington University professor and Eleanor Roosevelt expert whose book featured a forward from Clinton shared her thoughts on the the two women, “...her primal understanding of what human rights means in a real-world sense is so real that in a way it almost surpasses Eleanor’s”

These comments stand in sharp relief to the African American experience of the Clinton dynasty exemplified by her 1996 speech on super predators:

“We need to take these people on, they are often connected to big drug cartels, they are not just gangs of kids anymore. They are often the kinds of kids that are called superpredators. No conscience. No empathy. We can talk about why they ended up that way but first we have to bring them to heel,”

Her speech was based on the now debunked research of John DiIulio Jr., a former aide to President George W. Bush, professor of politics, religion and civil society at the University of Pennsylvania who coined the term “superpredator” in 1995. In a piece titled, “The Coming of the Super-Predator,” written in November of that year, he wrote:

“There is even some evidence that juveniles are doing homicidal violence in “wolf packs.” Indeed, a 1993 study found that juveniles committed about a third of all homicides against strangers, often murdering their victim in groups of two or more. Violent youth crime, like all serious crime, is pre-dominantly intra-racial, not interfacial. The surge in violent youth crime has been most acute among black inner-city males.”

“[Dilulio’s] prediction wasn’t just wrong; it was exactly the opposite,’’ said Franklin E. Zimring, professor of law at the University of California at Berkeley and director of the university’s Earl Warren Legal Institute, in 2001. Prison admissions for drug offenses reached a level in 2000 for African Americans more than 26 times the level in 1983. All of the presidents since 1980 have contributed to mass incarceration, but as Equal Justice Initiative founder Bryan Stevenson recently observed, “President Clinton’s tenure was the worst. ”

NY Times critic calls the memorial a “new spiritual heart”, inadvertently remarking on the ethics of empire. Where I locate hope is in the profound inaccuracy of stories told by the conquerors. The conceptual failure of the left’s response to the implicit demand for amnesia in fairy tales or memorials to dead presidents, is in the decision to zoom into the unethical rather than seize the strategic blind spot of a nation that in dehumanizing people of color, particularly reducing Black people to super predators wilding in wolf packs, has missed our agency.

The lesson from the administration of VCU operating a parking lot over an African Burial ground is they never anticipated the descendants of the dead returning to reclaim their people. The attempt to integrate 5Pointz street art into the condominiums of displacement offensively codifies the robbery of culture while transforming it into a signifier of safety for 21st century colonizers generously described as hipsters, but like African art in glass exhibit cases, the separation of the objects from the people and culture who created it, render the outcome sterile.

I love how Lisa Whittington’s “Libation for the Lynched” holds grief, reaches for a ritual both African and easily made from the contents of Little Red’s picnic basket. I see us in this painting- those labeled as thugs be prophets pourin’ out a little liquor for the dead.

“I call my son pop” I said to my neighbor “the way you call your son baba (honorific for father in the Yoruba language), our children are the multiverse- simultaneously ancestors and the future that we are fortunate to raise. It’s not just that the prologue is Black you see, the pages not yet written are your grandmother”

Game Bedtime stories.

Walkthrough
Bedtime stories. lost dreams
(Bedtime Stories: The Lost Dreams)

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

We offer a complete guide to the passage of the game "Bedtime Stories. Lost Dreams" (Bedtime Stories: The Lost Dreams).
If you still have questions about how to pass the game "Bedtime Stories. Lost Dreams" - write on the forum.

*all pictures are enlarged by clicking on them
Part II
Joseph Anderson dreamed of becoming a famous detective, although he was a simple police officer.
One morning he read an interesting article in the newspaper about a suspicious old lady who lived alone with her cat.
The man who helped to remove the cat from the tree died.
Only Joseph understood that this was the revenge of the mafia, and not just an accident.
In his dreams, Joseph tried to prove to everyone that the old woman was guilty.

Zoom in on the mailbox (A) - there are some numbers on it. So far there is nothing to open the box.
Examine the path by the fence and take FISH HOOK (B).
Examine the police tape near the tree and take the branch (C).
Examine the crown of the tree - there is something upstairs, but you can't get it yet (D).

Follow the arrow to the right, towards the car.
Try to open the hood of the car - alas, it is locked with a key (A).
Go to the house and listen to the informant's speech (B). It turns out that the old woman works for the Russian mafia "We Solve Problems".

Approach the front door and ring the bell.
Oops! The tongue of the bell came off, we need to find a replacement.

Zoom in on the table and do a Hidden Object Scene.
Get bell string .

Insert bell cord into place and ring again (A).
Some noise is heard in the backyard - we must hurry there (B).

Examine the window (A).
Near the broken frame, find penknife (B).
Pick up magnetic key (C) from the ground.
Remove stethoscope (D) from the garden gnome figurine.
There is something behind the rose bushes (E), but there is no way to get there yet.

Follow the forward arrow.
Examine the rusty barn lock (A) - there is nothing to open it yet.
Take ladder (B) and pruner (C).
Go back (C).

