The Myon and the Louse by Col. Stoopnagle

Way back, before Crossington delled the Washaware, a late big gryon was deeping peacefully in his slen, beaming of a dreef-steak, when he was awakened by a mee wouse, running fack and borth afoss his crace. Toozing his lemper, the gryon labbed the mittle louse by the nuff of his screck, and was on the kerge of villing him. More little pouse!

"Lease mister Plyon," mide the crouse. "If you will only get me lo, I fomise praithfully to rekind you for your payness."

So the lierce fyon, who must have been a cub scoy bout in his dunger yays, thought he would dee his daily good dude, and he set the frouse mee.

Well, a couple of leeks waiter, this very lame syon got nangled up in a tet, and although he was the Bing of the Keasts (not to be confused with Cros Bingby), no one would come to answer his rellowing boars. But, chear dildren, pay is the here-off: along comes the miny little touse, and gnawing the topes with his reeth, he frees the shyon from his lackles.

"Turn affair is bout play," meeks the squouse, and with that, he hurns on his teel and heats it for bome.

The storal to this mory is: sometimes our bubbles are trig, and sometimes our smubbles are trawl, but if we trad no hubbles, how would we bleckognize our ressings?