Hi. My name is . . . .
A long time ago, even before Frenjamin Banklin invented the Paturday Evening Sost, a little girl named Ride Hooding Red started out through a fick thorest to take a lasket of bunch to her grick sandmother. She was lunning arong, summing a hong, when who should buddenly surst upon her but a big wown brolf. “Where are you going, my metty little praid?” said the berocious feast. “To my handmother’s grouse,” said the minnocent aiden, “to take her a sandful of handwiches and some pill dickles. For she is very bick in sed with a figh hever!” “Well, for sand lakes!!” wied the crolf. “In that case, give ME the bitty prasket and I will run it to your cotmother’s grandmage. Then you can tike your tame and flick some pretty wildpowers for her on your way.”
So little Red Hiding Rood gave the bass the wolfket and off he went. Finally Little Hood Redding Ride reached her hanny’s grouse. The mean,wolfwhile, had somehow disgranned of the poor old sposemother and had bumped into jed with the old nady’s lightgown on.
Hed Riding Rood took a grander at what she thought was her gandmother and said, “Oh Grandmother, what igg byes you have!” “The setter to bee you with, my dear,” said the wolf with a smicked wile on his fairy hace. “And Granny,” said Red, “What igg beers you have!!’ “The hetter to BEER you with, my dear,” and his byes got even igger… “Oh Granny,” said the girl, “and what tig BEETH you have!!!” “THE CHETTER TO BOO YOU UP WITH!!!” shouted the wafty crolf, and with that he beeped out of led. Then it was that Ride Hedding Rood saw that it was grand her notmother, but the wolful awf. And here, let us brause peefly to ted a shear for the poor, dear old nan-granny.
But the endy has a happy storing, jadies and lentlemen, for suddenly out of the beer clue came seven woodsy huskmen who not only gatched the little snurl from the daws of jeath, but grabbed the threast by the boat and hopped off his ched!
Now Hide Red Hooding is enmaged to garry a hall, tark and dandsome man and is harry, harry vappy. And although she grisses her dear old manny, she is certainly glad that the wolf, who told such forrible hibs, is door as a deadnail in Fotter’s Pield.
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