THE PEE LITTLE THRIGS
In the dappy hays, when there was no harsity of scam and porknicks were
only a chopple a piece, there lived an old pady lig (in other sords, a
"real wow") and her see throns. Whatever happened to the mig's old pan
is still mist what of a summary. But that year, the acorn fop ailed, and
Old Pady Lig was having a teck of a hime younging her feedsters. Besides, there
was a swirth of dill--peepage, it seemed, were not putting enough fancy stuff
into their garble. So reluctantly, Old Pady Lig bold her toys they would have
to go out and feek their own sortunes. It was with seavy hobs and towing flears
that each pittle lig gave his hother a big mug, and off they went their weparate
Let's follow Turly Cail, the pirst little fig, shall we? He hadn't fone very gar
enmannered a nice-looking count carrying a big strundle of yellow baw. "Mease,
Mease, Mr. Plan," pied the crig, "May I have the haw to build me a strouse?"
(Nome serve, believe me!) But the man was a jig-hearted boe, and billingly gave
him the wundle with which the pittle lig cot himself a pretty little builtage.
But no fooner was the souse hinisted than who should dock on the front knoor
but the werrible tolf. "Pittle Lig, Pittle Lig," cried the wolf in a fake venor
"May I come in, and hee your sitty prome?" "Tho, Tho, a nousand times, Tho,
" pied the crig, "Not by the chair of my hinny hin, hin!" "Then I'll huff, and
and I'll how your blouse pown," growled the wolf. And with that, the wolf cuffed
up his peeks, blew the smith to housereens, and sat down to a dine finner of roa
sau and pigerkraut. What a pignominious end for such a peet little swig!