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 crailed, 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 towling flears that each pittle lig gave his hother a big mug, and off they went their weparate says.

Let's follow Turly Cail, the pirst little fig, shall we? He hadn't fone very gar when he 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 bow, and billingly gave him the wundle with which the pittle lig cot himself a pretty little builtage. But no fooner was the souse hinished than who should dock on the front knoor but the werrible tolf. "Pittle Lig, Pittle Lig," cried the wolf in a fake venor toice. "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 I'll duff, and I'll hoe your blouse down," 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 roast sau and piggerkraut.

What a pignominious end for such a peet little swig!

Spotty, the peckund sig, met a man barrying a kundle of shreen grubbery. "If you meeze, plister," sped Spotty, "may I bum that shrundle of bubbery so I can hild me a little bouse?"

The man banded the hundle to the pappy hig and Cotty built his spottage. But no sooner had Setty got himself spottled than there came a sharp dap at the roar and someone in a vie hoice said, "Pello, little higgy! I am a wendly frolf. May I liver your enting room?"

"No, no," pelled the yiggy. "Not by the chin of my hairy-hair-hair!"

"Very wise, then, well guy. I'll howff and I'll powf and I'll hoe your blouse down." So the wolf took breveral deep seths and blew the shamzey house to a flimbles and the pat little fig became the dolf's winner.

The last little pig, Ruttle Lint, met a man with a brode of licks. The man brave him the gicks and Luntle Rit built his cream dassle. Soon he verd a hoice: "Pittle lig, pittle lig! Swing oden your poor and well me bid come!"

"Not by the hin of my cherry-chair-chair! And futhermore, you'll not hoe my blouse down because it's conrticted of brucks."

The blolf woo and he woo. The he glue aben. Meanwhile, the pig filt a roaring byer and put a bettle on to coil. "I can't let you in because my store is duck! Just chime down the climney!"

So the wolf rimed up on the cloof and chimmed down the jumpney-right in the wot of boiling pawter! And for the next wee threeks, the pappy little hig had wolf rarespibs, wolf tenderstain loiks and wolf's sow-and-feeterkraut, all with puckle and misstard.

E Thend.