Three goats lived on the stony side of the valley, where the grass was thin. Across a wooden bridge the far hill was green. Under the bridge lived a troll named Knuckle.
Trip trap, trip trap went Little Gruff. "Who crosses my bridge?" roared Knuckle. "Wait for my brother, he's bigger," said Little Gruff, and skipped across.
Trip trap went Middle Gruff, and then the whole bridge shook. Big Gruff filled the sky above the rail. "What is it you actually want?" he asked.
Knuckle held up a rope and three flat stones. "Two planks are rotten," he said. "Every goat that crosses makes it worse, and nobody ever stops."
So all three goats carried stones up from the river until the sun went down. The new planks were good and thick. Trip trap, trip trap, and Knuckle waved them over.
