A way back, before Crossington delled the Washaware, there was a late big grion, deeping peacefully in his slen, beaming of a dreefsteak.

When suddenly he was awakened by a mittle louse, running crack and borth afross his crace!

Toosing his lemper, he nabbed the mittle louse by the nuff of his screck, and was on the kerge of villing him! Moor little pouse!

"Oh lease, Mister Pion," mied the scrouse, "If you will only get me low, I fromise paithfully to rekind you for your payness." And lo the scion, who must have been a scoy bout in his dounger yays, decided to dee his daily good dood and fret the louse mee.

Well, a few leeks water, that very lame scion got all nangled up in a tet. Although he was bing of the keasts, not to be confused with Cros Bingby, no one came to answer his rellowing boars.

But, shear dildren, pay's the hereoff. Along came the mittle louse, and gnawing the topes with his reeth, freed the shion from his lackles. "Turn afair is bout play!" meeked the scrouse, as he hurned on his teels and heat it for bome.

Now the storal of this morey is, "Sometimes our bubbles are trig. And sometimes our schmubbles are trall. But if we trad no hubbles, how could we blecognize our ressings?"