Trim rose bushes with secateurs (A) - find a door with a magnetic lock (B).
Insert the magnetic key into the slot. Click the green round button.
The door is open - try to go inside. Nothing will work, it's too dark, and besides, the panel is broken.
Move to the right, then 2 times to the left.

Place the ladder against the trunk and try to see what is in the canopy of the tree (A).
The ladder will break, click on it (B) to find out that the steps need to be replaced.
Go back (C).

Find 3 boards .

Return to the tree.
Attach 3 boards (A) to the broken ladder .
Look into the tree top (B).
Use penknife to cut wires (C).
Take coil (D).
Reel combine with line and fishing hook to get rod .

While the cat is sleeping, inspect the safe.
Place stethoscope (A) against door .
Look in the diary and look at the sequence of turning the disk (B): 1 pin - clockwise; 2 - counterclockwise; 3 - clockwise; 4 - counterclockwise.
Gently spin the disc until the pin moves to the side (C), then take on the other one.
It is possible that in different games there will be different readings of the disk for opening the safe, my first pin opened at 50 divisions; the second - by 25; the third - by 7; the fourth - at 80.

The solved crime shocked the public.
Experienced killer; wanted by the secret services of many countries. His guilt is proven by the police and his informant.
Joseph became a legend.
And this story had a happy ending.
A humble policeman realized that his dream of becoming a famous detective had come true. And not just in dreams ... but in reality.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

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Story Car - Nosov N.N. Read online with illustrations.

A funny story about how two friends dreamed of driving a car. Once a car drove into the yard and the boys began to find out what brand it was. And then Mishka sat on the bumper and offered to drive it...

Story Car read

When Mishka and I were very young, we really wanted to drive a car, but it just didn't work out. No matter how much we asked the drivers, no one wanted to ride us. One day we were walking in the yard. Suddenly we look - on the street, near our gates, a car stopped. The driver got out of the car and left. We ran.

I say:

— This is the Volga.

A Mishka:

- No, this is a Moskvich.

— You understand a lot! I say.

“Of course, Moskvich,” says Mishka. - Look at his hood.

— What, — I say, — bonnet? It's the girls who have a hood-hood, and the car has a hood! Look at the body. The bear looked and said:

- Well, such a belly, like a Moskvich.

— It's you, — I say, — belly, but the car has no belly.

— You said belly yourself.

— I said the body, not the belly! Oh you! You don't understand, but you climb!

Mishka came up behind the car and said:

— Does the Volga have a buffer? This is Moskvich's buffer.

I say:

— You'd better keep silent. Invented another buffer of some kind. The buffer is at the car on the railway, and the car has a bumper. Both Moskvich and Volga have a bumper.

Bear touched the bumper with his hands and says:

— You can sit on this bumper and drive.

“Don't,” I tell him.

And he:

- Don't be afraid. Let's drive a little and jump. Then the driver came and got into the car. The bear ran up from behind, sat on the bumper and whispered:

— Get in quickly! Sit down quickly!

I say:

- Don't!

A Mishka:

- Come quickly! Oh you coward! I ran up and clung to it. The car started and how it will rush!

The bear got scared and says:

— I'll jump off! I'll jump!

- Don't, - I say, - you'll hurt yourself! And he keeps saying:

- I'll jump! I'll jump!

And he has already begun to lower one leg. I looked back, and behind us another car rushes. I scream:

- Don't you dare! Look, now the car will crush you!

People stop on the sidewalk and look at us. At the crossroads, a policeman blew his whistle. The bear was frightened, jumped down onto the pavement, but his hands would not let go, he was holding on to the bumper, his legs were dragging along the ground. I got scared, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him up.

The car has stopped and I am dragging everything. The bear finally climbed onto the bumper again. People gathered around. I shout:

- Hold on, fool, stay strong!

Everyone laughed at that. I saw that we had stopped and I started to cry.

“Get off,” I say to Mishka.

And he, being frightened, does not understand anything. Forcibly, I tore it off this bumper. A policeman ran up and wrote down the number. The driver got out of the cab - everyone attacked him:

- Can't you see what's going on behind you?

They forgot about us. I whisper to Mishka:

- Let's go!

We moved aside and ran into the alley. They ran home, out of breath. Mishka has both knees peeled to the point of blood and his pants are torn. This is when he rode on the pavement on his stomach. He got it from his mom!

Then Mishka says:

- Pants are nothing, you can sew them up, but your knees will heal on their own. I just feel sorry for the driver: he will probably get it because of us. Did you see the policeman write down the number of the car?

I say

- I should have stayed and said that the driver was not to blame.

“And we'll write a letter to the policeman,” says Mishka.

We began to write a letter. They wrote and wrote, they ruined twenty sheets of paper, and finally they wrote:

“Dear Comrade Policeman! You entered the number incorrectly. That is, you wrote down the number correctly, only wrong that the driver is to blame. The driver is not to blame: Mishka and I are to blame.

---

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