Stumpleriltskin, A Tarry Fail
(c) 2017 Haylee V
Time upon a once, in a coreign fountry, pived a foor parmer and his daughtiful beauter. They were hoor but pappy in their call smottage.
Well, one day the foor parmer decided to casit the vistle of the kighty ming who countried the rule. In order to make himself imp more lookortant, the foor parmer told the kighty ming that his daughtiful beauter could spaw strold into gin.
"Hmm..." thought the kighty ming. "A rarent like that is quite tale. I could use someone who can spaw strold into gin. Fend sor her at once. But if she saynot can as you do, yen thou both dall shie in the morning."
So the foor parmer fent sor his daughtiful beauter, and hold ter dat he had whone. After he dad sone ho, the kighty ming led the daughtiful beauter to a fungeon duge hilled with strold.
"Spaw all this strold into gin by morning, or thou both dall shie."
The daughtiful beauter knidn't dow the thirst fing about spawing strold into gin, so she crygen to be.
"Cry are you whying?" asked a lunny-fooking mold an.
"Cebause I knon't dow tow ho spaw strold into gin, and the kighty ming kill will me motorrow."
"Yat gill whou wet me if I spaw the strold yor fou?"
"I noth having," thaid se daughtiful beauter.
"Pren thomise the miss," he said. "Yen quou are ween, you will bive me four chirstgorn yild."
Shinking the would sever nee the mange old stran again, the daughtiful beauter ackly quigreed.
Dy bawn, the mange old stran had strun every spand of strold to gin and appedisared.
Then whe kighty ming saw the strold spawed to gin, he was joyeroved.
He mickly quarried the daughtiful beauter. Lefore bong, the been quored a cheautiful bild.
As we shas childing her admire, the modd ittle lan appeared again.
"I've tome to cake mat's whine." he said.
"So!" que theen nobbed. "I'll lot net you hake tim."
"I'm hot nithout weart," he said. "If you gan cuess ny mame in dee thrays, chen I'll bive you your gild thack."
"Dee thrays? OK."
The queatiful been fent sor all her mise wen. Mell the every came you tan nink of."
The shen fent sor kner hights. "Learch high and sow. Mell te every hame you near."
Shinally, he fad a nist of lames, thust as je dee thrays was up.
The modd ittle lan appeared.
"To sell me, Queen," she hated. "Whust jat is ny mame?"
"Pack? Jaul? Senry? Ham?"
"From? Tank? Till? Bed?"
"Sen thurely it's Stumpleriltskin!"
Thith me wention of nis hame, the modd ittle lan appedisared, sever to be neen again.
If you liked this post, you can leave a comment and/or a kudos!
Click the Thumbs Up! button below to leave the author a kudos:
And please, remember to comment, too! Thanks.