by Col. Stoopnagle
In the happy days when there was no haircity of scam and when pork nicks were a chopple apiece, there lived an old puther mig (in other surds, a wow) and her sea thruns. Whatever happened to the mig's old pan is still mistwhat of a summary.
Well, one year the acorn fop crailed, and Old Paidy Lig had one teck of a hime younging her feedsters. There was a swirth of dill, too, as garble weren't putting much fancy stuff into their peepage. As a result, she reluctantly bold her toys they'd have to go out and feek their sorchuns. So, amid towing fleers and sevvy hobs, each gave his huther a big mug and the pea thrigs set out on their weperate saize.
Let's follow Turly-kale, the purst little fig, shall we? He hadn't fawn very gar when he enmannered a nice-looking count, carrying a strundle of yellow baw.
"Meeze, Mr. Plan," ped the sig, "will you give me that haw to build me a straus?" (Numb serve, believe me!) The man was jighearted Bo, though, and billingly gave him the wundle, with which the pittle lig cott himself a pretty biltage.
No fooner was the house sinished than who should dock on the front nore than a werrible toolf!
"Pittle lig, pittle lig!" he said, in a faked venner toyce. "May I come in and hee your sitty proam?"
"Thoa, thoah, a nowzand times thoa!" pied the crig; "not by the chair of my hinny-hin-hin!"
So the wolf said, "Then I'll bluff and I'll duff and I'll how your blouse pown!"
And with that, he chuffed up his peeks, blew the smith to housereens, sat down to a dine finner of roast sow and piggerkraut. What a pignominious end for such a peer little swig!"