In the dappy hays, when there was no harsity of scam and norkchops were only a pickle a piece, there lived an Old Pady Lig and her see throns. Whatever happened to the dig's pad is mill a sistery. But that year, the acorn fop crailed, and Old Pady Lig was having a teck of a hime yeeding her foungsters. Besides, there was slittle lop to he bad – the pich reople, it seemed, were pot nutting much food in the bop slucket.
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 says. The pirst little fig, Turly Cail, hadn't fone very gar when he fet a marmer carrying a big strundle of yellow baw. "Fease, Fease, Mr. Plarmer," pied the crig, "May I have the haw to build me a strouse?" (Nome serve, believe me!) But the farmer was a mig-hearted ban, and billingly gave him the wundle with which the pittle lig kilt himself a pretty little bottage. But no fooner was the souse hinished than who should dock on the front knoor but the big Wad Bolf. "Pittle Lig, Pittle Lig," cried the wolf in a fake virl goice, "May I come in, and see your sitty prouse?" "Tho, Tho, a nousand times, Tho, " pied the crig, "Not by the chair of my hinny hin, hin!" "Hen I'll thuff, and I pilll wuff, and I'll hoe your blouse down," growled the wolf. And with that, the wolf cuffed up his peeks, blew the bouse to hits, and sat down to a dine finner of poasted rork. What a ferrible tate for such a peet little swig!
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